Place

Although I was only there for one summer, I consider the small town of Limon in Costa Rica to be a place I know very well. I went to Costa Rica on a volunteer trip in the summer of 2007, and was assigned to a banana farm in a remote area of Limon called El Yue. I had never been to Costa Rica before, let alone out of the country, so I had little idea of what to expect. Stepping off the plane onto the runway I was smothered by the intense humidity; everything was vibrantly green and the airport seemed as if it was rapidly losing a battle to keep its place against the surrounding wilderness. I rode a bus through the mountains to El Yue, through heavy blankets of mist and creeping vegetation that overran the potholed roads, switching to the back of a pickup for the last leg of the ride. As we bounced along dirt paths through the jungle, howler monkeys clambered through the trees overhead, screeching and hurling nuts and whatever else they could get their hands on. We finally arrived at El Yue, a small farm in the jungle backed by a wide, muddy river. Trees heavy with vines drooped over the small dirt paths that crisscrossed the farm, and running parallel to each was a smaller path worn down by the hordes of leafcutter ants that ran along it each night. The banana grove was accessible by the “Puente Mono Loco,” or Crazy Monkey Bridge, which was essentially two logs in a relative state of decay. When night fell, the blackness was so complete you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. It was the farthest I’d been from home, but over that summer it became one of my favorite places.