Santa Maria de Dota- Costa Rica

Blazing a trail out of Panama, we landed in the small roadside community of Uvita, reported to have some of the countries best diving. Peter and I made a day trip out to the nearby Isla de Caño and had great dives which included good visibility and a school of white tip reef sharks. After a small fiesta at the hostel to celebrate our time spent together, Peter left the following day and I made my way to the Continental Divide in search of something that, after almost two and half months in Costa Rica, had still alluded me... trout.

After scouring online websites, my three guidebooks, and countless conversations with locals, I still didn’t have a clear idea of where I was going to find these fish. With all the international attention given to sport fishing, most Ticos have little or no idea about fresh water opportunities. Moreover, anyone who had some pretense of knowledge gave me conflicting information. When I was buying tackle at a local sports shop the owner told me that their was fish to be found in the river just outside town, but then the hotel host told me that a storm had washed all the fish away. A waiter at a restaurant told me to head south and fish the valley rivers pouring out to the Pacific but then his co-worker told me that there were no trout in those waters.

I was getting a little frustrated with all the back and forth BS. Then, when I thought I had lost all hope, a guy at a tourist agency told me of a river in a small town in the highlands, on the other side of the Divide, that held 24-30 inch leviathans lurking in its secluded pocket waters waiting for a fight. That was enough to sell me and I boarded a bus that afternoon for Santa Maria de Dota, a small coffee growing community well off the Intermarcada and not even listed in most guidebooks.

I arrived just before sundown, as an orange and yellow sky backlit the towering peaks of the encompassing mountain range. Not having a guidebook to go on, I set out to try and locate a hotel before it got dark. I found the town to be competley devoid of any tourist enimities, restaurants, internet cafes, and even accomodations. Finally, happening down a side street, I found a hotel but learned that, being the weekend, it was booked. I asked the owner if she knew some place else that might have room but she told me that she was the only accommodation in town.

A feeling of desolation came over me as I tried to survey my options. All the buses had stopped running and if I couldn’t find a place to stay I would either have to take a taxi back to San Jose (3 hours away) of face a chilly night on the streets, both of which I didn’t not want to do. She must have seen the desperation in my face because, as I was leaving, she called out and said I might check across the road at the bar, where the owner sometimes rented out a room in the backyard. With no other option I walked over and entered the bar.

A side note here that I was undoubtedly the only Gringo in town and probably the only one to have set foot within its boarders in months. So, you can imagine the attention I got when I entered a noise bar on a Friday night loaded down with a hug backpack slug over my shoulder and another one hanging from my chest. In a classic moment, everyone turned their head a once to look me up and down and I waited for someone to stop the record player.

With the additional weight of everyone’s eyes upon me, I walked up to the bar and met Ita, the owner. She was a weathered, middle-aged women with short hair and a no nonsense demeanor; the type of women who wore the pants in the relationship if you know what I mean. She was going about 100 miles a minute dolling out drinks to the thirsty mob crowding the bar but still took the time to see what I wanted. I asked her if she had a room and she said she did... but it was already rented out for the evening. My heart sank with this realization but then she paused. She gave me a sideways stare, as if she was sizing me up, and then said that she did have an extra room though it was just a bed and not one she normally rented out. I assured her that wasn’t a problem and would love to have it.

She led me behind the bar and down a hallway to the back of the building which, with a couple of bedrooms and a kitchen, served as the house for her family as well. Leading me down another hallway back toward the bar, we entered an Anteroom that was doubling as a closet and bathroom. In the corner there was a ladder leading up to a loft that had open window frames at either end looking down into the bathroom on one side and the bar´s storage room on the other. ¨Es bueno, no?¨ she asked, and without waiting for a reply climbed up the ladder and started changing the sheets. Pondering for a moment if I should take this room, I realized I didn´t have a choice and climbed up and helped her. When we finished she gave me a quick tour of her home introducing me to her three daughters, her sister and brother, and five nieces and nephews, all of whom were also living in the back of the building. She gave me a warm cup of tea and then disappeared back into the bar.

I returned to my ¨room¨ and tried to settle in, or as best I could in a pulsating room with vibrating floorboards from the bar on the adjacent side of the wall. I was just getting ready to go out and try and find some place that might be serving food when Ita bust back into the room and told me she was heading up the mountain to drop some food off for the indigenous coffee workers and that being a good way to see the area, I should come along. Not wanting to be rude to my host, I agreed and before I knew it, we were grinding up a dirt track in her 4x4 through an endless expanse of coffee groves as the last traces of daylight were consumed by the emerging night sky.

Half way up the mountain we pulled off the road and carried the supplies down a path cut into the steep hillside. With the twilight as our guide, we came to a small group of wooden cabins perched on a plateau overlooking the valley below. Here 20 or so Panamanian Indians lived with their families and worked the coffee plantations during the dry season. Again, Ita played tour guide and showed me how these families worked, cooked, and lived in these remote cramped quarters for four months out of the year, before making their long journey back to Panama. It was an incredible experience.

Back at her place, I sat around the kitchen table with a bunch of her friends who had stopped by to see the Gringo and we tried to have a conversation. I say tried, because none of them spoke a word of English, including Ita, and somewhere along the way she got the impression that I spoke fluent Spanish, which I must admit, I do not. So, I tried to catch as much as I could while they rattled off questions about California and the States and told me stories of their town and country. At one point someone asked me why I had come to Santa Maria and I told them it was to fish for trout in the nearby rivers. They all looked at each other and started to laugh. ¨¿Truchas?¨(Trout) Ita exclaimed, ¨no teniamos truchas en estes rios por muchos años¨(We haven’t had had trout in these rivers for many years), and they all laughed again. I laughed too, to keep from crying.

I tried my luck anyway and found that I didn´t have any, but in the end, I didn’t care about the fish; I would have given up 100 trout tugging on the end of my line for the time I spent with Ita and her family. She took me in and treated me like her son. After a very light nights sleep in my loft/closet/bathroom/storage area, she moved me out to the then vacated, and much more agreeable, cabana in the backyard. She then arranged for me to tag along with her kids when a local farmer took them up to his organic vineyard set in the deep recesses of the mountains. There we wandered through his orchards and lounged away the afternoon by his private hand built swimming pool. She fed me breakfast, lunch and diner everyday and talked to me constantly, even though she knew I was probably only getting half of what she was saying. She went out of her way time and time again to make sure I felt comfortable, full, and at home in her house.

The following day when I was getting ready to leave, I tried to pay her for the accommodations and food, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said that I was an invited guest in her home and needent pay a dime and that I always had a place to stay if I ever came back to Santa Maria and, if everyone else in town is as nice as her, I suspect I will, provided I find my trout stream first.