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The Roads Less Traveled Last January, middle-aged and facing yet another New England winter, m We spun out on our slippery, predawn way to the Manchester, New Hampshire airport, my husband the driver slickly recovering from a 180 degree turn into a snow bank. Little did we know this was only the beginning of a true road trip. From forging streams on the Osa Peninsula – apologizing to the pigs whose baths we were bothering – to wandering trails far from in the rain forest, it would be all about the roads. Scott planned our itinerary. Besides cost, his major criteria included local ownership: “We should honor the ticos,” as he put it, and avoid the foreign opportunists. Our ultimate destination was Marenco Lodge, a native family-owned rustic resort situated at the tip of a private biological reserve on the rugged Osa Peninsula. We wound our way down the Pacific coast from San Jose to Manuel Antonio in a rented (and recommended, because they know about these roads) four-wheel drive Toyota Rav4, traversing single-lane bridges and dodging an occasional pothole, enjoying the scenery, basking in the sunshine, two out of three of us totally unaware that these roads would be as good as they got. The only road to Hatillo, our next stop after the lovely beaches near Manuel Antonio National Park, was unpaved. For 24 very long miles we bounced and jolted, passed by bicycles, buses and trucks driven by people who didn’t seem to notice the rocks or ruts or us. By the time we reached Dominical, the surfing paradise, sitting on a barstool and cheering on the New England Patriots – amid Spanish-speaking rabid Steeler fans – felt wonderful. We still had miles to go to reach Marenco Lodge. Now the road we were following – unpaved and full of potholes big enough to swallow our car – suddenly forked and left us stumped. Scott spotted what turned out to be a tiny grocery store, amid the horse farms, and asked a friendly man inside for help. The road he pointed to was not on the map, but we took it. The first time it seemed to end in a stream, we sat ther “We’re supposed to go through it,” Scott decided. “Looks like the last guy made it.” After a few more streams, we were getting the hang of it. But driving around the bathing pigs, and a stream with a bridge that had fallen into the water kept us on our toes. Hours and many streams later, we found the place where we were to park the car and wait for the boat to take us to Marenco. We were happy to empty our bags from the mud-spattered car and leave the driving to someone else – but it would have been easier on our psyches if the motorboat driver had not been trying to set a speeding record across the bay. We did more thumping and bumping, desperately hanging onto our luggage, until we reached a rocky beach – home port for the Marenco Lodge. After a wade in the surf where the boat pulled up, we got our shoes back on and enjoyed a ten-minute walk up a hefty hill (our luggage rode in a tractor-pulled cart). Finally, at the steps of an expansive, lovely, thatched-roof veranda overlooking the Pacific Ocean, we were met by the smiling manager, who welcomed us to our table and a prompt, delicious meal of rice, beans, meat and fresh fruit juice. Our adventure in this Central American rainforest had begun. Next door to the vast Corcovado National Park and another quick boat ride away from Cano Island National Park (and the popular whale migration route in between), Marenco Lodge sits suspended high on a hill of swaying palm, banana, bamboo and coconut trees. Below p Since Corcovado opened in 1974, birdwatchers, biologists, students and researchers have been welcome at Marenco explained Gerardo Tovar, lodge manager and marketing director. The family originally intended to use this land for farming, but when in the seventies Costa Rica began building a network of national parks in order to protect their natural resources, they decided instead to try to do business with the rainforest. The rainforest is preserved yet accessible to Marenco’s guests. Accessible is a dicey word, we learned. Yes, the trail leads straight from the lodge. Yes, you are supplied with a map, a primitive drawing of pathways that features one landmark, “Giant Tree,” and please note that a jaguar was spotted there not long ago – a fact we would not likely forget, if we had found the tree. There are many, many giant trees in a rainforest. Three hours later, out from the shade of the rainforest canopy and rapidly melting, we were heading – now argu “We try to offer a contact with the rainforest,” Tovar had told us, “while protecting it. You don’t need to destroy it to do business with it. Amenities can distract from the experience. To feel in contact with nature here, perhaps you need to be a bit uncomfortable. Desarrollo sestenible.” If discomfort was the standard, we had definitely become intimate with nature. But for all the bumps and bruises (my feet were in recovery for weeks, traumatized – according to my doctor – by the off-road rainforest experience), it was a memorable adventure. We did take the roads less traveled, and it did make all the difference. As they say in Costa Rica, “Pura Vida!”
**All photos by Priscilla Kipp
If You GoMarenco Beach & Rainforest Lodge
Phone: 506 258-1919 Fax: 506 255-1346 USA: 800-278-6223 Europe: 305 908-4169
info@marencolodge.com
Costa Rica Tourism Board
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y husband and I decided to visit warm and sunny Costa Rica. We knew someone who had been there, spoke the language, was readily available, and a cheap enough tour guide: our son. Twenty-three years old, just returned from several months’ teaching in Spain, Scott found himself shivering in our living room and saying sure, why not?
e watching the current until we noticed tire tracks on the other side. 
ounds the Pacific, and behind the guests’ bungalows and cabins, a trail suggests the way into the rainforest. We sat on our cabin porch and listened to choirs of cicadas punctuated by staccato bursts by howler monkeys. We watched a coati saunter by amid the hibiscus and birds of paradise. We kept an eye out for the white-faced Capuchin monkeys known to swing through the trees on their search for leftovers from the lodge kitchen.
ing as hotly as the sun beating down on us – toward what looked like a plantation (farmers manage their private properties on the other side of Marenco’s preserve), when a handsome fellow on a beautiful horse – probably the plantation owner – intercepted our march. He and Scott conversed politely for several minutes, while I wondered how I could gracefully abandon my family and hitch a ride on that horse. Grinning widely at my husband and me – Lord knows what Scott was telling him – the horseman led us back to the trail, and we set out again for the giant tree. Another two hours and we reached the ocean on the other side of the lodge – well, almost. There was the slight matter of wading through another stream – the Rio Claro, if you believe that map – holding our backpacks overhead as we slipped and slid through the current.