The poor Gentleman Friend landed in Montreal to learn, at immigration, that someone with his passport has to have applied for travel authorisation before entering the country. All the countries seem to be doing this now, following the US lead, and while it’s pleasing that those breezed through immigration while the rest watched them, clutching thick binders full of supporting documents, it does mean that I am also subject to this minor cost and inconvenience. Anyhow, since he was there, the GF was charged a hefty fee and issued an emergency visa, and messaged me to apply for my authorisation at once. I was, of course, convinced that I would not get it, a relic from the terrors of travelling with a Pakistani passport and carrying that sheaf of documents to lay as an offering before angry border gods, but happily I did.
At 8 I was collected by my hostess, with gold trim in place but silks replaced with hiking gear. We drove through San Jose – what a very nothing city it is – and collected her friend and then drove on to Irazu, one of the several volcanoes surrounding San Jose. Once we left San Jose it was a pretty drive, through intensely green Alpine meadows and past forests that looked quite northern. The road went all the way to the summit, where it was very cold and windy. I only had my rain jacket, thus maintaining an unbroken record of waltzing up to the summits of volcano completely unprepared for how cold and windy they are.
There were not many people at all, a handful, though I understand it’s very busy on weekeneds. It was very misty, but the windy swept it hard and so every now and then the air would be completely clear. The path from the parking area passed first the Playa Hermosa, a wide, smooth crater, barren of course, and trimmed with tiny flowering Alpine shrubs (further away from the craters the vegetation was equally beautiful and more dramatic, including immense, thorny leaves known as the poor man’s umbrella). Then the main crater, completely blanketed in mist but giving a sense of depth and space, and then along to the second crater, this one filled with an ice blue volcanic lake. It was stunning, though very cold, and while one might think that a brightly coloured volcanic lake would be old hat by now, given that I’ve seen a dozen just in the past year, it really wasn’t. It was was magical and lovely, and there is something about the cold cloud-swept nature of these places, with stark, barren soil speaking of devastation, and the waters themselves, lying like poisonous pools or the eye of a giant, that I don’t get tired of.
After a warming coffee, we left. I’m not sure the hiking gear was needed, really, but nice to have an opportunity to use it, I suppose.
On the way down we looked for a lunch spot. One, with a stunning view over the valley in which the old capital, Cartago, lies, was rejected for a reason unknown to me. At last we stopped at a little place named 1910 after an eruption that devastated Cartago. An odd thing to name a restaurant after, to my mind, but there it is. Anyway, the meal here was very good, although earlier conversations seemed to have involved some misunderstanding as I was assumed to be vegetarian and consigned to a bean soup. Which was quite tasty, but certainly hefty, and the others’ tortillas with grilled meat, looked nicer. The patacones here were very good, very thin and flavoursome, while there was also a tortilla con queso slathered with sour cream. The bean soup did make me feel like I had overeaten badly. The meal came with a glass of strawberry juice – this area cultivates strawberries, potatoes and, apparently, miniature vegetables, which I was mystified by and didn’t see any to verify the translation. (The conversation all day was in Spanish, which left me quite shattered by the end of the day).
The sun was out when got to the valley, so we went off to Cartago, to the Basilica there, as my hostess’s friend wanted to collect some holy water. This was the highlight of the visit for me, and I think it’s definitely to do with going with believers and feeling the magic. The basilica has a tiny black statue of the virgin that appeared here miraculously, and a holy spring that cures illnesses. I dabbed a bit on my arm with RSI. Devotees leave tiny silver models of the injured part here, or of the whole body, so the walls are lined with cabinets displaying thousands of little arms, kidneys, breasts, whole bodies, hammered by hand out of silver sheets. Plus some cars, horses, dogs, etc, presumably under the same principle, and finally more displays of medals and cups, presumably won with the assistance of prayer. Under the basilica is the rock where the virgin was found, and people went up to pray before it and to rub it with their fingers. Quite magical.
The next stop was a botanical garden run by researchers on orchids. There was, unsurprisingly, a dizzying array of orchids of all shapes, sizes and colours, though I think some of my favourites are the tiny ones that cascade down, dozens to a stem. Most memorable, perhaps, was a carnivorous flower on a vine that looked and smelled like a decaying organ of some sort, hanging flaccidly from a trellis. Other highlights included the dozens of heliconia plants, in all sorts of colours.
The return journey was very long. We were unlucky as it coincided with rush hour, moreover the Waze was not reliable and the driver mistrusted it anyway, so we sat in a lot of traffic jams. I was exhausted by the effort of trying to understand and communicate in Spanish, moreover I knew there was a work call to look forward to. So it was a relief to get back for a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits before setting to work.