Raul Rojas had only recently left his studies in marine biology to champion the cause of Costa Rica's wildlife, and I think this earnest and scholarly young man felt badly that our visit to his country was off to an unpromising start, what with the kamikaze mosquitoes, the drunken guardsmen firing machine guns, and the failed birthday cake.
Not to worry, we assured him. These things would be counted only minor inconveniences, as long as we could watch the volcano erupt and search for poison dart frogs in the jungle. If we could find the elusive frogs, the experience would make up for the previous two days.
It was true, there had been disappointments. Of Costa Rica's 46 national parks, we had chosen Palo Verde, one of the last stands of dry tropical forest, for our first stop. To get there, we had to cross Guanacaste Province, heading northwest toward Nicaragua.
Most of Guanacaste had been converted from forest to food production. Coffee plantations flourished on its rolling hills. Dewlapped brahma bulls -- Big Macs and Whoppers on the hoof -- panted in the heat, oblivious to the deforestation caused in their name. Stetsoned Spanish cowboys rode on horseback behind "living fences" made when fresh-cut branches of spiky dracaena, set into the ground, took root and became trees in their own right.
It was mid-afternoon before we reached Hacienda La Pacifica, a sprawling sun-baked affair that combined guest bungalows with a ranch and ecological center. The toucan presiding over the entrance peered down his outlandishly long yellow bill at us, while an iguana shambled across the road to join his prehistoric buddies in the bush. With their beady reptilian eyes and spiny backs, the iguanas gave the place a Jurassic Park sort of flavor.
Emerging from the air-conditioned van, we almost fainted in the heat. We stayed only long enough for lunch, eager to begin our photographic safari at Palo Verde National Park.
"A wilderness area of extraordinary scenic beauty," said the literature. "Largest concentration of waterfowl and wading birds in all of Central America." "Home to the only population of scarlet macaws on the Pacific slope."
Enduring the hallucinatory heat was a small price to pay for the chance to photograph these exquisite birds, especially at sunset. We couldn't wait.
Luis, our driver, had the air-conditioning cranked up to full blast when we returned to the van. The welcome cool made the potholes bearable as we lurched and careened down the dirt road to Palo Verde. But the poor road conditions slowed our progress.
Trying not to grow apprehensive as the sun sank lower and lower toward the dry brown horizon, Raul distracted us by pointing out the birdlife. "A smooth-billed ani, Crotophaga ani, on the higher branch." We squinted in the direction he indicated as the bird ducked out of sight.
"Over there, a turquoise-browed motmot, Eumomota superciliosa." We searched the forest unsuccessfully.
"A violaceous trogon," Raul pointed. Who thinks up these names? We craned our necks until they ached, but never saw it.
Six chocolate-brown howler monkeys scrambled through the trees overhead as Luis navigated a pothole big enough to swallow us.
We arrived at some sort of destination -- a clearing indistinguishable from the rest of the desiccated flat brown landscape -- as the sun prepared to set behind heavy cloud cover. With it went our chances for shooting a gorgeous sunset. However, wanting to make the best of the situation, we grabbed binoculars and cameras and headed out to find the 300 species of birds at Palo Verde.
What we found instead were kamikaze squads of mosquitoes. We had slathered insect repellent on our exposed skin, but never anticipated that the mosquitoes would rocket through our clothing. A frenzy of activity erupted around a spray can of Off! as we struggled to deflect the attack before being sucked dry.
Surrounded by an asphyxiating fog of repellent, we scanned the barren landscape. We saw no glossy ibis, no roseate spoonbills, no endangered jabiru storks. There were, in fact, no birds in sight. The only creatures flying around were mosquitoes and madly helicoptering dragonflies. We fled for the sanctuary of the van. Raul followed, looking anguished.
"I think we are too late. All the migrating birds must have departed for your country by now," Raul said. "We should have been here a month ago."
Nice time to mention it.
It was a silent and bumpy ride back to La Pacifica.