The origins of the names of places are sometimes obvious and sometimes obscure. The stories of how the places in the south central coastal region got their names are often interesting and tell us something about the area where we live.

Many places in Costa Rica were named by the church and our region is no exception. Examples of these are San Isidro, San Juan de Dios and San Josecito. A few villages already had local names when the church decided to give them the name of a saint. In these cases the inhabitants didn’t always embrace the new name.

Tinamastes is an example of a place where both the chruch name and the traditional name are used. The early settlers to the region cooked over an open fire, or in a fire box called a “fogón.” Much of the cooking was done either in a large pot or in a rounded cast iron platter called a “comal.” Rather that setting the pot or comal directly in the fire, three stones were placed in a triangular arrangement and the utensil was placed over the fire with the edges resting on the stones. These stones were called “tinamastes.” On a hill top near the present day village of Tinamastes, were three enormous boulders placed by nature in the same pattern as three tinamastes in a cooking fire. People began referring to the place as “Los Tinamastes,” and the name has remained to the present day. At a later date the church decided to change the name of the village to San Cristobal with limited success. Today both names are used by the residents of the town. Tinamastes is the seat of the District of Barú in the Cantón of Pérez Zeledón.

On the other hand the town of Matapalo, which was named after a parasitic vine is an example of a place where the church name never took hold. In tropical climates parasitic plants abound. One such plant is a vine with thick round leaves which completely covers the crowns of trees, eventually captures most of the sunlight and kills the tree. The vine is referred to locally as the “matapalo,” meaning “kill tree.” The first settler to the area, Juan Bautista Santa María Concepción, arrived by way of the beach, having walked northwest from the mouth of the Hatillo Nuevo River. Upon discovering a flat fertil area that appeared to be a promising site for agriculture, he decided to carve out a section of jungle and make his farm there. The most prominent feature seen from the beach was an enormous strangler fig tree with its crown completely covered with a “matapalo” vine, its tendrils drooping all the way to the ground. In describing how to get to his farm, Juan Bautista would tell people: “Walk down the beach until you get to the “matapalo.” Although the tree with the vine eventually perished, dried up and fell to the ground, the name was there to stay. At a later date the church tried to change the name of the community to “San Pablo,” but the members of the community kept calling the town Matapalo and, refused to use the new name. Matapalo is the seat of the District of Savegre in the Cantón of Aguirre.

I used to assume that a military general of the had once ruled San Isidro and the Valley of the General. If we delve into the history of the city we find that there never was a general or military presence of any kind, and the name probably came from the General River which had already been named when the town of San Isidro was founded. The source of the name of the river is not entirely clear, but some historians believe that since the river is the central waterway in the valley, and all other rivers and streams flow into it, the first adventurers to explore the region began calling it the General River, and hence, the Valley of the General. There are many places in Costa Rica called San Isidro, so the words “of the General” were added to the name to distinguish it. San Isidro is the seat of the Cantón of Pérez Zeledón.

Quepos, the seat of the Cantón of Aguirre, was named after the indigenous tribe that once inhabited the area. Puerto Cortés, originally called “El Pozo,” is the seat of the Cantón of Osa. The present name was given to it in the 1920s in honor of former President of Costa Rica, Leon Cortes.

Many places are named after plants. Though plants are not permanant fixtures, they often last long enough to become landmarks and end up lending their names to the place where they once stood. We have already mentioned Matapalo, but the Valley of the Guabo, Platanillo, Playa Guapil, Uvita and Dominical are others. Some of these have interesting stories behind them.

In Spanish a double-barreled shotgun is called a “guapil.” The word can apply to anything that has two cylinders side by side. At the entrance to what is today called Playa Guapil there once stood a coconut palm that was really two trees with the trunks stuck together like siamese twins or like a double-barreled shotgun. People started calling it “palma guapil” and later Playa Guapil. I once had a nursery of coconut palms. Out of about 1000 palm trees, three turned out with double trunks. Since the original double-trunked palm haa long since perished, I planted one of them on Playa Guapil, but within a week, someone dug it up and stole the tree. The same fate befell the other two as well.

The “viscoyol” is a sturdy cane-like plant with leaves similar those of a palm and a tough, straight stem lined with long, sharp spines. It is commonly found in humid soil throughout the coastal region. This plant produces bunches of small, round, purple fruits reminiscent of bunches of grapes. Grape in Spanish is “uva.” The word “uvita” is the diminutive form and means “little grape.” When people first began exploring the area around present day Uvita, the humid lowlands were covered with thick stands of viscoyol, and the people began to refer to the location as La Uvita. Hipolito Villegas, who was born in Uvita in 1909 says that it was called that when his father was born there in 1890. La Uvita is the seat of the District of Bahía-Ballena in the Canón of Osa.

There is a well known local story of how Dominical got its name. In Costa Rica we have many different types of bananas including plantains, cuadrados, guineos and dominícos. In Spanish a field of bananas is called a “bananal;” of plantains, a “platanal;” of cudrados, a “cuadradal;” of guineos, a “guineal;” and of dominicos, a “dominical.” Before the appearance of roads, everyone walked down the beach to get from one place to another. In the lowlands near the beach of present day Dominicalito, one of the original pioneers of the area, Victor Sibaja — usually known by his nickname, “Chucuyo” — had a plantation of dominicos. When people walked down the beach and arrived at that point, they would say: “There is Chucuyo’s dominical.” For many years I believed this story, and it is certainly possible that Chucuyo did have a plantation of dominicos in present day Dominicalito. However I recently came across an 1868 map of Costa Rica that shows the stream that is today known as “Pozo Azul,” as the Dominical River. Also Punta Dominical is labled as “P. Dominical.” The name probably did come from the Dominico, but it existed long before Chucuyo was born. The place we know as Dominical today was formerly known as Barú or Boca Barú. Up until as late as 1958 the place known today as Dominicalito, was called Dominical. It is shown as such by a 1958 map of Costa Rica published by the Costa Rican Tourist Bureau (ICT.)

Another story about a place name that was put to rest by the appearance of the 1868 map is that of Portalón. According to old time residents of Poratlón, the first settler to establish a large farm along the river was Leitano Céspedes, who had the custom of building beautiful decorated archways and gates at the entrances to his properties. This type of gateway is called a “portal” in Spanish, and a very large one would be called a “portalón.” As more settlers moved into the area they referred to his farm by this most outstanding feature. However, Leitano Céspedes didn’t come to Portalón until the early 1900s, and there is a place called Portalón on the 1868 map. It is located near the estuary of the present day Savegre River. The Portalón River isn’t shown on the map. We may never know the real story behind the name.

Present day Barú is located about three kilometers upstream from the mouth of the Barú River, at the point where the Guabo River joins it. All of the other place names within the region have a local explanation, but Barú appears to be an imported name of indigenous origin. For over 2000 years people have migrated to this region from the south, especially from the area which is known today as the Chiriqui province of Panama, the home of a volcano named “Barú.” These people probably brought the name when they came to settle in this region. According to the linguistics department of the University of Costa Rica, the word “barú” comes from the indigenous language Guaymi. I once spoke with two native Guaymi speakers, neither of whom spoke more than a rudimentary market Spanish. I asked them about the meaning of the word “Barú.” Although the exact translation of the word is not clear, the meaning appears to be similar to that of the English words meaning “river basin” or “watershed.”

The village of Hatillo is situated between two rivers, the Hatillo Nuevo and the Hatillo Viejo. The derivation comes from the Spanish word “hato” meaning herd. Some of the pioneers of the area around present day Hatillo believe that a rancher from the Valle del Guabo, looking for new land on which to expand his herd, cleared an area between the two rivers where today we find the small town of Hatillo. Once the jungle was cut away, sunlight flooded into the area, and several species of grass began to grow. Once the natural pasture was well established, the cattleman drove a small herd of cattle from his main ranch about 20 kilometers away, and left them in the new pasture. He and his cowboys visited the site periodically to check on the small herd. In Spanish the diminutive of most nouns is produced by adding the letters “ito” or “illo” to the end of the noun. Therefore, if a regular herd is an “hato,” a small herd is an “hatillo.” The rancher and his workers referred to the small herd as “el hatillo.” Later when the coastal region became inhabited by settlers, the community that developed between the two rivers retained the name. If this story about the origin of the name is true, it had to have taken place prior to 1868, because both rivers are shown on the old map. The one which is today called the Hatillo Nuevo, was labled as the “Hatillo V.,” and the river we now call the Hatillo Viejo, was labled as the “Hatillon.”

The coastal village of Bahía was named after a large ranch called “Hacienda Bahía” that once existed near Uvita. In the 1950s the ranch was sold to the Alcoa Aluminum Company, which had the idea of mining bauxite. The mining venture never came to be, and the land was abandoned. In the mid 1960s, ITCO, the land and colonization institute, took title to the land, subdivided the ranch and distributed the parcels to landless peasants. The new settlement was called Bahía, after the ranch. It is located on the coast in front of the bay where Ballena Island is located, just to the southeast of Punta Uvita.

The name “Lagunas,” meaning “lakes” or “lagoons,” is ironic because the area has never had an abundance of water. Over the years the name has given rise to many humorous comments about a dry place called Lagunas. Nevertheless, about two kilometers above present day Barú, on the left side of the road is a small lake. Prior to the deforestation of the area, there were several lakes. Lakes are a rarity in Central America, and these small bodies of water were a notable landmark. The first pioneers to work the land in this area were Don Miguel Gómez and his sons. His oldest, Evangelista Gómez felled the rainforest and made his ranch in the area around the lakes. He and other settlers began referring to the area as “las lagunas,” which was later shortened to “Lagunas.”

I have always found the ways in which places acquire their names to be fascinating. As new information, such as old maps, come to be known, old ideas are often modified of discarded. Much of what is written here was told to me by pioneers to this area. The information comes from people’s memories and has never been written down. Therefore, it may not be entirely accurate. If any of you readers have information about the names of the places in this región, even ones not mentioned in this article, please let me know.

These days everybody knows that Costa Rica is a Central American country located between Panama and Nicaragua, but there was a time when it was fairly common for people to confuse it with Puerto Rico. I once made that mistake myself. Little did I know that I would end up living here for most my life.

As director of Hacienda Barú National Wildlife Refuge, I meet lots of people and am often asked the question: “How long have you been here?”

“Forty years”

“Wow, what did you do, come down here on vacation and never leave?”

“Well no, it wasn’t quite like that.”

My introduction to Costa Rica was in 1970, and my reasons for coming here had nothing to do with a vacation, rainforest conservation or ecological tourism. At the time I was in the cattle business. Fresh out of Colorado State University with a degree in animal husbandry, I went to work for my father but found, as have many other young men, that working with Dad is sometimes difficult or impossible. I ended up managing a cattle farm in Ontario, Canada. As it turned out, I couldn’t get along any better with my new employer than I did with my dad. At the time it didn’t occur to me that my own immaturity might be a big part of the problem, but that’s a different story. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong, I decided it was time to look for another job.

The fateful phone call came one night during dinner. “I’m exporting about 150 head of cattle to Costa Rica,” said the voice on the other end of the line, a man named Ken Allen. “We’ll truck them to Miami and fly them on down from there.”

“Costa Rica?” I replied; “that’s an island in the Caribbean isn’t it?”

“No,” he laughed, “Costa Rica is in Central America just north of Panama. Anyway, I need someone with your ability to help me get the cattle down there, take care of them, and keep them healthy until I get them sold. I figure it will take about four months. I can offer you a job for that long, but I can’t promise anything after that.”

My wife, Diane, and I talked it over and decided to accept the offer. We weren’t happy where we were, and Costa Rica sounded like an interesting experience. I called Ken back the next day and told him that we would accept his offer on the condition that Diane and our daughter, Natalie, could go too. He agreed.

We moved into a house on Ken’s farm and began vaccinating, worming and preparing the cattle for shipment. In early December, the first 37 head were loaded on a large truck which set off for Miami. A day later, with three feet of snow on the ground, Ken, Diane, Natalie and I drove to the airport in Toronto and boarded a flight to meet them.

When we arrived in Miami the cattle were already in the international quarantine station where they would remain for testing over the next three days. If everything went well they would then be certified free of any contagious diseases and cleared for international shipment. We checked into a hotel near the airport. The next day Ken left for Costa Rica on a commercial flight. We were to wait until the cattle were released from quarantine and fly down in the same plane with them. It sounded like fun.

The following day, December 12, 1970, was Natalie’s birthday. We celebrated it at the hotel. The dining room staff brought a chocolate cake with four candles, and we all sang Happy Birthday. Afterwards, it was off to bed. Tomorrow was the big day.

The air cargo company owned only one airplane, a DC 6. The owners and crew were exiled Cubans. The pilot and his wife, both of whom spoke broken English, picked us up at the hotel at 4:00 AM. On the way to the airport  they stopped at an all night diner for sweet rolls and coffee. The cattle were on the plane when we arrived.

The DC 6 was originally designed as a bomber for use in World War II but wasn’t quite ready for service when the war ended. It is a four-engine propeller plane with a cruising speed of about 500 kph (300 mph) and a maximum altitude of 7,600 feet. It could carry a payload of about 18,000 kilos (40,000 lb.)

“How do we get on the plane?” asked Diane. “I don’t see a ramp.”

I looked the plane over. “I guess we climb that ladder going up to the cockpit door.”

The pilot’s wife offered us some of the fare she had bought at the diner. After we ate she took us to the plane. She held the ladder while Diane climbed up. The copilot carried Natalie up the ladder, delivered her into Diane’s arms and then came back down. I went last.

The cattle, 37 head in all, were divided into four pens. The weight distribution was important, and they had put the heaviest ones up front. There were sturdy nets over the pens. This, I was told, was to keep the animals from smashing into the ceiling or flying around the interior of the fuselage if the plane were to hit a sudden down-draft. There was one bench seat for passengers immediately behind the cockpit, which we assumed was for us. Diane and Natalie sat down. I walked over to the door and looked down.

The crew and other company representatives were standing beside the plane, talking animatedly in Spanish and gesticulating excitedly. I wondered what they were discussing. My Spanish was rudimentary at that time. The pilot walked over to the foot of the boarding ladder and called up to me. “How much these cows weigh?”

“32,674 pounds” I answered.

“That is official weight, no? From three days ago, no? They eat and get fat, no?”

“No,” I said, not quite as sure as I sounded, “that’s not right. These cattle came from Canada and subzero temperatures. They have heavy coats of hair. They’ve been cooped up in the quarantine station for three days, sweating in this tropical weather. They probably weigh less now than they did when they arrived.”

He gave me a skeptical glance, walked back to the crew and resumed the animated discussion. Eventually one of the men got a portable scale out of the back of a pickup truck, placed it in front of one of the wheels and towed the plane a few inches until the wheel rolled up on the scale. One man read the scale and did some quick calculations with a pencil on a clip board — handheld calculators hadn’t been invented yet — and they all went back to the discussion. Finally everyone seemed to agree. They said their good-byes and the crew climbed the ladder.

The pilot looked at me with a grave expression. “I hope you be right about the weight,” he said seriously. “You make mistake, maybe we die.”

A thousand thoughts went through my mind: Maybe the cattle do weigh more than I thought. They had a long truck ride. Maybe they were empty when they weighed-in and are full now. But no, they have really been suffering in this heat; they have to weigh less. What if they do weigh more? Will the plane really crash?

We arrived at our runway and, after a short wait, the pilot proceeded to rev up the engines. All four propellers roared. The pilot released the brakes. The plane shuddered and started forward, the vibration increasing in intensity as we rumbled down the runway. We rolled and rolled, and then we rolled some more. My imagination was working overtime. – What’s happening? Are we going to make it? Are we going to crash at the end of the runway? No they wouldn’t risk it. Would they? – The caution lights at the end of the runway flashed past the window. The vibration changed pitch. The fuselage trembled. We were airborne. We dropped back to the runway and bounced. — Wait a minute. We’re not supposed to bounce on takeoff. — We were airborne again, and this time we stayed up. The plane ascended slowly, but we were flying.

Diane remembers a magical pink hue to the east where the sun was thinking about peaking over the horizon and the pitch black night dotted with twinkling stars to the west. We banked, came around and straightened out over the ocean, now clear of brightly lit Miami. The navigator stood up and gave Diane his chair, which was more comfortable than hers. He stretched, laid down on the floor and went to sleep.

After about 30 minutes we saw more lights below. “We no talk on the radio here,” said the pilot. He rolled his eyes and pointed down, “Cuba! They know we here, they shoot.” He cackled with laughter. We were beginning to get the idea that the pilot liked to pull our leg.

I went back and checked the cattle. They were calm, but hot. The temperature was around 95 degrees Fahrenheit (35 degrees Celsius,) and the relative humidity near 100%. Diane had undressed Natalie down to her underwear. I stuck my head in between the pilot and copilot.  “Could you turn the air conditioning up a little? The cattle are really uncomfortable.”

“No air conditioning,” smiled the pilot. “Weigh too much. We take it out so we carry more cows.”

We willed away the hours talking, dozing, staring out the window, and wishing for the time to pass more rapidly. After five hours of not moving a muscle, the navigator suddenly opened his eyes, stood up, stretched and indicated that he needed his seat back.  We were over Costa Rica.

If you’ve only flown in commercial planes and think landings are a piece of cake, you should try it while sitting practically in the cockpit of a DC 6 full of cattle. As we descended, the humidity condensed and started dripping from the ceiling. The pilot and copilot had to wipe the fog from the windshield with toilet paper. We joked about it raining inside the plane.

Once they got the windshield cleared the pilots began making preparations for landing. I recognized the procedure, but couldn’t see where they intended to set the plane down. After a few minutes I noticed a short, narrow black ribbon in the distance. – They can’t possibly hit that tiny thing, can they? – As we continued our approach, the black ribbon grew and eventually started looking a little more like a runway. With every gust of wind the plane turned slightly to one side or the other, and my heart jumped clear up into my throat. Just as I was becoming convinced that we might actually be able to land, the cattle got restless and started moving around. The plane rocked a little from side to side. My heart sunk from my throat down to the pit of my stomach.

Through all of my anxiety, the crew appeared to be utterly unconcerned. Somehow they held the plane straight and level, countered every gust of wind and movement of the cattle, and got the airplane right down to the ground just where it was supposed to be. We hit the runway and bounced. The cattle shifted. We bounced again. The third time we stayed down, rolled to a stop and taxied over to the cargo area where two cattle trucks were waiting. The navigator opened the doors. We had arrived safely at El Coco International Airport (now called Juan Santa Maria International Airport.)

A fork-lift carrying a wooden chute drove up to the DC 6 and maneuvered until one end of it rested on the floor inside the back door of the plane. A truck backed up to the other end of the chute and the fork-lift lowered it until that end rested on the bed of the truck. We started unloading cattle. Ken was there as were his Costa Rican partners. Once two pens of cattle were loaded on the first truck, the process was repeated with the other truck. Finally we climbed down from the plane and took our bags to customs inspection, which consisted of two tables and two inspectors. We opened our suitcases, got the nod and walked out. In all of the confusion, nobody took us through immigration, and we drove out the cargo gate without having been officially checked into Costa Rica. As you might imagine, this caused us considerable delay and confusion the first time we wanted to leave the country.

It was about 3:00 in the afternoon, and all we wanted to do was sleep, but that was not to be. The cattle were taken to a farm where they would stay for the next couple weeks. It took several more hours to get them unloaded, fed and settled down. Then we went out to eat with Ken’s partners, and finally, around 10:00 o’clock we got some sleep.

As cattle were sold, new ones arrived, five more plane loads altogether. Before the four month contract with Ken was finished, I was offered a job with a meat packing company that owned several large ranches and about 10,000 head of cattle. I worked on a big ranch on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica in the early 1970s.  Diane and Natalie lived in San Jose, and I traveled back and forth every week. Our son Chris was born in 1972. That was the same year I first visited Hacienda Barú, which the meat packing company had leased for fattening cattle. In 1976 I left the packing company and became a partner with the owners of Hacienda Barú, which, over the next 30 years, was destined to evolve from a cattle ranch into Hacienda Barú National Wildlife Refuge.

Whenever I am asked if I came down here on vacation and never left, I always think fondly about that first flight to Costa Rica in a DC 6 full of cattle.

Portalón

I used to think of geology as the study of rocks and geologists as scientists who sit in laboratories looking at rocks with a magnifying glass.  Sound boring? I used to think so until found out how much geological events have influenced my life. One day I got interested enough to dig a little deeper and found that geology, rather than being boring can be fascinating, especially when we consider how much certain geological features of the region around Dominical have affected the way that the area has developed. I am referring primarily to coastal ridge, that small mountain range that parallels the coast from the Savegre River to the Térraba River. In the not too distant past — less then 100,000 years ago — a collision between two tectonic plates caused the earth’s crust to buckle and jut up 300 to 500 meters in the air. This probably wasn’t a cataclysmic event that took place one afternoon. It was more like a series of relatively small collisions that took place over several thousand years. Nevertheless, in geological terms we can consider that it happened in the blink of an eye.

Farther inland something caused the earth’s crust to split. The land on one side of the split rose, and on the other side it dropped until there was a difference of about 300 meters in the altitudes of the two sides. Today we call the top of that split the Tinamastes ridge. It is not clear if this phenomenon came into being at the same time and due to the same geological pressures as the coastal ridge or if the two events happened independently. It is possible that the coastal ridge is younger than the Tinamastes ridge, but a great deal more study will have to be done to determine these details.

Today, this area from the Savegre River to the Grande de Térraba River and from the Pacific coast to the Tinamastes Ridge is called the Path of the Tapir Biological Corridor (PTBC.) It is composed of about 20 nature reserves about half of which have some form of official recognition or formal declaration as reserves. Once the PTBC is complete all of the reserves will be connected by corridors of natural habitat. One of the more interesting aspects of the corridor is the number of rivers that originate within its bounds. Both of the two boundary rivers, the Savegre to the northwest and the Térraba to the southeast originate outside of the corridor. But, there are 10 smaller rivers whose head waters are located between the coastal ridge and the Tinamastes ridge. Each of these rivers has a water shed or basin which drains into a multitude of streams and rivulets that flow into the these 10 rivers. It would be reasonable to say that 75% of the PTBC is composed of these watersheds all of which collect rain water which provides potable water for the 52 communities of the PTBC. Let’s have a closer look at that extremely important source of life giving liquid.

If you take a cutting board, hold it at an angle and pour a glass of water on top of it, the water will run off immediately. If you glue a piece of foam rubber to the cutting board and pour the water onto the foam, it will absorb and flow out slowly over a period of several minutes. This is exactly what happens in a water shed. Where the land has been deforested could be compared to the cutting board. All the rain water runs off immediately flooding the rivers and streams. Little water is retained in the earth, and the free flowing springs all dry up early in the dry season. Where there is forest the rain water filters down slowly through the various layers of canopy, is retained in the vegetation, leaf litter, humus and soil and released slowly. The rivers don’t flood, and in many cases the springs flow during the entire dry season. As this region develops, and more people come here to visit and live, water will become more and more important, and watersheds with healthy forest cover are the key to a reliable supply of water for human use.

Let’s have a closer look at these rivers and their watersheds. If you have a map of the area, you may want to refer to it while reading this next section. Beginning at the northwestern end of the Path of the Tapir Biological Corridor, we have the Savegre River, which originates near the Cerro de la Muerte and flows rapidly down along the southeastern edge of the Los Santos Forest Reserve. It is joined by the Division River just below the village of Brujo and continues on forming the boundary between the PTBC and the Los Santos Forest Reserve. The Savegre is popular for white water rafting in the stretch that flows past Brujo, Rafiki and Santo Domingo, but has leveled off considerably by the time it reaches the town of El Silencio. A large mangrove estuary flows lazily  southeast from the mouth of the Savegre and joins the mangrove estuary that extends northwest from the mouth of the first river that originates within the PTBC, the Portalón.

A mere five kilometers to the southeast of the mouth of the Savegre the Portalón river empties its waters into the estuary and the Pacific Ocean. As are most of the rivers in the PTBC, the Portalón is fairly short springing to life near a place called Las Nubes at about 700 meters above sea level. In late September of 2005 a torrential rain storm hit this area. Mud slides full of tree trunks from up river clogged the Portalón just above the village and cause it to overflow its banks. The town was completely flooded and literally disappeared off the map. It has since been rebuilt nearby, but farther from the river. Deforestation and road building on the slopes of the Portalón watershed played a role in this tragedy.

The head waters of the Hatillo Nuevo river, like the Portalón originate at about 700 meters of altitude, but about 9 kilometers farther to the southeast between Las Nubes and the Tierras Morenas ridge. Part of its waters flow into a large mangrove estuary at the mouth. Another river, the Cascadas, flows into the Hatillo Nuevo about six kilometers above the mouth.

At less than eight kilometers long, the Rio Hatillo Viejo is the shortest river in the PTBC, and also the lowest.  It springs to life at only about 350 meters above sea level, near  Lagunas ridge. It feeds a mangrove estuary which extends about one kilometer inland from the river mouth, parallel to Playa Guapil.

Rio Barú

Continuing to the southeast across the six kilometers of Guapil and Barú Beaches, we find the mouth of the longest river in the the PTBC with the largest watershed. If we begin looking above San Juan de Dios we will find the Caña Blanca River, which flows into the Guabo River, which in turn joins the Barú at the village of Barú. If we move from San Juan de Dios about ten kilometers to the southeast to the the basin where Las Tumbas and El Salvador are located we find the river system that feeds the major arm of the Barú. This is formed by two rivers, the Diamante and the Barucito. The Diamante, in turn, receives a large portion of its flow from the Torito River. The head waters of the Barú River are located near the village of La Florida between the Tinamastes ridge and the Alivio ridge, at about 700 meters above sea level and around 20 kilometers above the point where it empties into the Pacific Ocean.

In view of the complexity of the the Barú River system and its extensive watershed it is interesting to note the origin of the name “Barú.” According to the linguistics department of the University of Costa Rica, the word “barú” comes from the indigenous language Guaymi which is still spoken by the people of that tribe. I once met two native Guaymi speakers, both of whose Spanish was very basic. I asked them about the meaning of the word “barú.” Although the exact translation of the word is not entirely clear, the meaning appears to be similar to that of the English words meaning  “river basin” or “watershed.”

Between the Barú River and the Higueron or Morete River, The coastal ridge comes very close to the sea, and no rivers cut through it. However, five streams of up to five kilometers long, originate on the slopes of the ridge and quickly empty their waters into the sea. Beginning in Dominicalito and moving southeast these streams are the Pozo Azul, Diablo, Peje, Puerto Nuevo, and Playa Hermosa. Then we come to the Morete River.

All of the maps of Costa Rica for the last 150 years show this river as the Higuerón. Nevertheless, about 50 years ago, a man named Morete drowned on the river, and the local people began calling it the Morete River. Today, if you ask for the Higuerón River in Uvita, most people won’t know what you are talking about. This river has the distinction of beginning its course from the highest point of any other river in the corridor, 920 meters above the sea on the upper slopes of the Alivio ridge.

The Rio Uvita is joined by the Cortezal and Ballena Rivers less than five kilometers from where it empties its waters into the Ballena Marine National Park. It also feeds a mangrove estuary which is united with the estuary that extends southeast for the Morete. Though it is short compared to the Baru, the Uvita has a tremendous flow and a large water shed.

South of Uvita the coastal ridge once again runs close to the coastline, not allowing any rivers to break through until Playa Tortuga nearly 15 kilometers to the southeast. The rain that falls in this stretch feeds seven streams that run quickly into the sea. Beginning in Uvita, these streams are the Colonia, Grande, Ballena, Simon, Mercedes, Piñuela and Ventanas. All originate on the coastal side of the ridge.

If that 15 kilometers is lacking in rivers, the next five make up the difference. Beginning at  Tortuga Beach, both the Tortuga and Balso rivers empty their waters into the same estuary and practically the same mouth. Less than one kilometer up stream the Media Luna River empties into the Tortuga.  Three kilometers farther the Punta Mala River flows into the very mouth of the Grande de Térraba River as does the Coronado River, only two kilometers further on.

The Grande de Térraba River marks the southeastern boundary of the PTBC. Perhaps it’s most interesting feature is the tremendous mangrove estuary at the mouth which joins together with that of the Sierpe River. This may be the largest mangrove system in Central America. In the next few years a very large hydroelectric project called the Diquis will be built on this river near Buenos Aires. This will provide electrical energy for much of Central America, but will greatly affect the ecology of the river.

To sum it all up, we have  ten rivers that come to life within the Path of the Tapir Biological Corridor and empty their waters into the Pacific Ocean, the Portalón, Hatillo Nuevo, Hatillo Viejo, Barú, Morete, Uvita, Tortuga, Balso, Punta Mala and Coronado. Additionally there are seven secondary rivers that flow into these; the Cascada, Guabo, Diamante, Barucito, Cortezal, Ballena and Media Luna. Finally in the Barú river system there are two tertiary rivers that flow into the secondary rivers, the Caña Blanca into the Guabo and the Torito into the Diamante. That makes a grand total of 19 rivers that come to life in the PTBC, all between the coastal ridge and the Tinamastes ridge, and all of whose waters eventually end up in the sea within the boundries of the corridor. Keep in mind that this is in a area that is only about 70 kilometers long and 15 kilometers wide. Every one of these rivers, large or small, has its own water shed, and all are important for the ecological health of the corridor and the assurance of a reliable water supply for the communities of the PTBC.

In an interesting side note, I came across a map of Costa Rica from the year 1868. Only seven of these rivers are shown on it, the Hatillo Nuevo and the Hatillo Viejo (with the name Hatillón,) the Barú (which is shown to be larger than the Savegre,) Dominical, Higueron (now called Morete,) Punta Mala, and Coronado. On this map what is today classified as a stream, the Pozo Azul, was called the Dominical River. The map showed a place called Portalón, but it showed it being located beside the Savegre and had no separate river for the Portalón.

I can’t over emphasize the importance of maintaining and improving the health of these rivers and their respective watersheds. The health not only of our rivers and streams, but also of our mangroves, oceans and most importantly our communities depends on it. In the coming months and years the Amigos de la Naturaleza del Pacifico Central y Sur (ASANA) will be putting a great deal of effort into numerous activities designed to accomplish these goals. Among other things we will be working with the local water associations called ASADAS. Last month I talked about the assault on the Barú River by gravel mining companies and the plight of the neotropical river otter. If any of you readers observe otters on any of the rivers or streams in the PTBC, please write me at jack@haciendabaru.com and let me know. The presence of otters is a very good indication of a healthy river. In the future we will talk more about protecting the rivers from those who would damage their health, and also about methods and programs for making improvements. It is a theme that affects us all.

Back in the 1970s Diane and the kids and I lived in the casona, the old Hacienda Baru home. We didn’t get around to digging a well until the early 1980s, and every year, the spring that supplied our water would dry up in mid February. To deal with the situation we carried drinking water in 5 gallon plastic containers from another spring two kilometers away and water for washing dishes and flushing toilets in 55 gallon drums. The girl who worked for us went to the Barú River to do laundry, and every afternoon around 4:00 PM everyone went to the river to bathe in the crystal clear water. The village of Dominical was out of water too, so most of the town – about 8 people at that time — met us there, and the afternoon bath became as much a social event as one of personal hygiene.

River Otter eating fish

Another daily visitor to the bathing ritual was the Neotropical River Otter (Lutra longicaudis.) No sooner did we started splashing around than a couple of otters would appear from down river, swimming toward our location at the “Paso del Guanacaste.” They would swim directly at us at high speed, and about four meters short of our location they would dive. Sometimes they stayed underwater only a few seconds and sometimes longer than a minute. When they resurfaced it could be anywhere, but it would definitely be at least four meters (13 feet) from the nearest person. It was like they were playing a game with us, but only to a certain point.


If otters love to play, they love to eat even more. Most animals wolf down their food as fast as they can. No so with an otter. Occasionally one would catch a small fish or a crayfish or some other delicacy. Sometimes the otter would swim around on its back leisurely eating the prize, but usually it would find a flat rock, stretch out and devour the prey slowly in small bites, savoring every morsel. I was reminded of a gourmet diner enjoying a delicious meal. It almost made me want to catch a crayfish and sample the fair. Cooked maybe, but definitely not raw and whole, shell, legs, antennae and all.

I once paddled down river on a boogie board with the idea of finding their den, but to no avail. If any of us moved more than 20 meters or so downstream, all of the otters would disappear and not return until another day. Otters are normally quite shy, but these became so accustomed to our presence that they lost their timidity. But only if we followed their rules — no closer that four meters, and no swimming downstream. Today we often observe otters in the mangrove estuary and other waterways of the Hacienda Baru National Wildlife Refuge, but none so friendly as our old friends on the Barú River. All the otters I have seen in other places have immediately dived upon detecting my presence.

The otters can still be seen on the Barú River in the area around the mouth and as far up river as Villas Rio Mar. If you would like to see them, go to the river bank or even the bridge, around 6:00 AM or 4:30 PM. Scan the surface of the river and look for a sleek, dark, brown head moving across the surface. Right now, in March, is the best time of year to see the otters, when the river is low, calm and clear. If you really want to see them I recommend that you go soon, because next dry season may be too late. Little do the otters know that their river habitat is in grave danger.

At this time there are six applications pending for gravel mining concessions in the Barú River. The areas being requested range from the mouth of the river to above the crossing on the road to Nauyaca Waterfalls. If all of these concessions are granted, the Barú will become a riverine waste-land with a non functional ecosystem.

Rio Baru

If you want to see an example of what is about to happen to the Barú, just take a short drive to the Naranjo River on the costanera a couple of kilometers south of the Quepos airport. Or if you happen to be in the Osa Peninsula check out the Río Tigre. Take a good look at the results of many years of gravel mining in a river and ask yourself if you would like to have a similar view from the Barú River bridge. Ask yourself if visitors would want to stay in Dominical after driving across a river with a view like that from the Naranajo or Tigre River bridges.

Rio Naranjo

The Naranjo River has already suffered grave damage and may be past the point of no return. Additionally there are a number of applications for concessions on the Savegre River, but these are temporarily on hold due to overwhelming opposition from local communities. Another thing that has helped considerably in the battle to conserve the Savegre is the existence of extensive biological studies which verify the high level of biodiversity of the river.

An excellent article on this subject,  by Carol Cespedes PhD and Bruce Melton PE, appeared a couple of months ago in the “Perspective” section of The Tico Times.  It would be very difficult for me to improve on their description of what happens when a river is degraded by gravel mining. With their permission I quote from their article:

Here’s what happens when a sand- and gravel-mining operation – called in-stream mining — excavates the bed of a living river.  Removing material causes an immediate change in the existing river geometry, which refers to the shape and course of the river. It includes all the little meanders and pools, the riffles, rocks, bars and bends, as well as the stream-side vegetation. In-stream mining destroys this geometry and replaces it with a relatively flat surface.

This simplified geometry increases the velocity of the river, which in turn increases the erosion.  The faster-flowing water tends to spread out the rocks and sand and gravel in the river rather than deposit it in bars and riffles. This eliminates the deep holes and slow- moving areas, leaving the creatures that rely on the deeper water to survive without homes. The greater erosive force of the altered riverbed creates more erosion along the outside of bends in the river and increases the rate that the river meanders, or moves around within the riverbed. This increases the sideways erosion of the river even more.

Increased erosion soon leads to loss of the riparian (or stream-side) environment, a unique habitat that bridges the land and water, made up of species that generally exist only along the riverbank. These species not only provide unique vegetation and fruits for the environment, but they also have roots highly adapted to holding the riverbank in place against the erosive forces of the river.

If the in-stream mining doesn’t directly remove this stream-side vegetation, the increased erosive force of the mined river will. Not only are the homes and food supply of the animals gone, but the big holes under cut banks that were protected by overhanging roots are lost as well.

All this vegetation loss means more sun now hits the river. This completely changes the aquatic environment: It’s brighter (predators can see better) and warmer (which many species cannot tolerate). Compounding all of this, the warmer water lowers the absorption of oxygen for the aquatic creatures to “breathe.”

Riverbed mining has impacts that reach far beyond the bed of the river. The river is the heart and circulatory system of a regional ecosystem. If the river is damaged, or removed, the damage impacts the ecosystem around it and does not go away when the mining stops.

The alteration of the riverbed feeds on itself and can become more destructive with time, even extending to the headwaters of the river. This is called an environmental feedback. As more damage is done to the river, the impacts on the surrounding area increase. Biodiversity is drastically reduced and species eliminated.  The cumulative impacts degrade the river and the entire system around it, including forests, agriculture, and human communities.  It can have a disastrous effect on aquifers and water supply.  It will also impact the vitality of the zone around the river mouth including reefs, mangroves, and fisheries.

The sad part of this story is that in-river mining is not necessary. Large deposits of sand and gravel exist in many places near rivers and along the coastal plane. Materials for roads and construction don’t have to come from our rivers; they can be mined from beneath pasture and farm land where the ecological damage will be much less. Most developed countries prohibit in-river mining. The reason our rivers are under assault is that rivers are public property and the concessionaire doesn’t need to purchase the land in order to mine it. He only needs to acquire the concession, and these are relatively inexpensive to obtain. Short term profits are high, and this makes in-river mining attractive to all kinds of opportunists. Over the long term, however, out-of-river mining is more profitable, and our rivers will be allowed to remain intact.

Once every other year, Columbia and Yale Universities publish the results of a study called the Environmental Performance Index in which they rank 163 countries according to their conservation record. Costa Rica placed third in the overall ranking in 2009. The Costa Rican daily La Nación published an article about this distinction. In the article they had a beautiful picture of Nauyaca Waterfalls on the Barú River as an example of the natural beauty of the country. I wonder if the publishers of La Nación or the readers of the article have any idea what the future holds for this beautiful river.

There is still time to stop the destruction of the Barú River. Don Lulu Jimenez of Nauyaca Waterfalls has taken the lead in the battle. The board of directors of ASANA has given the protection of the Barú River top priority. The most important necessity at this time is to acquire financing for  a scientific study of the ecosystems and biodiversity of the river. This helped stop the concessions on the Savegre River. Another priority is gathering support from communal organizations like the Dominical Development Association (ADI) and the Association for the Administration of the Dominical Water System (ASADA.) If you would like to help the effort to save the Barú please contact Ronald Villalobos at the ASANA office, 2787 0254 or asana@racsa.co.cr.  Anything from letter writing to financial support for the study will be welcome.

The Barú is still a relatively pristine river with no major source of contamination or extensive ecological damage. Hopefully the communities that have come to love the river will now come to its defense. Go stand on the Barú River bridge in the early morning. Look up and down that beautiful river and ask yourself if the view is worth saving. And, while you are there keep an eye peeled for my old friend the Neotropical River Otter, and ask yourself if he is worth saving too. I hope you decide that he is, because I’m not ready to say goodbye to my old friend.

Most people don’t like bugs. The term brings up negative images of all sorts of undesirable things, both living and not. If there’s a bug in your computer program, some obscure little quirk is making your life miserable. “Don’t bug me!” means don’t annoy me. A bug can be a germ, vermin, flaw, wiretap, defect, fault, or problem. It can mean to pester or bother. My thesaurus lists only one synonym with a positive connotation, the word enthusiast. In Spanish, the word for bug, “bicho”, is often used to mean a very undesirable person.

It isn’t any mystery why people don’t like bugs?  They crawl on us, bite us, sting us, get into our clothes, our food, and even eat the wood in our homes.  They eat our crops our flowers our lawns and most anything we try to grow.  They are associated with all kinds of contagious diseases including many that are fatal.  It would appear that our dislike of them is clearly justified.  But have you ever thought of what would happen if all the bugs were to disappear from the face of the planet?  Well known biologist author E. O. Wilson, in his classic work, The Diversity of Life, answers that question:

“So important are insects and other land dwelling arthropods that if all were to disappear, humanity probably could not last more than a few months.  Most of the amphibians, reptiles, birds and mammals would crash to extinction about the same time.  Next would go the bulk of flowering plants and with them the physical structure of most forests and other terrestrial habitats of the world.  The land surface would literally rot.  …other complex forms of vegetation would die off, and with them all but a few remnants of the land vertebrates.  …The land would return to approximately its condition in early Paleozoic times, covered by mats of recumbent wind-pollinated vegetation, sprinkled with clumps of small trees and bushes here and there, largely devoid of animal life.”

Many people who live in North America and Europe are accustomed to a comparatively sterile, insect-free environment. This always brings to mind an image of my mother — who couldn’t stand a single insect in the same room with her — chasing a fly or a moth around the house with a spray can full of insecticide or a fly swatter. This happened rarely, as her house was tightly sealed against intruders. Living in Costa Rica, especially in the hot, humid lowlands, means learning to coexist with bugs. The climate requires open construction with good ventilation, a building style that is difficult to seal. In this type of breezy environment your fly swatter or insecticide sprays definitely have their limits. Some people resort to regular fumigation as a method of controlling bugs.

My friend Harry can tell you all about fumigation. “You know something Jack?” he queried. “When I think back on it all, the bugs never really bothered us that much. Sure, we had a few roaches and ants, and we had our share of mosquitoes. I mean, I never minded those big, round, hairy spiders that used to hang out in our shower. They seemed to be more scared of me than I of them. Mabel always got out the long-handled broom and knocked down those big golden tinted webs in the corners of the ceiling, but I kind of liked them there. Those long legged spiders never bothered me, and the webs caught lots of mosquitoes. We used to sleep with a mosquito net during the rainy season, but most nights they weren’t so bad. We always kept a bottle of insect repellent around, but didn’t use it much. One bottle would last me and Mabel for a whole rainy season.

“Sometimes a preying mantis would land on the mosquito net while I was reading in bed. I’ll tell you those things are amazing predators. They can catch and gobble up a lot of bugs in one night. Did you ever see those little frogs with suction cups on their toes? A bunch of them liked to hang out in our bathroom. They would sneak in close to the light and snatch mosquitoes with their long sticky tongues. And those little, dark-colored lizards with the red heads, what are they called?”

“Geckos,” I offered.

“Yeah, that’s it, geckos, they were everywhere. Now those were insect eating machines. They would eat anything they could catch.

“We had bats too. They roosted in the ceiling and made scratchy sounds, but every evening they made a couple of sweeps through the house and cleaned out all the bugs. Come to think of it, there was even a bird, some kind of tanager, that ate those black wasps with the nasty sting. Every fall when the birds migrated in from the north, one would go through the house and clean them all out, eat their eggs and destroy their nests. I never could figure out how it kept from getting stung.

“That was before we fumigated. I know what your thinking, Jack. You want to know why we fumigated if we weren’t bothered by insects, right?”

I nodded affirmatively.

Harry continued. “I mean, I don’t like spraying poison all over my house any more than the next guy. I mean look at all the people who die from cancer. There didn’t used to be so many people get cancer. Way back in the early 70s when I was like 30 years old, I didn’t know anyone who had died of cancer, not a single person. Well, let me tell you, the other night me and Mabel was trying to remember how many people we knew who had cancer or had died from it since then. And you know what? There was more than I could count on the fingers of both hands. I don’t know what you think, but I think it comes from all them chemicals in our environment. They get into our food and water and everything else.

“Anyway, let me tell you why we fumigated. It was because we found a termite trail on the wall outside the bedroom. We asked around to find out what to do about it, and everyone told us we had to fumigate. I thought maybe we could just spray the places where we found their trails, but the people we asked said ‘no’ it was best to fumigate the whole house. So we hired one of them companies to come out and fog the place. They told us that the stuff they used was organic and it wouldn’t hurt people, only insects. I didn’t believe it, but that’s what they said. In almost the same breath they said the stuff was so strong it would last three months. After that they fogged the house. We left all the doors and windows closed and stayed at a hotel that night. The next day we opened up the house and moved back in. I didn’t like the smell for a couple of days, but it gradually went away. We had to clean the whole house; sweep out all the dead spiders, moths, frogs, geckos, preying mantises and a couple of cockroaches. I mean the house was free of small animals. Nothing was left alive. We even found two dead bats. The termites were gone for the time being.

“It was amazing. Within a week the cockroaches were back. But not like before when we only had a few. After the fog-down, they were all over the place. I don’t know where they all came from, but they took over the entire house. And mosquitoes like you wouldn’t believe. We had to smear that oily repellent all over us in the evenings and sleep under the mosquito net every night. That was two months ago. It’s a little better now. A few geckos have come back and I saw a frog in the bathroom a couple of nights ago. Mabel found a spider web in the spare bedroom this morning. She said she left it there. I guess that guy from the fumigators was right about that stuff keeping things away for a long time. It sure keeps the insect eaters away. But it don’t do much for them cockroaches. And you know what else? We found another termite trail a couple of days ago.”

Harry went on to tell me that for the second termite invasion, he found an insecticide that was specific for termites, and sprayed it only on the places where their trails appeared. Then he went out and looked for termite nests in the trees around his house. He knocked down all the nests within 50 meters of the house, three of them. He figures that in another month or two populations of all the insect eaters will return to normal. Harry is especially anxious for the geckos to return. He found out that their favorite food is cockroaches.

Several books could be written about the natural enemies of household insect pests, but the geckos deserve special attention. These small lizards, as long as your index finger, don’t bother people, but feed on things that do. Two species, in particular, like to live in homes. Both the orange-headed gecko (Gonatodes albogularis) and the common house gecko (Hemidactylus frenatus,) frequent coastal regions like our own. The underside of a gecko’s feet are covered with thousands of hairs or bristles, each with a special bonding mechanism that works with positive and negative electrical charges. This trait enables the gecko to cling to walls and ceilings. When a rat, bat, bird, snake or cat tries to grab a gecko, the predator ends up with a piece of tail in its mouth. A stinky substance oozes from the tail stub, and the short-tailed gecko promptly scampers away. The lost appendage soon regenerates. At our house they can be found in every nook and cranny. Their favorite food is young cockroaches. We don’t keep any kind of pesticide in the house and seldom see a cockroach.

Large round pupils indicate the diurnal nature of some geckos, like the orange-headed one, whereas a nocturnal species like the common house gecko, has narrow vertical slits as pupils. Geckos’ eyelids don’t move. Fused to the eyelid is a fixed transparent shield that covers and protects the cornea. Rather than blinking, the gecko licks the shield in order to clean it. Whenever I try to imagine this, I remember a joke I once heard about a guy who licked his eyebrows, but you’ll have to turn to the joke page for that.

When you’re enjoying a pleasant evening at home and hear a friendly “chrit-chrit-chrit,” that kind of reminds you of a bird, but not quite; remember the gecko, the only semi-domestic reptile in the world. And you might take a moment to thank them for controlling the bug population in your home so that you can live in a healthy, chemical free environment in harmony with the natural world that surrounds you.

Guiding visitors on ecological tours can be very rewarding. Showing guests their first monkey, sloth or toucan is as gratifying for the guide as it is for the visitor. Birds and animals aren’t usually obvious to the untrained eye, and it is often difficult to explain or point out to people the exact position of wildlife within the dense vegetation of the rainforest. A typical conversation might go something like this: “See him? He’s right over there.” “Right over where?” “Look, just follow that trunk up to where it forks off to the left…” “Wait a minute, which trunk?” “That big one just to the right of the one with the vine.” “Oh yeah, that one. Okay now, I follow that up to the fork, right? Then where?” And so on, and so on. Once the bird or animal has been spotted with the naked eye, the next step is to find it with binoculars. Some visitors are practiced in the use of optical equipment, but many are not, and it is sometimes difficult for them to locate the wildlife. I have noticed that visitors will sometimes say they see something even if they don’t. However, there is never any doubt when the person encounters their first toucan. When the large yellow, black and red bird with the enormous beak comes into their field of vision, the visitor’s reaction can range from a simple, “Oh, my god,” to something resembling a low-level orgasm. Nowadays all of our guides have telescopes which they can quickly focus on the wildlife, eliminating all that foreplay and getting right down to the nitty-gritty.

Everybody loves toucans. I’m relatively certain that the toucan has lent its name and image to more Costa Rican tourism businesses than any other any other bird or animal. Even outside of Costa Rica a popular breakfast cereal is identified with the famous Toucan Sam the Fruit Loop Bird. I use the word toucan here in the generic sense, but in reality there are many different kinds of these charismatic birds with their long boat-shaped beaks.

Costa Rica boasts six different species of toucan, two of which are found in the region around Dominical. The larger of these two, the chestnut-mandibled toucan (Ramphastos swansonii,) known locally as the quioro, is the largest toucan in Costa Rica. It is about the size of a small chicken. This impressive bird is mostly black with a yellow bib, chestnut on the lower portion of the bill and yellow on the upper. When seen from underneath a patch of red is clearly visible under the tail. A visitor once remarked to me that it should be called the “red-butted toucan.” The smaller toucan found in this area is called the fiery-billed aracari (Pteroglossus frantzii.) Known locally as the cusinga, this beautiful bird has lots of red and yellow on the beak and body. At about 250 grams (nine ounces), the cusinga is only about one-third as heavy as the quioro.

The call of the quioro sounds like the Spanish words “Dios te de,” repeated over and over, and it is therefore known by that name in some parts of Costa Rica. A couple of years ago, a very observant Hacienda Barú guest named Vicki figured out what the toucans communicate to each other when they repeatedly emit these melodic notes. Being an avid naturalist, Vicki was invariably up early and out on the trails with her binoculars. One morning she observed a group of eight chestnut-mandibled toucans flying across a sparsely wooded area. She watched while the group made their way to a fruit-bearing strangler fig tree about 300 meters (328 yards) away. They traversed that distance in four short flights. On each leg of the journey the leader of the group flew about seventy-five meters (eighty-two yards), landed in a tree and promptly began calling, “Dios te de, Dios te de, Dios te de.” One at a time the other seven toucans flew to the call, and each landed in the same tree as the leader. When the last toucan arrived, the leader immediately stopped calling and flew away on the next short flight. When the leader reached the location of the heavily fruited strangler fig, it landed in an adjacent tree and repeated the calling routine. Once all of the toucans had arrived, the entire group silently followed the leader over to the fig tree and started eating. Somehow the lead toucan was able to determine when the last member of the group had arrived. Whether it made this judgment by counting the arrivals, by recognizing the last toucan as an individual, or by some other method, is anybody’s guess. In any case, when the toucan calls, it is obviously saying, “I’m over here, I’m over here, I’m over here.” Listen carefully next time you hear one and see if you don’t agree.

My wife once bought me a fiery-billed aracari for my birthday. Diane and I both love animals, but we disagree about keeping birds for pets. She likes to have them around the house, and I prefer to see them out in the jungle. Nevertheless, after a couple of weeks of cleaning the toucan’s cage, Diane reluctantly agreed that some things are best left in the wild. We decided that the famous “Fruit Loop Bird” should more appropriately be called the “Fruit Poop Bird.” The fruit just goes in one end and comes out the other. We released the beautiful cusinga into the wild where it could use its fruit-pooping ability as a natural mechanism for dispersing seeds across the countryside, thus performing a valuable service for the environment by helping to restore forest in areas where the natural cover has been lost.

It is a miracle that chestnut-mandibled toucans can even fly. That enormous beak sticking out in front causes them to fly in a position that looks like they’re about to take a nose dive. Toucans normally land on the lower limbs of a tree and hop up from branch to branch, taking off again near the top. They use this strategy to gain altitude, since it is extremely difficult for them to ascend while flying. The beginning of a typical flight pattern is a dive, which is probably necessary to pick up enough speed to remain airborne. Next, the large black and yellow bird levels off for the middle portion of the flight. Landing is preceded by an abrupt ascent or flaring, which slows and then halts forward motion. Most chestnut-mandibled toucan flights are short, less than 100 meters (about 109 yards).

If toucans are the lumbering old transport planes of the bird world, then the swifts, swallows and martins are the fighter jets, and the flycatchers are the stunt planes. Flycatchers are a large and diverse family of which thirty-eight different species have been identified on Hacienda Barú National Wildlife Refuge. I have always marveled that these relatively small birds can attack large birds of prey such as hawks and falcons and get away with it. A flycatcher is so agile that it can fly off a perch in a horizontal line, grab an insect in midair and turn around and fly back to the perch without dropping an inch. The flycatcher would obviously have to stop in midair to accomplish this feat. I am convinced that it must be an optical illusion, but I have seen this happen many times and it never fails to amaze me.

With all of this in mind, you can imagine how I felt the first time I saw a pair of flycatchers called great kiskadees (Pitangus sulphuratus) dive-bombing a chestnut-mandibled toucan. To my way of thinking the poor, beautiful, awkward, inoffensive fruit-eater was being unmercifully attacked by a terrorist squad of daredevils. However, in nature, as in human affairs, things are never quite as simple they first appear. A year later I had the opportunity to witness the other side of the story. One day while driving down the road I caught sight of a toucan flying toward the jungle from across a clearing. I had grown accustomed to seeing the harassment of these beautiful birds by various species of flycatchers, and I wasn’t surprised to see a pair of kiskadees attacking. As the birds approached, I noticed that the kiskadees’ aggressive behavior was inordinately desperate and frenzied. Then, to my horror, I saw why. My poor, beautiful, awkward, inoffensive fruit eating toucan had turned into a baby-killer. It was carrying two kiskadee nestlings in its boat shaped bill. One was severely mangled and probably dead, and the other was badly maimed but still alive and struggling. That incident was truly the beginning of my education into the harsh realities of nature. Another incident that took place several years later but with different actors served to further develop my understanding of the brutal natural pressures endured by wildlife.

The lineated woodpecker (Dryocopus lineatus) is an exceptionally beautiful bird that looks like Woody Woodpecker. One of our guides at Hacienda Barú National Wildlife Refuge once noticed that a pair of them were pecking away at a dead tree trunk close to one of the trails. It took about a week for the woodpeckers to hollow out an adequate nesting cavity. Next the female laid her eggs, and both took turns incubating them. Soon thereafter a pair of chestnut-mandibled toucans started hanging around the tree. They harassed the pair of woodpeckers for two days until finally one of the toucans managed to stick its bill into the hole and grab the woodpecker that was sitting on the nest. That toucan dragged the woodpecker out of the nest by its big red head. Then the other one grabbed the woodpecker’s feet, and the two of them worked together, repeatedly bashing the woodpecker against the tree trunk until it quit resisting. Then they threw it on the ground and turned their attention to the nesting cavity. After eating the eggs one of the large toucans squeezed inside the hole and tried it out for size. A Hacienda Barú guide recovered the badly bruised and mangled woodpecker, but it died within a few hours. The next day, the pair of toucans apparently decided that the cavity didn’t meet their requirements and abandoned it. A month later a pair of fiery-billed aracaris tried out the nesting cavity, but they abandoned it after three days. In human terms, this event is tantamount to a squatter killing the owner of a newly constructed home and stealing the house, only to abandon it a day later because it didn’t meet his expectations.

I still love toucans, but I no longer have any illusions about who is good and who is bad in nature. From the moment that I saw the baby flycatchers in that toucan’s bill my whole fantasy about relationships in nature came tumbling down. Everything became crystal clear. There are no villains nor victims nor good nor bad. Everything simply is. Every living thing has to eat, and that’s what life is all about. Sooner or later we all go back to the earth and the nutrients get used again by another life form. Dead matter gets broken down by the predators, scavengers, insects, worms, bacteria, molds and fungi, and the basic components are restructured by the plants, thus continuing the cycle. That, my friends, is the story of life on this earth. We all came from the earth, and we all return to it, fueling the continuous cycle of life. Nothing escapes, not animal nor plant nor even mineral. It is all part of this planet. You can think of the earth as a living, functioning organism, a marvelous recycling center that recycles everything from fallen trees to dead woodpeckers, because that’s what it really is.

The troop of 28 monkeys was strung out over about 100 meters, moving through the forest. The lead monkey, a mature female, came to an area where the tree cover was broken by an open swamp with only a narrow corridor two trees wide going around it. About half way across the corridor the leader abruptly leapt back and let out an excited yelp, one of several different alarm barks the two observers had heard them use. This initial bark was followed by a series of short barks in a slightly calmer voice. Flor Vallet scanned the foliage with her binoculars near where the lead monkey had been when when it jumped back. Finally she saw the source of alarm, a non venomous bird-eating snake. It wasn’t large enough to harm a full grown monkey, or even a juvenile, but it was a snake nevertheless, and they instinctively disliked it. The troop kept moving forward, but as they arrived at the point where the snake was coiled each monkey veered over into a neighboring tree, staying well out of its reach. They didn’t need any further signals. Every monkey in the troop knew exactly where the snake was coiled. Was this communicated to them via the alarm call followed by the short series of barks emitted by the lead monkey when it first saw the snake?

When Florence Vallet and Hannah Wilkins set out to learn more about the monkeys of Hacienda Barú, this was not a question they thought they would be answering. Their objective was merely to determine how many troops of white-faced capuchin monkeys (Cebus capucinus) there are on Hacienda Barú National Wildlife Refuge, how many monkeys in each troop, and to identify the individuals of one or two of the troops. The next step was to observe the behavior of the monkeys, photograph them and take notes. After a little over a month the two young naturalists have already answered the basic questions and have observed some amazing behavior that seems to suggest answers to the question posed above and others. Not only that, but they have become totally enthralled by the capers of these fascinating capuchin monkeys with the white faces. As a matter of fact they have become self proclaimed capuchinophiles.

Flor Vallet is no stranger to capuchin monkeys, the most intelligent genus of new world monkeys. They are so intelligent that they have been called the “New World Chimpanzees,” by the authors of the book, The Complete Capuchin. Flor’s introduction to capuchin monkeys came in 2001 when she worked at the La vallée des singes zoo near  Poitiers, France. In 2005 she came to Costa Rica and worked as a volunteer at the Curú National Wildlife Refuge in Nicoya, where she again had considerable exposure to these amazing primates. She has been at Hacienda Barú since 2007 volunteering as an  interpreter with French speaking visitors. Now Flor is doing what she likes best, following the capuchin monkeys, observing their behavior and trying to learn as much as possible about them.

Flor’s assistant, Hannah Wilkins, hails from North Port, Florida where she recently graduated from Venice High School. During her high school career Hannah had a zoology class where your author’s book, Monkeys Are Made of Chocolate, was required reading. Later her class took a trip to Costa Rica, visited Hacienda Barú and met Jack. That was when she decided she wanted to come here as a volunteer. After a month working with Flor, soft spoken Hannah is as totally dedicated to learning about capuchin behavior as her mentor.

When they began the project, Flor thought there were only two troops of white-faced capuchin monkeys on Hacienda Barú National Wildlife Refuge. To her delight, to date she and Hannah have identified seven distinct troops, ranging from 14 to 28 individuals. Of these troops, they have selected the Mancha Negra (black spot) troop and the Muñeco (named after their favorite fruit tree) troop for more intensive study. Mancha Negra tends to spend most of its time in the forests near Hacienda Barú Lodge, and the members are accustomed to seeing humans on the walking trails. The principle mature males in the group are “El Padrino, Darko, Scar Face” and “Bubba,” with the former being the dominant male.

One particularly hot day around noon, part of the Mancha Negra group were on the ground near a stream. They were lazily foraging along the forest floor when Bubba walked into the stream. He wandered around in the water until he found a hole about a foot deep. Standing in the middle of the hole, Bubba squatted down until the waterline was all the way up to his neck. He just sat there, with only his head sticking out, for about 30 seconds, then stood up and walked out of the stream. He made no effort to shake the water off or in any way dry himself. While in the water he gave no indication that he was trying to clean himself, and Flor and Hannah are convinced that he only wanted to cool off. The girls have observed this behavior on three different occasions. Every observation of monkey baths took place near midday on a hot day, and only mature males dipped their bodies into the water. To date, this behavior has been observed only with the Mancha Negra troop. Flor never observed this at the zoo in France nor at the Curu Reserve in Nicoya, Costa Rica. It is not reported in The Complete Capuchin.

Do the males in all of the troops cool off in the streams or is this behavior particular to the Mancha Negra troop? Do the females do the same, or the males of other troops?  Are there significant behavioral differences between the Hacienda Barú capuchins and those of other places? To what extent do monkeys communicate with each other? How complex is their verbal communication? These are a few of the questions that will be on the two girls minds as they follow the troops of capuchins around Hacienda Barú and observe their day to day activity.

The Strange Relationship Between Capuchins and Coatis

Hacienda Barú guide Juan Ramón Segura stood with several visitors watching a group of white-faced capuchin monkeys in a strangler fig tree replete with ripe fruit. The primates were pulling handfuls of figs from the branches, stuffing as many as possible in their mouths and dropping more than they ate on the ground. There was a lone male coati (Nasua narica) in the tree as well, delightfully helping himself to the small, round, red fruits, picking the figs one or two at a time, chewing and relishing the flavor and then picking another. In the upper branches were a pair of chestnut-mandibled toucans (Ramphastos swainsonii) snapping figs off the branches, tossing them into the air and catching them in over-sized beaks. A careful look revealed a number of smaller birds, tanagers, euphonias and vireos feeding within the foliage in the middle of the tree. The strangler fig tree that afternoon was a veritable delicatessen for half a dozen different species.

Juan was answering a visitor’s question when a noisy commotion erupted over to one side of the fig tree. The coati with teeth bared, was huddled back into the branches. He was surrounded by four or five monkeys. The capuchins were barking and screaming at the coati, obviously furious about something. One made a move to his front side reaching almost to the coati´s long, pointed snout with its hand. When the raccoon-like coati lunged toward the monkey, two more of the gang grabbed him from behind, and the rest moved in quickly and subdued the furious mammal. The capuchins didn’t waste any time with the coati. From Juan’s point of view it looked like they gave a mighty heave and hurled him out of the tree. Fortunately the coati’s fall was broken by a couple of branches as he plummeted to the ground, about 10 meters (33 feet) beneath. He suffered no serious injuries, only a good shaking up.

This incident illustrates how these two species can be happily feeding together one minute and turn violent the next. In this encounter it is not clear what triggered the monkeys to attack the coati, but Juan has the idea that the coati didn’t do anything to evoke their anger. It was almost like a bunch of teenage boys ganging up on a classmate. Many of the guides have seen white-faced capuchin monkeys harass lone coatis, but none of these encounters have resulted in actual physical contact. Almost anyone who lives on Hacienda Barú has seen the two species contentedly sharing a meal together, whether it be figs, palm flowers or cecropia seeds.

Though four or five monkeys were able to throw an adult male coati out of a tree, they had a serious struggle on their hands. I doubt if they would have tried it with a gang of only two or three. A coati’s teeth and claws are sharp and they can be very nasty. No monkey is about to tangle with one unless the odds are greatly in its favor. This is not the case, however, with infants. In fact, white-faced capuchin monkeys, which are omnivorous, are the most serious predators of baby coatis. Female coatis make nests, similar to squirrel nests, in the tops of trees. There they give birth and care for the helpless young until they are able to travel with the group. The adult females and young travel in groups that sometimes surpass twenty in number. This provides a high degree of protection. In the nest it is a different story. There the infant coatis are vulnerable, and the capuchins take advantage of the situation. If a group of monkeys can locate a coati nest, it is a fairly simple task to slip in, snatch the baby coatis and scamper away before mama coati comes back.

At one time in the tropical dry forests of Guanacaste province, biologists feared that the capuchins would drive the coatis to local extinction. Normally coatis give birth during the dry season when the weather is favorable, but food is scarce. When there were almost none of the species left in the Guanacaste dry forests, the few remaining females, started giving birth during the rainy season, when the monkeys have plenty to eat. With full stomachs, the capuchins didn’t put nearly as much effort into searching out and raiding the coati nests. Coati numbers have increased significantly, and after several years, local extinction was no longer a concern.

One day in October of this year Florence and Hannah were observing the Mancha Negra troop of white-faced capuchins in the lowlands of Hacienda Barú National Wildlife Refuge. It was near mid-day, and the troop just hanging out, not doing much of anything. They were scattered around in the tops of several different trees, some lying on the branches with arms and legs dangling over the sides, one resting in the crouch of a tree, two females were engaged in mutual grooming, and a few of the young were half-heartily playing among the branches. A lone coati male rested on a branch, near the monkeys, but a little off to one side.

A juvenile capuchin gingerly eased up to the coati, but stopped one step short. The raccoon-like male didn’t so much as glance at the young monkey. After a few minutes the juvenile eased up to the coati and again sat attentively observing, but the big male remained oblivious. Finally the youngster reached out and touched the thick fur on the coati’s back, stroking gently in a grooming motion. When the coati still didn’t react, the monkey confidently continued to groom the other mammal just like he might groom his mother or one of his fellow juveniles.

Flor was amazed. It was the first time she had observed or even heard or read of grooming behavior taking place between capuchins and another mammal of a different species. After a short while the strange behavior attracted the attention of El Padrino, who walked right up and stood over the juvenile, completely covering it with his head, shoulders and chest. Undaunted the smaller monkey continued grooming the coati, which hadn’t moved and seemed quite contented to be groomed by the primate. El padrino watched for a minute, and then he reached out and began grooming the coati along with the juvenile. The two continued their strange grooming behavior for about a minute. Apparently bored with the novel activity, El Padrino walked away and the juvenile followed.

This experience serves to illustrate just how complex the relationship between these two species is, ranging from infanticide to one-sided grooming, from extreme violence to affectionate behavior. Florence Vallet feels that much has to do with the capuchin’s mood. When they are active and full of energy, they are more inclined to mischief. At siesta time, they are more likely to be cordial. As Flor and Hannah continue their observations of these fascinating primates, they hope to shed a little more light on the strange relationship between capuchins and coatis, as well as many other questions.

People often ask me what it was like when I first came to the southern Pacific region of Costa Rica. Surprisingly many have the misconception that there was jungle everywhere, complete with jaguars, tapirs and scarlet macaws. My memories of those times, however, bear no resemblance to that image. In the early 1970s there were many more hectares of pastures and rice fields than of rainforest. I lived here for four years before I saw a monkey or coati and seven years before I saw a toucan.  I had heard about the peccary (wild pigs) which migrated into the region a couple of times of year, but I never actually saw one until 2004, after having lived here for thirty-two years.

Things have changed markedly since that time. Last dry season, I saw three collared peccary in one week, one crossing the road and two on a walking trail. Several Hacienda Barú Lodge guests, who had gathered at the restaurant for a late afternoon beer, were treated to the spectacle of a collared peccary trying to break into the butterfly garden. It  ran back and forth along the netting, occasionally charging it, trying in vain to break through. One of our guides took a photo of a pair of peccaries in the orchid garden. That same day, my wife, Diane, called the office and excitedly informed me that she was standing on our front porch, observing a couple of peccaries rooting around under a tree about 20 meters from  the house. During the month of August 2009, two groups of visitors hiking in the rainforest encountered groups of more than 20 peccaries.

Sightings of peccaries and the other animals mentioned above have become commonplace, not only on Hacienda Barú National Wildlife Refuge but in many other places throughout the region. Additionally, there have been sightings of animals that haven’t been seen here since the 1940s, like spider monkeys, for example. In order to determine the level of success of the Path of the Tapir Biological Corridor (PTBC) project, the Asociación de Amigos de la Naturaleza (ASANA,) has an ongoing program of monitoring certain key species, including all of the cats, the great curassow, a wild turkey-like bird, and the collared peccary. Sightings of all of these species have increased markedly in the last fifteen years.

At a potluck lunch and meeting of a local group called the Ecological Neighbors of Barú, sightings of ocelots, jaguarundis, a young puma and of course, wild pigs were reported by the members. Tapirs and tapir tracks have been seen in two different locations within the PTBC, a jaguar was recently killed in Reserva Los Santos at the edge of the corridor near a place called Brujo. The cat had been killing calves, and an angry rancher killed it in order to protect his livelihood. The jaguar was a young male, not yet fully developed, meaning that there is at least one breeding pair in the same general area. Another jaguar was sighted much closer to Dominical about five kilometers from Hacienda Barú near a place called Punto de Mira

So far, we have only mentioned mammals, but the number of bird species has increased as well. Granted, populations of some species of birds have diminished in the area, but these are species that like wide open spaces. As more forest habitat regenerates in areas that were previously used for farming and ranching, these species move away. An example of this would be the cattle egret that thrives in pastures with grazing animals. When there were thousands of cattle in this region there were also thousands of egrets, but as pasture land diminished, and forest cover returned, many of these birds went elsewhere in search of their preferred habitat. Other examples of birds whose populations have diminished are the black-shouldered kite, a predatory bird that hunts in open pastures, and two species of vulture that feed on carrion in open areas.

But as populations of these species diminish, other species, those that prefer a forest habitat, migrate into the region. Every year at the annual bird count for the Fila Costeña – an area 24 kilometers in diameter located in the center of the PTBC – species that have not previously been identified in this region appear. These are mostly species that are common in the forested parts of the southern Caribbean slope. After six years of yearly bird counts, the cumulative total identified within the count area is 470 species. However, not all of those species will be observed in any one year. At the first count in 2003, a group of qualified birders identified 340 species. This year 374 species were sighted. In comparison with the rest of the world, the Fila Costeña has always placed in the upper 10%, and in 2004 placed third in the world out of over 2000 official bird counts.

This notable increase in the number of mammals and birds is a strong indication that biodiversity and the general ecological health of the area comprising the PTBC has increased over the last 25 years. Although there is a great deal of concern about the environmental impact of real estate development in the region, to date, this has not had a significant impact on terrestrial wildlife. As we have seen, there is more wildlife now than anytime since the 1950s. I wish I could say the same for the marine environments that have suffered tremendously from siltation caused by erosion from earth moving, contamination and over exploitation, but that is another story.

Ecologically this increase in biodiversity is good news. It means that the natural balance of the rainforest environment is recovering from the great deforestation of the ranching and farming era. Personally, I am pleased to see so much wildlife. Not only do I love observing wild animals and birds in their natural habitat, but also I know that this abundance of flora and fauna is the biggest tourist attraction in the area. Many of the people who live here were attracted to the region for the same reason. Nevertheless, it is important to consider some of the possible consequences of an abundance of wild animals. In nature nothing is static; change is constant, and things sometimes change in ways we do not anticipate.

When a healthy ecosystem begins to deteriorate, those species at the top of the food chain, the large carnivores, are usually among the first species to disappear. If the animal in question is coveted by hunters, it will likely disappear sooner than if it simply runs short of food or habitat. To my knowledge the last jaguar seen in the area around Dominical was killed in about 1955, over half a century ago. When jaguars disappear from a rainforest habitat, they are often replaced by pumas (Puma concolor) – sometimes called cougars or mountain lions — which are more versatile and better able to adapt to new conditions. I have interviewed many of the original settlers of this region. When recounting their experiences, all mention jaguars, but none mention pumas. It is probable that by the time the jaguars disappeared, the habitat and prey base was in such such a miserable condition that the lions couldn’t survive either. During the 1970s and early 1980s I never heard of a puma sighting.

In the dry season of 1989, there was a papaya tree with mature fruit in the middle of a cleared area around our jungle campsite. Every day, in the late morning, a large group of coatis appeared in the clearing and fought over the nearly ripe papaya, tearing them to pieces and gobbling up the sweet, orange fruit. Then, from one day to the next, all of the coatis disappeared from the area, and the fruit ripened until it either fell off the tree or was eaten by birds. At the same time we found large claw marks on a tree near the camp, and an extremely large paw print at the edge of a nearby stream. A few days later, the neighbors on the next farm observed a large, tan-colored cat at the edge of a pasture where cattle were grazing. Their horses were terrified of the cat and attempted to rid themselves of the riders and run off. Since that time there have been sporadic reports of puma sightings and puma tracks. For many years, it appeared that there was only one puma that roamed the area extending from Matapalo to Hacienda Barú, preying mainly on deer in the Matapalo area and peccary around Hacienda Barú. In the last five years, however, I have heard of three sightings of immature pumas. This is a strong indication that not only do these felines occasionally wander into the area, but that they now reside here permanently and are reproducing. If they are reproducing, they are obviously increasing in population.

This is not at all surprising. We have already seen that collared peccary, the puma’s primary prey animal, are very abundant in the area, and populations are increasing. I feel strongly that from now on there will be more and more sighting of pumas in our region, and this may very well bring some problems for the people who live here. There is not much livestock that a large cat could prey on, but there are plenty of dogs many of which love to go tearing off into the woods barking like crazy at real or imagined enemies. These are easy prey for a big cat. Another very real possibility is that of a puma attack on a person. This has happened a number of times in many parts of North America, and there is no reason why it can’t happen here.

Being aware of this possibility is a big step toward preventing an unpleasant or tragic experience. If you live in a wooded area where peccary are often seen, there are several things about puma behavior that you should be aware of: 1.) If you encounter a puma, do not run. If you do, the cat will see you as fleeing prey and will attack. 2.) Face the predator, stand tall and hold your hands high over your head. Make yourself look as big as possible. Pumas often attack people who are bent over tying a shoe. When you are bent over, you look smaller. An adult human is larger than the puma’s normal prey, and it will be hesitant. Anything you can do to make yourself look bigger will feed its doubt. 3.) Keep your kids close to you. Don’t let them run off into the forest by themselves. They are closer to the size of a puma’s normal prey. 4.) Walk with other people. Pumas attack people who are alone and tend to steer clear of groups of two or more people. 5.) If you are attacked, fight back. Go for the nose and eyes; they are the most sensitive parts of the puma’s face and the only places where you can inflict pain. A large prey that fights back is so unusual and unexpected, that the big cat may release you. A good friend of mine was attacked in the Corcovado National Park and fought back with all the fury he could muster. The puma let him go and ran away, and my friend walked away from the incident unscathed.

My purpose in writing this is not to scare people, but rather to make people aware that nature often changes in ways that can create problems for humans. Though the presence of big cats in the area where we live is not an ideal situation, neither is it the end of the world. People all over North America live in areas frequented by bears and pumas. Large carnivores are only found in healthy ecosystems.  People can and do coexist with these predators, and that is what we must learn to do if we want to live in a healthy ecosystem.

The incident took place so long ago that Daniel Valverde doesn’t remember for sure if Alvaro Mesa was the one who actually felled the last manú negro tree on Hacienda Baru or not, but he was definitely the one who sent the workers up into the rainforest to cut it into logs and split the logs into posts. Some people say that what happened that day was Alvaro’s punishment for cutting down the last manú negro on Hacienda Barú. Others say it was the curse of an Indian shaman whose tomb Alvaro had opened. Regardless of why it happened, it was the worst experience of his entire life, and one that all the people who were with him that day will remember for the rest of their lives.

The year was 1971. Daniel Valverde, Nato and Challo Campos and Arcele Arroyo followed Alvaro Mesa to the fallen tree, deep in the rainforest of the upper portions of Hacienda Barú. On the hike up, Alvaro showed the men a pre-Colombian cemetery where he claimed to have found gold in one of the tombs. When they reached the fallen manú negro tree, Alvaro left instructions with Daniel and Arcele for splitting the tree into logs and took Nato and Challo with him to blaze the trail they would use to carry the posts out on their shoulders.

Daniel and Arcele got to work with axes. Chopping the large trunk into two meter long logs was their first task. Later they planned to split it into posts by driving iron wedges into the sturdy wood. The first time they stopped chopping to rest, they heard Challo´s faint yell in the distance. “Come! Hurry! Alvaro’s been bit by a terciopelo.” (An extremely poisonous pit viper sometimes called “fer de lance” in English – (Bothrops asper.))

“Ya vamos,” hollered Daniel, setting off on the same path they had used earlier.
They found Challo at the pre-Colombian cemetery, waiting, intently watching the snake. “She’s really pissed,” he warned. “Keep your distance. God, you should have seen it. Alvaro slipped and fell over by the tomb. The terciopelo must have been lying right there. At first he thought a wasp had got him or maybe a thorn, but then he saw it, and he knew. We all did. It bit him just above the elbow.”

The terciopelo held its head high, level with Daniel’s waist, looking from one side to the other, tongue flicking in and out, watching, waiting. It was the largest Daniel had ever seen, well over two meters (6½ feet) long. He cut a thin pole and held it out. The snake struck at the pole. Daniel swung and missed. The terciopelo advanced and struck again. Daniel’s second blow caught the enormous snake behind the head. He hit it again and again until it quit moving. Finally he chopped it to pieces with his machete. He was careful to cut the head in half. The head with a short piece of neck can still crawl and bite. “Let’s go,” urged Arcele. “We gotta find Alvaro.”

A half hour later they found him sitting at the edge of the road in front of the hacienda home, “La Casona.” Alvaro was dazed and completely disoriented. He didn’t know who they were until Daniel spoke, but seemed to recognize the voice. “Nato went to look for Don Marvin about the car,” he said hoarsely, holding up a badly swollen arm. “Hey, help me get this watch off.”

Daniel tried to unbuckle the watch. “I need a wire cutter to cut the band. I can’t get the buckle loose.” The swelling had engulfed the watch band in flesh. Finally, Daniel gave up trying to remove it, his hands were covered with blood. It was oozing from Alvaro’s pores. He sent Challo to find a pair of wire cutters.

Nato came running up, breathless. “Marvin said we can use the car, but Primo isn’t around and nobody else knows how to drive.”

“Daniel get the tractor keys outta my pocket. I can’t get my hand in it. You can drive the tractor, can’t you, at least to get to Dominical and get some snake bite serum from Don Celso?” The policeman in Dominical always kept a vial of antivenin for snake bite. But Alvaro’s entire body was swollen and Daniel couldn’t get the keys out of his pocket. He had to cut the pocket open with his machete.

Arcele’s wife, Doña Irma, five months pregnant, came walking down the road to see how Alvaro was doing. Challo, returning with the wire cutters, saw her first. “Here comes Doña Irma,” he warned.

“God no! Stop her! Don’t let her get near me! If she gets too close I’ll die on the spot.” Alvaro couldn’t see Arcele’s wife, but the thought of her pregnant form was terrifying. It was a common belief that the proximity of a pregnant woman would kill a snake bite victim. Daniel went out to meet Doña Irma on the road, blocked her path and explained that Alvaro didn’t want her to come any closer. Tears filled her eyes, but she backed away, torn between concern for Alvaro and the belief that her presence might cause him harm. She turned and trudged down the road back toward her house.

“Listen!” called Arcele excitedly. “Is that a car coming?” The distant sound of a motor was barely audible, but growing louder by the second. After a few minutes an orange Willis Jeep came into view. Arcele looked at Nato. “Of all the people to come along at a time like this, Alvaro’s worst enemy,” he lamented.

“It doesn’t make any difference,” insisted Daniel. “He can’t refuse to take Alvaro. He can’t just let him die. We’ve got to stop him.” He stepped out in the road and flagged the Jeep to stop. It hadn’t come to a complete stop when Daniel ran around to the driver’s side an blurted out. “Don Eliecer, Alvaro’s been snake bit. We gotta get him to the hospital.”

Eliecer Castro looked at the swollen form of Alvaro Mesa sitting at the edge of the road, blood dripping from his nose and dribbling down his shirt. “Come on boys, let’s get him in the car. We can’t leave him here. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” They loaded Alvaro, now completely incoherent, in the orange Jeep. He didn’t even know who was taking him to the hospital.

Four hours after he was bitten, Alvaro Mesa arrived at the emergency entrance of the San Isidro hospital, then located on the north side of the interamerican highway, near the river. Eliecer Castro found a phone and called Doña Ana María Acosta, owner of Hacienda Barú. He explained the seriousness of the situation to her and told her he didn’t think Alvaro was going to make it.

Arriving in San Isidro the following day, Doña Ana María decided that Alvaro had to be moved to San Jose. The doctors at the San Isidro Hospital insisted that he would be fine with them. “If he is fine with you, then why hasn’t he urinated since he’s been here,” she retorted. “Something is obviously wrong. I’m moving him to San Jose.” And so she did.
Two days later, Alvaro was still mostly incoherent, but he remembers the doctors taking him into the operating room. “What are you gonna do to me?” he asked.

“We’re going to fix you up,” they told him. “After we’re finished, you’ll get better.”

Alvaro did get better after the surgery, but he claims he never understood that they were going to amputate his arm. It had gotten infected, gangrene set in, and his life was at stake. It was quite a shock at first, but later he realized that the doctors had only done what they had to do to save his life.

(Author’s Note: The bulk of this story was recounted to me by Daniel Valverde who was present at the time of the accident. The basic facts are accurate, and the people are real, but a few of the details, such conversation, which were included for the purpose of making the story more readable, are products of my imagination.)