Into the Heart of Darkness

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Smelling considerably sweeter than on our return from Jungle Camp the staff of 07B assembled at the Office to venture into town, and for the pre-advance party to induct the new arrivals into the dens of iniquity which make up the glittering nightlife of downtown Turrialba. It was a Sunday night and as Lonely Planet suggested that Costa Rica is essentially shut in the evening of the day of rest I didn’t hold out many hopes for a particularly rousing send off to my 34th year. I needn’t have worried as Alejandra had rung ahead to warn the good people of Turrialba that a hungry and thirsty bunch of Gringos, already sick of Beanfeast and porridge after 24 hours, were heading to town laden with mighty greenbacks. The lack of bridge-and-tunnel people was explained by Turrialba’s relatively remote location and of course the absence of either tunnel or bridge. Naturally (the cat wrangler was on holiday) it took some time to get all 30-something of the staff together, decanted into cabs and on their way to the restaurant and even longer to be seated bearing in mind I had to point the refusniks who had failed to take advantage of the “ahem” generous rates offered by Banco de Raleigh Internacional in the general direction of the cashpoint. Having learnt from experience in Olé Olé about the glacial pace of local drinks service I ordered beer, margarita and water all at once, but resisted asking for it to be served all together in a bucket with parasol and assorted fruit salad on top. Thanks to the presence of our interpreters the dining experience was less of a lucky dip than our previous foray to the restaurant and I’m pretty certain most got what they thought they had ordered although my superb fajitas were like Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark, lacking as they did any tortillas, an omission which was made up for by the ubiquitous pile of fried root vegetables. The icing on the cake, literally, was when hush was called at the table and I was presented with a huge cake in honour of my birthday. Delighted that such new friends had noticed my (sparingly dropped) hints and done something about them I proposed a toast to the expedition before we headed off to Charlie’s with the intention of studying the local fauna, pausing only to decline the offer of some white powder made by a generous gentleman in the lavatories. It was very kind of him, but I had no need of toothpowder at the time despite his energetic demonstration of how to rub it into one’s gums. Charlie’s lived up to expectation with spontaneous outbreaks of dancing and tequila drinking, sometimes at the same time. To Mark’s chagrin and Ross’s great relief there was no sign of Marcia our stalker and admirer from the previous week. Luckily some staff had come down by car, so I was able to offload my cake (which I had been guarding from hovering vultures since the restaurant) for transport back to Field Base and safe storage until elevenses the next morning.

Feeling considerably better than I deserved after a late night and so much entertainment it was time to get thoroughly stuck into being the project money man. All the PMs were due to deploy in the afternoon and evening to carry out recces of their project sites and I was the man to dish out the folding for them to pay their way. The logistics of organising this required many spreadsheets, a cool damp towel wrapped about the head and some good old fashioned SWAGs to ensure the PMs had enough cash in a range of currencies to be fed, watered and transported across three countries. Just as I packed up the final bundle of cash I was given the good news that some parties would be departing earlier than expected and thus I needed to do another trip to the bank to get the right change. Remember the cake mentioned above? I had just laid this out along with a pot of fresh coffee as elevenses for all to share so I grabbed a driver and interpreter to allow me to get the banking business done toot-sweet. Unfortunately Costa Rican banks while courteous and friendly move about as quickly as the wine waiter in Olé Olé, so I was some time getting back. I arrived to find no coffee, no cake and a number of PMs whistling nonchalantly, failing to catch my gaze and with more icing round their mouths than had been left on the plate for me to scrape up. From the peanut-sized blob left it was a mighty good cake, though. Note to self - while leadership is being first in the queue for the bad things and last in the queue for the nice things it’s an idea to be in the queue full stop, as I had found to my cost two nights running when the vultures had scoffed all the dinner while my back was turned pouring over cash tins and computer screens.

Eventually the advance-party waved goodbye to the PMs and we entered a tranquil, albeit hard-working period. An extra-added bonus was that the dynamic driving duo of Jeremy and Ray were on the road with the PMs so I had the luxury of the men’s bunkroom to myself. In addition to my finance work I turned my hand to putting up yet more tents (unsurprisingly with fewer cooks the broth was unspoilt and tents sprung up like mushrooms round the camping field, just more quickly); making nice neat notice boards which gladdened Mark’s military heart; and setting up the Operations/Communications room with so many maps, plans and stateboards that we could conceivably be the hub for an invasion of Panama and Nicaragua should Costa Rica ever reform her armed forces. Cleaning and cooking duties also continued and flushed with the success of my sausage dish the week before; rising to the gradually increasing challenge set by other chefs; and inspired by a thread on the Army Rumour Service website I resolved to make a Gurkha curry. Astoundingly between the kitchen at Field Base and the local shop I was able to knock up quite a good banquet, although supply problems meant the mutton was suspiciously like pork and as butter is unknown here my “ghee” was made from finest margarine. However plates were mopped clean and I have been challenged to repeat the meal.
God alone knows how I’m going to build a tandoor for the naan bread, but I’ll jump off that bridge when I come to it. All too soon the peace of Fieldbase was broken by the return of the PMs, heralded by shrieks of delight, air kissing and proclamations of how they had all missed each other for the past 5 days. Gradually a pile of grubby expenses forms and grubbier receipts began to pile up on my desk, my side desk, the floor and halfway down the office along with change in an increasing and ever less likely series of currencies. Out came the trusty wet towel, spreadsheets and calculator which I augmented with several green and red biros (sad, I’m still an auditor at heart as well as a “cough” finely honed killing machine), a large pot of coffee and some matchsticks to keep the eyelids from closing. I eventually emerged blinking into the light of dawn and the final two days’ training with most of the accounts squared away.

Before the participants arrived we had two key “bonding” activities for the staff as a whole. The first was the cookery competition where the challenge was to prepare a two-course meal for six in 30 minutes using only typical ingredients as supplied to the project groups and two single-burner Trangia camping stoves. After my endeavours with the expenses claims I was just about ready for a bottle of Imperial and an early night with my book and thus lacked much enthusiasm, but a combination of my competitive spirit and a boot up the behind from Sara, a project manager who was team leader, got me back on track. Indeed Sara did such a good motivational job that no doubt her project will be finished well before our three months are up and her team will slope off to the beach until it’s time to go home. Our final recipe (abetted by some gratuitous but well placed improvisation, for which read cheating) included Thai fishcakes on rice with a peach, chilli and sultana chutney. Thanks to this and the fact I had invented some business to go with the service including an improvised bow tie, apron and menu our team won the competition, although we were upstaged by another PM who’s fetching bin-liner French maid’s outfit was revealing enough to give away why he is known as Mark the Yeti. I picked up a few more ideas for my next cooking duty and now have plans for Curry Night II - The Return of the Curry Night (in glorious Technicolor, hopefully not causing yawns). It was an all-round brilliant evening, even though I was dragged bodily if not kicking and screaming from my reverie at the edge of the dance floor and forced to attempt Salsa dancing at the command of Nina, who being German is to be obeyed with a smart “Zu befehl”.

Our second event was a recreation of Heart of Darkness (albeit downstream rather than up) as we were to navigate the River Pachuare (curry link - it’s pronounced like a raisin, almond and coconut-stuffed naan), one of the best bits of white water in the world. The rafting company who were to take us out was run by a gang of very gung-ho Americans and after a longish bus ride and almost as long safety brief we placed ourselves together into raft crews and were ready for the off. One crew was made up entirely of attractive female PMs (and Ivan) and it was comical to see the local guides scrambling over and battering each other with paddles to be the skipper of this craft, with eventually the smoothest and most handsome winning the prize of their company. I’ve done rafting before but only on an artificial course so naturally 25km of the Pachuare was going to be a bit more exciting than a few hundred metres on the banks of the Trent. The initial stages were, however, slightly marred by being stuck behind a raft who’s guide had such a pronounced builder’s backside that he couldn’t just have put his paper in the cleavage but also the newsagent he’d bought it from. At risk of being diverted into this less pleasant canyon we paddled like fury to get ahead and leave the aquatic WH Smith’s behind. The river started in a narrow gorge with steep sides down which grew the jungle. Our section of the river was due to take in grade 3 and 4 rapids (they are measured from 1 to 7, with 1 being about the flow from a tap and 7 being un-navigable and only for the suicidal). Behind us was the good raft “Love Boat” who’s crew was rapidly melting to the charms of their guide as between rapids he got out his juggling balls, taught the odd salsa step and got out his face paints to add to the entertainment. Curse these Latin Lotharios, allowing us to come to their country then stealing all our women! I wouldn’t have been surprised if while coming through a particularly “gnarly” and “rad” rapid he’d have been seen strumming a couple of bars of a love song on a guitar with rose clenched between teeth. Bet the sod can really dance too!

The scenery which floated past in between the very damp and frequently terrifying but always exhilarating rapids was out of this world. Perhaps that’s why Jurassic Park was filmed in Costa Rica. At times we were in gorges, at others on relatively flat bits with wide cultivated plains to either side. We passed locals fishing and man-powered cable cars high above which are necessary to avoid huge round trips to cross the river. The waterfalls were magnificent and one in particular sticks in the mind where the water had carved out a perfectly rounded concave path in the rock which was like looking inside a motorcycle mudguard. Our guide had a fantastic eye for the wildlife, and we saw herons and kingfishers, an iguana sunning itself up a tree and a highlight for me a flight of toucans (which really do have massive and brightly coloured beaks), although sadly the latter didn’t stop to drop off any Liffey Water. Occasionally when the water was slow we were invited to bale out over the side and just float along - this was most memorable in a canyon about 20 metres wide and 100 metres tall with the tree canopy growing over the top filtering the sun so everything took on a restful green hue. It was at this point that Andy from my crew decided he needed some relief after keeping himself hydrated all day. I just wish he’d done so downstream of me, but at least the water warmed up for a period. Meanwhile on the “Love Boat” Don Juan was inviting the girls to take turns sitting at the back with him to steer. By this time the hormones were raging like at a teenage disco and I was concerned that one of the fair maidens would swoon and fall off the raft or more likely that he would be kidnapped, taken away and ravaged to within an inch of his life. On both counts Lady Luck intervened as we came to the end of the trip where a buffet lunch was laid out for us and we gorged and played vigorous games of Frisbee with some local children while we waited for the bus. The evening was a spirited affair with a barbecue, dancing, singing and games of broomball and piggy back jousting. This marked two momentous events: the last taste of beer for 3 months and P-Day the next day, the day on which our participants were to arrive.

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Photos

Waterfall on the Rio Pachuare
Another day in paradise!

Slaving over a hot stove.
Bet you Gordon Ramsay's S***ing himself!

They Also Wait Who Only Stand and Serve
Preparing to dish up the award winning menu at the Staff cookery cometition.

Toucan by Rio Pachuare
When I asked to see Costa Rican Birds this is what I got. Sadly no AG delivered.

Rafting on the Rio Pachuare
Negotiating a grade 3 rapid. They got more "rad" and "gnarly" (rafting terms, I'm told) than this. Self on for'ard port side.

Achtung! Dive! Dive! Dive!
Seconds later, Foggy and crew recreate scenes from "Das Boot" and "Apocalypse Now" on the Rio Pachuare.