The first few days of real work in Rio Hondo reminded me that I actually don’t like working with kids, and yet that was exactly what I’d signed up to do. After shadowing a ‘summer camp’ English learning and games session with the local children and other new volunteers, where I awkwardly sat amongst the kids and tried to make myself invisible, I sheepishly asked Abby and Marie if I could instead switch my focus to women’s empowerment in the future. They clearly sensed the desperation in my plea and gave me the opportunity to join Abby, Bry and Megan, a down-to-earth English graphic designer turned NGO volunteer with an incredible no-bullshit attitude, in their trip to Tsiobata, an indigenous village further into the mountains. Our base was collaborating with Mar a Mar, a non-profit that created a walking trail through Costa Rica from the Caribbean to the Pacific side for the purpose of experiencing rural life, by giving women in Tsiobata English lessons so they could sell their goods to hikers passing through. The village is only accessible by walking for an hour and a half up into the mountains from the nearest road, including wading stomach-deep in a river and warding off angry jungle ants, and people in the community live up to an hour away from the centre, in hidden corners of the rainforest.
Listening to Abby explain the project and what it would entail, a three-day trip giving two three-hour English workshops for the local women in indigenous Costa Rica, I jumped at the chance, and knew I’d finally found my calling. We set off on the hike, successfully getting across the river, adding a layer of sweat onto our water-soaked clothes, and stepping in a massive swarm of biting red ants if you’re me, because I clearly don’t learn from past mistakes. Flapping the angry insects from their trails up and down my legs, hopping away in pain, I carried on up into the jungle hillsides with the sweat seeping out of my pores in the unbearable humidity. Abby guided us up front, armed with a heavy backpack holding all our food and supplies but acting like she was on a lovely gently stroll, intimidating me even further. We reached the centre of the community dripping wet and starving, and clambered through a locked gate – which everyone apparently just squeezed through instead of ever unlocking it – to the empty school grounds where we’d be camping.
If our living conditions in Rio Hondo were rustic, this was verging on uninhabitable. A concrete floor under a concrete shelter was our bed for the night, which we were sharing with massive jungle spiders, something I only realised after pitching my tent on the very, very hard ground and noticing one sitting in a huge web a metre above it. Megan, who’d made the trip to Tsiobata before and knew it well, assured me that the spiders looked scary but actually didn’t like humans at all, preferring to stay unmoved for weeks on end. I waved timidly at the eight-legged unmoving monster as if trying to make friends and stripped off my soaking wet boots and socks, lying them out in the burning sun to dry. After investigating the basic classrooms we’d be teaching in, one of which being a rotting wooden construction on the other side of the field that was straight out of a haunted house movie, the next step was showering, so I prayed to the heavens for running water and walked round the side of the concrete school building to the toilet, a surprisingly nice facility which even had loo roll, and shower cubicle, a not so nice facility. It wasn’t so much the tap for a showerhead that concerned me, given I’d used many before, but the fact that it pathetically dripped freezing water, had a grimy, virus-inducing floor covered in bugs, and didn’t have a door.
Despite all its numerous flaws and questionable living conditions, I decided I liked it here. We had the basics: a shower, a toilet, a place to sleep, and a kitchen, and I was in the most remote place I’d ever been having the experience of a lifetime. What an adventure! We happily tucked into our meal of tortilla chips, refried bean paste and apples, after sourcing the least mouldy plastic plates in the kitchen and breaking the tap, having to go round the back of the building to fit the two precarious pipes back into each other – something we’d get very used to – and looked around at the school. The field on the other side of the fences was home to some friendly cows, one of which was young and small enough to squeeze through the gate we’d entered in. He was a pale milky colour and had a very distinct curly orange tuft on the top of his head, earning him the fond nickname ‘Carrot Top’, and watched us eating curiously as he explored the field. It was indeed a bizarre place, with little metal huts placed around for school use and a random toilet seat out in the open among the grass.
After lunch, Meg, Bry and I decided to explore a bit more of the village, and took to the muddy footpaths up a hill to the community centre that explained the history and traditions of indigenous locals. Tsiobata is part of the indigenous region Nairi Awari, whose native language is Cabecar, and whose people live mainly in the Barbilla national park. The people of Tsiobata come together for rituals and gatherings according to their tribe’s traditions, but live completely spread out in the mountains. As we came out of the hut and looked around us at the hills, I started noticing little houses dotted around for miles, almost camouflaged among the trees, and thought about the small, discreet paths that must run over every inch of the mountains, trodden on for centuries by people who see it as home, not as wilderness. They walk the way we’d come to reach the nearest town, where some of the children go to high school and where they can buy food and clothes, but apart from that, they don’t enter the built world. It was hard to comprehend, but completely amazed me. After our small walking tour of the main part of the village, I split from the other girls and walked high up on a hill to see more of the jungle, a stunning landscape that has been nourished by the locals, and in return nourishes them.
A small group of women from the community walked to our workshop that evening, of various ages and English ability. Spanish was the tribe’s second language after Cabecar, which some couldn’t even understand much of, and English was their third, so communicating was a bit of a feat. But each of the women was incredibly enthusiastic to learn, asking us to extend the session to two hours and then to three, and they were all so lovely to us under the guarded shyness they showed when we first arrived. Some brought their kids and their dogs, who one of us usually distracted while the other two taught up front, and others brought their handmade goods which they sold to passing hikers. I bought a necklace from Fishna, a giggly young mother who struggled a lot with English but had a clear personality despite the language barrier, and swore to myself not to lose it like I had with most of my souvenirs. On the second day of teaching we created a small English test for the women to take, and beamed with pride as distinct improvements became visible, even if they were small and even if the English was basic. It meant a lot that we were helping, and that they were so eager to learn. We recorded a list of vocab words translated from Spanish to English on the ancient tape recorder we were provided, trying to hide our laughs at the painfully slow process, and started planning phonetic-driven teaching methods for future lessons.
It struck me with a twang that I wouldn’t be teaching those future lessons, because the Tsiobata trip was fortnightly and I would only be volunteering for another week more. While the rest of the volunteers were staying for periods between one month and six, I would whizz off almost as fast as I’d come. This was mainly due to money limitations, but a small part of me still wished to stay longer and see more progress in these lovely women; I felt like a bit of a faker, like the careless backpacker who stopped in to say hi, feel good about herself for volunteering, and then disappear off again in two weeks. But I shook the feelings away, assuring myself that even though I couldn’t be present for any more Tsiobata trips, I could definitely help the other volunteers in improving them, and decided to spend my time at the project working on resources for future lessons. Two nights passed quickly, and before we knew it we were eating our last meal of tortilla chips, refried bean paste and apples, followed by a luxurious peanut butter dessert, quietly thinking about the last couple of days. We’d had a lot of laughs, made good friends with Carrot Top, and managed to avoid dysentery by carefully putting chlorine in all the water we drank, spending hours examining bottles to see whether it was the worth the risk to drink them.
Then it was time to pack away the tents, kiss goodbye to our concrete slab bed and our terrifying spider neighbours, take our final dripping water open-doored shower, and put on the same stinky shoes and socks that hadn’t properly dried yet. I’d been wearing the same clothes, hadn’t seen my reflection in days, and had absolutely no phone signal, and somehow liked it that way, so only half-smiled at the thought of going back to normal life as we started the hike back. We’d devoured all the chocolate and sweets we’d brought with us save a packet of shitty Costa Rican gummy bears, and guzzled them up at intervals on the walk for short, sweet bursts of energy. After crossing the gushing river, deeper and stronger than the last time, we stopped to empty the water out of our boots and finish the sweets, and I looked behind me at the beautiful highlands we were leaving, in disbelief that these few days even happened. I couldn’t believe my life, couldn’t believe that people would pass up on an opportunity like this because of spiders or dodgy showers or refried bean paste – it’s an acquired taste, and to me, after three months of trying, it tasted like shit. I missed Tsiobata already, I missed the women and their crazy dogs and kids, I even missed the group of hikers who’d passed through and started taking pictures of our modest campsite like we were the main attraction.
Back in Rio Hondo, the rest of my week was a waiting game for our whole-team weekend trip to Puerto Viejo, the surf town where my German friends Paul and Lukas from San Jose were staying. As sad as I was to leave Tsiobata, the prospect of socialising with backpackers and going to the beach thrilled me, until we were introduced to another painful set of rules for the mini-trip. To avoid catching Covid we had to travel with a private shuttle and stay in private accommodation, resulting in spending a lot more money than I was intending to, and threatening to dampen the fun. Suddenly I wasn’t regretting only spending two weeks, and already longed for the freedom of catching a public bus and staying in a mixed dorm again. But I stayed quiet and accepted the situation, eagerly jumping in the shuttle on Friday morning and then visibly deflating when a heavy rainstorm started lashing the windows all the way to Puerto Viejo.
The rain cleared and we spent a blissful afternoon on the beach, escaping our Airbnb’s toilet which had immediately broken and stunk out the whole place, before finally being able to drink more than the allowed four beers at the volunteer base. It was wild. We ate tacos, Jemima flashed the bartender for free shots, and before we knew it we landed in a hostel techno party watching fire shows and looking after Jan, who whitied and violently threw up twice behind a tree. The next day, hungover and ready to do it all again, we rented pushbikes to explore the main town and Punta Uva, a nearby beach with a natural rock arch jutting out from a foresty headland. Riding a bike felt completely freeing, not quite as exhilarating as the speed of the mopeds I’d rented before but incredibly suited to Puerto Viejo’s ‘Go Slow’ road signs, and as I peddled I felt myself settling into the Caribbean rhythm. The area was stunning, with lush green palm trees on all sides and the lapping sounds of the waves not far away. Surfers cycled to the beach, cars played reggae music, and everybody smiled at our ten-person train on their way past. I didn’t know what it was about Puerto Viejo, but I was completely in love with it. Everything was so relaxed, calm, happy, beautiful – it was like being on another planet, where no one had a single worry in the world.
On the headland leading to the rock arch, while the others quickly turned back to the safety of the bikes, I restlessly started walking further instead, eager to see what was down the paths and explore a bit more, and Jan followed. I sensed his desire to venture just a bit further from his eyes, slightly wild and mischievous, and we quickly stepped down to a flat rock viewpoint that looked over the beach and then the vast stretch of Caribbean ocean, smiling at our discovery. Jan would go backpacking the way I’d come straight after he finished volunteering, and despite our massive, massive differences, we came to bond over our shared love for brave exploring. He looked up to me a lot, as a practical travel guide but also a seemingly fearless example of the kind of person he wanted to be when he started solo travelling too. I walked to the edge of the rock and peered at the beautiful sunset looking back at us, before turning around and meeting eyes with Jan, our smiles growing larger at this very small but very amazing adventure. The air around us had changed, going from nice group beach holiday vibes, to the freedom that only standing on the edge of the sea at sunset can bring, and I knew by looking at Jan that I’d just given him his first little taster at how purely free he could be too.
It was karaoke night at Tasty Waves, a local hostel, bar and restaurant close to our Airbnb, and Paul, Lukas, Fabia and Cam were all there, so I excitedly introduced the volunteers to my backpacker friends who I’d met in various Central American locations as we celebrated Fabia’s birthday. After a few drinks for courage we started signing up for karaoke, with James, Jemima, Meg, Georgie and I performing our stereotypical ‘Brits Abroad’ number, Mr Brightside, and Jan coming out with a beautiful rendition of Frank Sinatra that no one expected. I vowed to have a $1 tequila shots night, honouring the times spent in Guatemala solely drinking straight tequila due to its cheapness and lack of calories – a genius plot, really – and refused to acknowledge how badly it could go, until the next morning when I woke up at 5am to a splitting headache and blood all over my bed.
Confused and still very drunk, I stumbled to the bathroom, desperate for the toilet, but found it locked, with the sounds of two people retching inside. Deciding not to look too much into it, I walked out to the garden and squatted in the grass, unconcerned that I was in plain view and that Jemima had run out from our room to throw up in the garden next to me. When I woke again a few hours later the situation was still as bizarre, but this time slightly clearer as the alcohol in my liver started wearing off. Thea and Rebecka were white as sheets and cradling their heads on the porch table, taking it in turns to throw up onto the grass a few metres away, and the toilet was permanently occupied by Meg who couldn’t seem to stop shitting. I began to ask what was happening, and Georgie, the other British gap year volunteer in our midst, explained that there must have been something in the water at Tasty Waves or in the Airbnb because everyone seemed to have violent food poisoning. Then she asked what the hell happened to me, and I realised that I still hadn’t looked into my bleeding situation. My face was throbbing and swollen and my knee and foot had clumps of dried blood from dirty gashes. And then I remembered.
Paul had got in on my tequila frenzy the night before, scribbling ‘PURA VIDA’, Costa Rica’s famous saying, on both of our phone cases, and we’d decided to find an afterparty in the centre of town with Lukas, their friend Penelope, Jan, Fabia and Cam. Having drunk way too much to operate a bike, I had the amazing idea of riding one anyway, with Paul jumping on the back. Whizzing through the night air we laughed and screeched together as I wobbled onto Puerto Viejo’s main street, feeling completely alive and very drunk. The road changed from smooth pavement to rocky stones, which Paul noticed before jumping off from the back, landing perfectly, but I didn’t. I tried to look behind me to see where he’d gone, lost my balance, and ended up falling flat on my face in the middle of the road, unaware at first that I was bleeding but realising very quickly as Paul ran up to check my face and leg. We stumbled into a bar to ask if they had a first aid kit, only to receive the most Costa Rican response ever that obviously they didn’t because health and safety didn’t exist here, so I asked for a shot instead and giggled drunkenly as we rushed instead to the bathroom. I lay on the floor with my leg outstretched trying to wash off the dirt from my knee and foot, and then looked in the mirror at the mess that was my face. I had a deep cut above my lip and grazes that had burnt the skin on my cheek and chin, overall looking like I’d been violently attacked.
I wasn’t feeling the pain yet, so after our measly attempt at cleaning me up, observed by some very confused female bargoers who were trying to get into the bathroom to find a boy cleaning up a bloody leg, we found the others at the beach and continued drinking. No one seemed to question why I wasn’t just going home instead of carrying on the party with a beaten up face and bleeding knee, so it seemed sensible enough to me. Feeling sand in my toe’s open wound, I furrowed my brow and looked down in the darkness at a loose piece of skin that was flapping slightly in the wind. Too drunk to really know what was going on, I shrugged and pulled it clean off, removing a few skin layers from my toe, and took a swig of beer. Finally, a dull ache started pulsing through my face and I took it as my sign to go to bed. I said farewell to Fabia and Cam, knowing I wouldn’t see them before the end of our trips and apologising for being in the worst state possible to say goodbye, and promised Paul and Lukas that I’d return next weekend after finishing volunteering, hopefully without falling off any bikes next time. Upon getting back to the Airbnb, where people were starting to fall asleep, I loudly announced my presence and showed off my battle wounds, with everyone completely unsurprised that I’d managed to get injured after stupidly riding a bike blind-drunk.
And then food poisoning struck at 5am, leaving seven out of our group of ten crippled with vomiting and diarrhoea and adding to the immense hangovers we were all feeling. It wasn’t a great morning for everyone, and to make matters worse we had to get back to Rio Hondo as soon as possible, where Abby and Marie were expecting ten fresh faces ready for teaching this week, not seven vomiting volunteers and someone who looked like a domestic violence victim. And thus ensued the funniest, most chaotically horrible shuttle ride of my life: The flight risks sat closest to the minivan doors, and on regular intervals we’d have to call the driver to stop while someone got out to throw up. For two hours. James, Georgie and I sat squished together in the backseat hiding our laughter as Jan hobbled out of the van, the next victim, and retched into the bushes next to the road. I tried to hold my knee so as not to get blood on the seats, wondering how on earth I’d actually get the dirt out and prevent infection, and how on earth they’d let me teach classes with a battered face, and in the end let out my laugh at how wrong it had all gone in the last 12 hours.
my silly little solo trip 