Braving the Rápidos
Adventures on the Río Pacuare
It is 5:28 a.m. and I wake
minutes before my alarm,
to silence.
Miraculous non-occurrence
of the tropics, there is
not a breath of wind,
not a drop of rain,
not a bird’s call,
not an insect’s drone,
not an amphibious peep.I lie still, waiting — and my mind opens.
It was late afternoon 2015, and my grandmother’s white Trailblazer kicked up a trail of dust as we neared the Ocoee River in southern Tennessee. I could barely contain my excitement to embark on my first whitewater rafting expedition. Accompanied by my little sister, cousin, and Granny, the four of us spilled out of the SUV at our destination, lathered on sunscreen, and marched off to the precarious stacks of yellow rafts in the distance.
Following a brief safety orientation, we donned our gear and strolled toward the sound of rushing water, raft and paddles in tow. My hands trembled with anticipation, yet my broad smile nearly split my face in two. The water was bitterly cold and the sun blisteringly hot, but we crowded into our raft and set off to brave the rapids.
It was February of 1981, and a troupe of four North American rafters blazed a trail through Costa Rica’s thick tropical forest along the Río Pacuare. It was winter of that same year, and these adventurers ran the first commercial rafting expeditions down the río.
After years of quiet existence, the world was exposed to its 80 miles of beauty, fed by dozens of waterfalls transferring clean water down from nearly two miles up in the Talamanca mountain range down into the Carribean Sea.
It is six o’clock in the morning on May 17, 2017, and our 28-member group squeezes onto a small beige bus, packing it like a clown car. I feel my ears popping as we rattle through the mountains toward the Rio Pacuare for a full day of whitewater rafting with Costa Rica Extreme.
We arrive at the Tizzialtico café and are greeted by two welcome sights: the smiling face of a friendly black dog, and a luscious spread of comida típica.
As I scarf down my gallo pinto and eggs, I think to myself that this breakfast is even more tasty when eaten while surrounded by panoramic views of the city of Turrialba and its skirts of mountains.
We pull up near the bank of the Río Pacuare, and I note with some anxiety the speed of the water and the relative frailty of our blue and yellow rafts and paddles. Regardless, my team of six scampers onto a raft, dressed to the nines in life vests and helmets. Goosebumps appear on my arms as the cold water spatters my feet.
Alex, our guide, greets us with his casual, surfer-dude Spanish, and his knowledge of the río immediately calms my nerves. Alex Segura has been in commercial rafting for 22 years. He is President of the Costa Rican Rafting Federation, and promoting rafting as a sport is his passion and calling.
He coaches both the women’s and junior men’s professional rafting teams, and has led them to international success, but his beginnings with the activity were quite humble.
Alex tells me he grew up in Pejibaye, a small pueblo alongside the Río Pejibaye, down which he rafted and kayaked with regularity as a child. Alex was only 14 when he learned to kayak as a sport. With that achievement, he became submerged in the business of commercial and competitive whitewater rafting.
Alex now directs our amateur motions without batting an eye, helping us to quickly learn the necessary strokes. He informs us that we are the “safety boat,” set to follow at the rear of the party in order to collect any individuals who fall overboard. I am dismayed that he speaks of this occurrence as an inevitability rather than a possibility. Nonetheless, his last name, Segura — Spanish for “safe” — seems fitting as his relaxed professionalism calms my worries.
Geared up and somewhat prepared, we promptly nickname our raft the “Salsa Balsa,” — Sauce Raft — a phrase that quickly becomes our battle cry as we set off to face the rápidos.
Mere minutes after lurching into the current, we rapidly approach our first rapid. Alex barks orders as the front of our raft tips down into a trough. Time seems to slow down as I look up to see a wall of water casting a shadow over our petrified expressions. The wave hits me like a ton of bricks, nearly sending me off the side of the raft, and the frigid water makes me gasp for breath. Somehow, we all stay on.
However, there is not a moment’s rest on the río as I see a nearby raft pitch into a high current. Its paddlers go flying, one of whom hits the water with force. Her blue helmeted head bobs up and down in the chilly water. The “Salsa Balsa’s” services as safety boat are needed! Alex becomes all business, loudly commanding “forward paddle!” with an alarming urgency in his voice.
We row forwards with all our might as he snatches the stray rafter from the torrents. My nerves tingle as I appreciate the very real hazards the of Pacuare.
After several series of rapids, our five boats drift to the right side of the bank. I help unpack an entire pantry out of the rafts’ dry-boxes: vegetables, fruits, chips, cookies and more. A brief hike up into the mountain brings us to a collection of pavilions and huts, where our guides miraculously produce lunch.
Over mouthfuls of burrito, pineapple and cookies, Alex tells me that the Río Pacuare’s namesake is a baby macaw: nimble and colorful, zipping through the forest. As we converse, a friendly mutt begs for scraps beneath the tabletop.
Alex continues on, explaining that this river is the world’s fifth best for rafting, and is the highest ranked in terms of beauty. It is not hard to understand why. The Pacuare is fringed by towering cascades, with water so clean you could drink it. Its sheer cliff faces are spectacularly supported by handsome trees and dense vegetation. Though swollen and full of suspended silt, even the río itself has a kind of fearsome, rugged beauty. There are no dams along the Río Pacuare, it free-flows throughout the Amistad Forest Reserve, which links Costa Rica and Panama with lush tropical terrain.
I learn also of the Cabécar people, ancient indigenous people of Costa Rica who inhabit the mountainous terrain along the Pacuare. I faintly remember seeing small huts back down the river, and wonder at how incredible it is that these people remain in their ancestral lands even today.
Rain gently patters on the roof overhead as my conversation with Alex draws to a close.
Surely the world is rain, and
we are all music.
There is everything in this endless rain,
and if I am in the rain,
then I am endless like the rain.
I was back in my grandmother’s Trailblazer, lightly sunburned but grinning from ear to ear. I watched rainclouds the color of ash gather on the horizon. Our party of four had successfully navigated and conquered the Ocoee River. As we drove home, slightly damp and considerably hungry, I knew that I could not wait to go again.
The cliff walls that edge the Pacuare gradually begin to narrow, and ahead of us stretches a thin gorge with calm waters. Alex tells us we are free to swim, and without delay I hurl myself over the side of the raft. After several hours of paddling, the cool of the water is pleasant against my sunburned skin.
My life jacket supports my weight, suspending me at the surface. I turn onto my back and watch the sky passing by slowly, while the minutes of momentary repose pass too quickly. Before I know it, I am scrambling back into the raft and seizing my paddle, ready to tackle the next section of the river.
At long last, the Salsa Balsa and its fellow balsas land on the river’s left bank. We all disembark on wobbly feet, which are sore from being wedged between the seats and floors of the rafts. My legs are scratched and chafed, but I my body hums with adrenaline. While pulling the rafts up the rocky incline, I look back and admire the rusted metal bridge spanning the ravine above the river.
It feels so incongruous, knowing that less than a mile from this man-made monstrosity are native people who forgo modern technology completely.
I watch my fellow students share beers and sodas. They are admiring their battle scars: sunburns, scrapes, bruises and the like. Suddenly, it seems altogether appropriate that this forest is named La Amistad — friendship.
