It was easy to forgive the scarlet macaws on a high branch making me feel severely under-dressed, and the spider monkeys tossing sticks at me. I had not expected, however, a long-billed bird intent on inciting anger issues.
“That sound you hear,” guide Luis Vega told us, “is a toucan trying to make us mad because we can hear him but not see him.”
Sometimes, it’s difficult to not take the jungle personally.
Although when you’re with a small group in a big forest, and there’s less of a buffer between you and the place, taking it personally becomes kind of the point.
The hike was part of a weeklong voyage exploring Panama and Costa Rica aboard the Safari Voyager, a 62-passenger excursion vessel built to provide more personal experiences not typically available on mainstream trips aboard mega-ships. The plan included kayaking around tiny islands, trekking into remote jungle preserves, snorkeling quiet blue-green waters and, especially on this trip, spotting the winged wildlife so plentiful here (even the ones with issues).
I had taken big-ship cruises before, but was eager to find out whether size matters — smaller boat, smaller ports, smaller tours — especially in Central America, where the flora, fauna and culture seem better suited to be experienced up close and, well, personal.
I’d been weighing a Costa Rica visit for the better part of a decade, but the big vessels transiting the Panama Canal generally offer no more than a single stop in the country. So when small-ship company UnCruise Adventures said it planned to sail Safari Voyager along a route that included a Panama Canal passage and a run up the Pacific coast to Costa Rica, my family signed up, not knowing quite what to expect.
On our first full day aboard the Safari Voyager, a new acquaintance said this was the third sailing he and his wife had taken with Seattle-based UnCruise.
“We’ve done the big party ships a bunch of times, but we’re done with that,” said Dan Close, a San Diego forensic accountant. “We want to be active. We want a more intimate experience. And we’re willing to pay more because it’s worth it.”
The passengers on our voyage appeared to be in their 60s, with a few exceptions — including a handful of twentysomethings and our near-teen daughter, Sophia — and, in general, reasonably fit. Some passengers preferred slower walks or had physical limitations. The common motivation among those we talked to: to see and learn about wildlife, in the forest and the ocean. Most sought the personal attention that comes with a higher ratio of crew to passenger. We were eager to walk, kayak and snorkel.
Not a priority: dress-up dinners, buffet lines, the “march of the baked Alaskas” and art auctions.
After transiting the canal’s massive locks and Lake Gatun, we woke up to a flat horizon of water, with the canal far behind us and no land in sight. After breakfast the expedition leader, Chris Mata, discussed planned afternoon skiff tours around the Iguana Island wildlife refuge. Jenna, the onboard masseuse, warned that anyone who had overindulged on the cocktails (included in the fare) should consider postponing their massage (also included).
Which prompted a passenger’s question: “What is ‘too many’ cocktails?”
Despite its name, Iguana Island’s most visible inhabitants — at least from a skiff circling the shore — are the magnificent frigatebirds circling lazily overhead and perched on the rocks. The females are black and white; males distinguish themselves by proudly inflating a brilliant red sac on the lower neck to attract females.
Pelicans and crabs foraged, and we spotted an osprey ferrying its catch back to the nest. A pair of American oystercatchers delicately pranced on the rocks with bright red bills open, searching for a meal.
Our initial foray into the life of birds and other wildlife established the routine for the trip’s remainder: a patter of questions from passengers (usually “What is that?”), followed by identification and explanation from the guides, who were well versed in the relevant facts about the flying fauna.
This particular week’s sailing was designed for bird enthusiasts and included lectures and guided walks with Karen Leavelle, a researcher and conservationist who lives and works on southwest Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula.
One morning, she led a small group of us on a walking exploration of Isla Coiba, an uninhabited volcanic island that holds the distinction of being Central America’s largest island, a national park and a longtime penal colony.
No sooner did our skiff reach shore than we were admiring a pair of bare-throated tiger herons — the name fully captures the expanse of bright yellow on their graceful necks — preening and nuzzling in a palm tree. They were followed in quick succession by a pair of green mealy parrots whizzing by in flight, a red-legged honey creeper, golden-naped woodpecker and other birds with names as colorful as their plumage.
It was a far cry from the overrun cruise ports in the Caribbean, where “wildlife” often relies more on Jell-O shots.
That afternoon found us moored at the nearby crescent of white sand known as Granito de Oro — literally “granule of gold” in Spanish. After a morning of looking upward for birds, this islet, populated by hermit crabs by the thousands and shaded by a pocket of palm trees, was a welcome and well-suited spot for looking down for sea life.
In the waters around the islet, we snorkeled among the blue-barred parrotfish, yellow puffer fish and striped Moorish idols that darted through the coral beds. Later, aboard standup paddle boards, my daughter Sophia and I raced alongside a green sea turtle until it submerged from view.
“Welcome to Costa Rica!” the ship’s loudspeaker blared at us on Tuesday morning. After a breakfast of a broccoli-and-cheese souffle and fruit, we watched pods of spotted dolphins racing the ship as we motored toward the Saladero Ecolodge, set on 480 acres of rainforest and accessible only by boat.
Vega, one of the ship’s guides, accompanied us on a leisurely shoreline kayak paddle, where we spotted a snowy egret walking, stilt-like, beside mangroves. Roaring howler monkeys serenaded us but kept out of sight.
Later, in a walk through the trees, we saw a variety of birds: Cherrie’s tanagers with their bright splash of crimson against black, tiny common tody-flycatchers with yellow breasts, and an almost neon-green pair of orange-chinned parakeets.
One morning near dawn, Vega led us on a birding hike in the Campanario Reserve on the Osa Peninsula. (It turned out I had left my camera battery in the stateroom, but Vega radioed the ship and, five minutes later, one of the skiff pilots handed me the battery — an unlikely bit of service on one of the big ships.)
The hike led us to a waterfall, but once again it was the forest residents rather than the forest itself that captured our attention: a pig-like tapir sleeping under a tree, the angry spider monkeys jabbering and tossing sticks, and, from an unseen hideout, the toucan with issues.
After lunch on board, we moored off of nearby San Josecito, where we opted for a brief self-guided beach walk. My wife and I followed the beach trail through sparse foliage, then heard screeching and saw flashes of red and blue tearing through the branches just ahead.
And there they were: a magnificent pair of scarlet macaws perched on a limb, offering a private show. A highly personal touch.
Friday marked our last full day with the Safari Voyager and its crew. Our last stop before the trip concluded in Caldera was the Curú Wildlife Refuge, a privately owned parcel on the Nicoya Peninsula.
After six days exploring, it felt like I’d seen just about every species the dense forest canopy was willing to reveal, from glacial-paced sloths to white-faced capuchin monkeys, who alternated between sleepy indifference and outrage (some hurled coconuts). Yet there, on our last hike, something unexpected inched toward us, a gray-green species known as pickupus Nissanus.
In layman’s terms, a truck.
“We haven’t seen one of those all week,” one hiker observed.
It was true. We had walked, kayaked and snorkeled, instead of boarding buses. Shrinking the ship seemed to have expanded the horizon — or at least reduced some of the buffer between us and the place. Because of the difference, it’s a place worth taking personally.