Central American Epic Part III

Adventure Contributor Alex Stoy tells the story of his own Central American escape.

My brother and I chose Montezuma on a whim, or at least we chose Montezuma by chance.  Maybe Montezuma chose us.  We also chose to meet there in our travels between certain dates and if that didn’t work out, we’d see each other back in the States, at some point when our vagabond lifestyles would cross.  The last I heard of Damian’s whereabouts was that he was in the jungles of Costa Rica soaking in a hot spring and tasting ‘the best ice cream I’ve ever had!’ near Arenal. When that was, I have no idea but maybe he’ll be on the 4 o’clock bus.

The heat and humidity are unbearable!  I click on the ‘what used to be white’ plastic fan to cool me down but have no luck, it’s broken.  My 10’ x 10’ room in St. Lucy’s Hostel collects the bulk of the heat from the sun as it’s the only exposed room on the southern side of the building.  No wonder it’s one of the only remaining rooms in all of Montezuma.  Sleep on the yellow and brown stained Sealy mattress looks gnarly and toxic.  Showering with shiny black and browns beetles half the size of my hand seems like a great idea but I pass.  I zip up my backpack; place it on the 3 and a half legged nightstand, close the door and head for the waters of the Pacific Ocean.

Montezuma is known for its black sandy beaches that stretch for miles and miles in both directions.  Old lava rock beaten by the Pacific waves over and over again left these soft tiny remnants behind for us to enjoy.  I slowly turn my bare feet in and out, burying them into the Earth and watch as the Ocean’s tides wash up to me, foam my feet and dissipate. I let out a sigh of decompression and jump in for a swim, and a bath.

The 4 o’clock bus rolled into town.  It’s not hard to miss with only two streets and one intersection.  As I watch a green backpack with patches of European and Latin flags all over it, a beat up purple Coleman pack large enough to fit me inside and a second deteriorating orange Osprey pack move from the bus, I can only hope my little brother is on there.  It would be great to have some familiar company but instead; I run off in search of being horizontal, eyes wide shut and sleeping.  I layout a torn up St. Lucy wash towel on my bed, take my summer bag from my pack, stuff the stuff sack with 2 shirts and place that at the head of my bed.  Without a care in the world, I lay my tired, fatigued and malnourished body down on the coffee, bong water and sex stained mattress and close my eyes.  It’s been a long 38 hours of travel and this adventure of 2 weeks, has only begun.

The next morning I stroll along a cobblestone beach noticing remnants of last nights partying.  I don’t remember much besides meeting some fellow travelers who came into the tiny, Rastafarian town of Montezuma with my little brother yesterday.  Guess he was on the 4 o’clock.  I made my way for a Costa Rican cup of Joe at a quaint café, the Banana Peel, and a fruit smoothie.  On the streets, roosters and chickens make their way; in the trees the Howler monkeys with their high pitch squeal and howl for their mates and vagabond travelers run to make the 7 o’clock bus out of here, guess their tired of Montezuma’s revenge, I know I am.

My brother, walking like a monk in meditation, quietly peels his feet from the dirt street walks past me and into the grocery store next door.  I follow not too far behind, not being noticed, and end up in the aisle across from him.

“Can I help you find anything?”

“I’m looking for…hey wait, Alex?”

We have ways of meeting each other like this.  One time in Zion National Park, he sat down next to me in the bathroom stall and I noticed his shoes.  “Can you spare a square?” I asked.  He immediately knew, as we are fond of using ‘Seinfeldisms.’  Damian joined me for a banana, coconut and raspberry fruit smoothie and filled me in on his travel tales of volcano hikes; hot spring soaks, sleeping with howler monkeys, café talks and playa peacetime.  I filled him in on how I had the shits.

Just west of town we heard of an off the beaten path 3 year-old hostel overhanging the lava rocks of the Pacific Ocean with a single two-bed room with a hot water shower, ocean blue tiles, laundry and two timber balconies looking out at a Pacific sunset.  Unfortunately, the mattresses didn’t have any consummate or bong water stains, I guess it would suffice.  We threw our packs into the room, exchanged shy glances with the two ladies across the hall and ran for fresh water and cliff diving!

Ananando is perhaps one of the most beautiful humans I have ever met.  A Tico standing 5’3” with a bronze Buddha belly, salt and pepper hair pulled back in a pony tail and a perma-grin smile displaying all but 6 missing teeth.  Ananando walks with grace, pride and a bow of humility.  He is Baryshnikov dancing across sharp pointed lava rock as a ballerina would on hardwood floors and moves with enough spiritual energy that he moves people from his path, whether they know it or not.  Ananando is also a yogi, a tree yogi, and Montezuma Falls is his home.

Montezuma Falls is a series of 3 cascading waterfalls in the middle of a Mae West jungle canyon riddled with Howler Monkeys and bead selling Rastafarians.  Sunlight reaches the floor of the canyon, but only for a few hours of the midday.  That is when Damian and I happened to be there.

Cliff diving has always been an attraction for the Stoy boys, including our oldest brother Chris.  Damian feels most comfortable standing on a cliff when water is below.  I feel more comfortable when snow is.

Damian with elegance and grace, and I, with huck and roll, flip and spin and twist from a ten foot lava platform into the diamond clear water as people watch, clap and buy beads and other trinkets.  We were the show men, the carnival act.  That is, until Ananando appeared barefoot, prancing over rock and root, beaming a sense of joy with every carefully placed foot step.

Taking in the scenery, letting out a sigh of relief and appreciation for his homeland, Ananando dove into the waters of the Montezuma like a tree frog and swam to the frothy waters of the white falls, climbed onto the slick, shiny black rock and into a tree where he grabbed two olive branches, carefully placing them between his swim trunks and golden back, and then grabbed hold of the rock and scaled the ancient lava bed as if he were a lizard on Navajo Sandstone in search of sunlight and warmth.  Water splashing from 120 feet above misted his silver hair and formed droplets on his Buddha body.  He smiled the entire way to his 8” perch, halfway up the falls.

An eerie silence consumed the jungle. The howlers stopped howling and the Rasta’s stopped selling.  Nobody spoke a word.  Nobody dared to.  It was Ananando’s show and all the locals knew.

From his swim trunks he pulled the olive branches into both hands and lifted them high into the azure blue skies before pointing to the spectators 50 feet below and made a catholic cross over his body, stopping at heart center.  Eyes closed, Ananando muttered a prayer and swung the green and coffee colored branches out wide, holding them like we would a butterfly by the wings, squatted slightly and lifted off, pressing his heart out forward with more pride and glory than Old Glory herself and remained still, motionless in midair, smile wider than the Grand Canyon and with the wings of a dove, flew with the crystal droplets of Montezuma Falls towards the jungle pool below.  Upon entry, he let the olive branches go and they floated, frozen in time, a few feet over the water as Ananando entered with nearly a splash.  The branches swung to the waters surface like a musical conductor’s hand quieting the audience.

“That was the most beautiful swan dive I’ve ever witnessed,” my brother whispered.

“Whoa,” is all I could mutter.

Swimming like a dolphin speeding under Hawaiian waters, Ananando emerged in the only spot of sunlight with the widest and whitest smile to cheers from foreign travelers and roars from howler monkeys and Rasta’s.  Water moved from his body like water moves from a car windshield with Rain-X.   Everything seemed perfect in that moment, even the four beautiful Argentine brunettes sitting close to where Ananando lie, a perfectly executed plan.

Hearing hoots and hollers from above, we knew people were having some fun so Damian and I decided to join.  We scaled the 45-degree slicker than snot jungle slope, grabbing hold of every root and hole possible to keep us from slipping and sliding down. Its no wonder the howler monkeys climb and swing in the trees, they’re avoiding this muddy mess for good reason: it’s a difficult way to go uphill!

We reached the upper falls and sat down next to a man named Dave, an ex-bush pilot that spends half his year in Alaska and the other in Montezuma.  He described how the other day he had to help a newlywed couple out of the falls.

“They stood on top of the falls, holding each other hand in hand, and jumped one before the other.  The girl jumped too early and because they were holding hands, she was pulled back and hit the water hard, back first.  She ended up dislocating her shoulder and could hardly swim.”

“I ran down and jumped in to help her get to shore.  I used my sweatshirt as a sling and pushed her up to the trail.  We then cut some vines to use as a lowering rope to get her down the muddy slope to the river and walked her out.  Wasn’t an easy task.  Don’t you two hold hands and go and do that!”

Quietly, Damian moved to the lip of the 35’ waterfall, planted his feet onto the slick lava rock laden with warm jungle water, brought both arms up and out and threw them forward, folding his body into a perfect L, rotating 1.5 times and like that, like an arrow into a haystack, he disappeared into the black water below.  I followed pursuit, playing a friendly game of follow the leader.  Climbing back to the top for a few more dives Dave quietly said,

“I guess you guys know what you’re doing.”

We sat down with Dave and enjoyed the pristine Montezuma Fall, watching others running and jumping from the 35’ cliff into the lava colored waters below.   Ananando made his way through the jungle with the four Argentines in tow.

They took the last spot in the sun along the rippling water, chatting away in Spanish.  Ananando raised his right arm and with his index finger, pointed up to the tree protruding horizontally from the canyon walls, extending 25’ into the middle of the canyon and 20’ over the lip of the pool.  He stood up and without any hesitation, gracefully danced over the sharp pointed lava rock to the canyon wall, grabbed hold of a tree, took two olive twigs and tucked them into his shorts and began to climb to the tree like a howler monkey.  This was Ananando’s encore and his ‘seal the deal’ moment.

The 18”wide oval tree looked like rubber when some Canadian’s were straddling the plank to get out over the water to jump off.  This was Ananando in his home, his place, and his kingdom.  The tree never waivered as he salsa danced out onto the branch and over the lava rock and water where the tree Y’s off.  Ananando took the left arm, paused, brought both feet together on the 12” wide branch, swung his hands to heart center, gave his thanks to the world and began to arch backwards, smiling, bringing both hands down to the tree creating a full wheel.  He then raised one foot at a time into the air, creating his own tree-like form.

Practicing yoga on a flat surface in the middle of a studio can be difficult, especially maintaining balance while folding yourself over backwards.  Yoga becomes more difficult when you move into one-legged balance poses such as flying warrior and tree.  You wobble, you shake, you wave like a tree in hurricane force-like winds and eventually, its timber and we all fall down.

Ananando never missed a beat, performing each of his seven poses (full wheel, eagle, tree, flying warrior and one where he wrapped his leg around his head), both sides, 20’ in the air on a tree branch no wider than your laptop.  And he did so effortlessly and flawlessly.  He was in the zone and enjoying every moment.  This was poetry in motion.  This was the perfect ballad.  This was Ananando’s song and it was as perfect and as beautiful as Beethoven’s Fifth.

The Canadian’s were floored.  Damian and I were amazed.  The four Argentines were well, stunningly beautiful.   Dave just sat there in peace and tranquility, staring off at nothing.  This wasn’t his first show.

For his final poses, Ananando positioned himself towards the crotch of the tree, placed his left foot on the right leader and his right foot on the left leader and slowly led his heart towards the tree, blossoming into downward dog.  He rested here for a moment, taking notice of the swirly bark and gap between the two branches.  That’s where he placed the flat of his head and adjusted his body forward, floating into the perfect head stand, pressing up through his heels as his toes radiated like rays of the sun.  With a slow and long inhale, Ananando raised his right arm out to the side, parallel with the branch and fell forward into pike position, extending both arms and toes out.  He spun his body around full circle and in doing so, grabbed the two olive twigs from his shorts and just like before, released them to float just over the water’s surface as he entered with nearly a splash.  The olive twigs floated like feathers from the sky, landing softly on the one ripple Ananando created upon entering the crystal black jungle water.

I slowly turned my head to Damian who liked like he just saw ghost and couldn’t say a thing.  I couldn’t even gesture as to what we just witnessed, a tree yogi with the most beautiful yoga practice known to man.

“But the tree never moved,” some Canadian whispered.

Ananando emerged from the depths of the pool in the only sunlit spot in the entire canyon, right next to who else, but the four Argentines.