We scheduled an excursion to El Yunque Rainforest on Holy Friday, since “nature is always open,” as Lauren put it. When asking our touring representative what we should bring to the rainforest, she replied “some snacks and water… and a bathing suit and towel for the swimming hole. Because it’s going to be HOT.” Should Lauren bring her IPhone? “Absolutely! Just put it in a little plastic baggy or something,” she replied. Beyond the alleged swimming hole, we knew nothing about what our excursion would entail. While being herded to the minibus the morning of our outing, we found ourselves the only young adults in a sea of families. Our driver and tour guide, John, looked to be about 70, was wearing dress shoes, black slacks, and a nice button-down, and walked with an elderly shuffle. All signs pointed to a leisurely morning.
The first stop would be the park’s Visitor’s Center. Along the way, John treated us to some interesting factoids. “Did you know that El Yunque is the only rainforest on the U.S. Department of Interior’s list of recognized national parks? And that means (pause)… there is NO other one.” Is that what “only” means John? I didn’t know I would be learning new words on the trip. After he finished rambling about ripe bananas and stealing mangos from someone’s yard (while our bus was parked diagonally across a two-lane highway, blocking both lanes of traffic), we finally arrived at the Center. While disembarking the minibus, I heard a little girl, about 7 years old, say to her father “This guy has ISSUES.”
What had started as a sprinkle turned into a driving rain as we sprinted across the parking lot to the Center’s gift shop. My cute little rainforest number (fitted black yoga pants and a deep v-neck t-shirt) was already clinging to my curves in all the wrong places. With no signs of the rain letting up, we were forced to pool our cash (the tour company might want to add “money” to their list of suggested rainforest excursion items) and buy three one-size-fits-all ponchos. Knowing my affinity for long, flowing dresses, Mitch asked the cashier if they carried “maxi ponchos” and then told me that a true fashionista should have a belt handy so that she could cinch such a hideous piece of clothing at a moment’s notice. Noted.
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| The first waterfall |
Back on the bus, we began ascending a winding, narrow road which led us deeper into the forest. Conditions outside were worsening, and our situation was beginning to resemble a scene from Jurassic Park. We were told there would be two stops before our ultimate destination - the famous swimming hole. At the first two sites (a waterfall along the side of the road and an old lookout tower), we felt compelled to get out of the bus and take pictures so that we could have the “full experience.” We had paid $65 for the tour, plus $7 for each poncho - which, by the way, had been rendered completely useless due to the driving rain that was coming at us from every angle. Luckily, Lauren had gone against the tour operator’s suggestion to bring her IPhone along… or else the trip could have been much more expensive for her.
On the drive to the swimming hole, the youngest child on the bus whimpered to his dad “I don’t want to go to the swimming hole.” When the father asked him why not, he stammered “Because I don’t want to get MORE wet.” Leave it a four-year-old to say what the adults can’t. Still, I had never been in a bonafide swimming hole, and even with the driving rain, I was picturing a scene out of the movie Cocktail (minus the steamy kissing part, given that my boyfriend was spending the week back in DC).
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| The lookout tower: you could see for MILES |
Upon arrival at the trail head, we congregated at the ranger station. That was when the first person went missing; two teenagers casually told John that they couldn’t find their mother. They seemed unconcerned, but the rest of us had panic written all over our faces. I considered scouting the premises, but was worried that A) I would be swept down the side of the mountain by one of the raging rivers that was beginning to form along the roadside, or B) whoever (or whatever) kidnapped this lady would do the same to me. After standing around and not taking any action for about 20 minutes, John proclaimed that we must hike the trail. “She’ll turn up,” he said. And lucky for him, she did. About 10 minutes into our walk, we spotted her going the opposite direction on the trail, happy as a clam and waving to the group. Crisis averted.
We were completely unprepared for the walk to the swimming hole. Easily a 3-mile hike round trip, the descent and following ascent were steep, and the path was narrow and uneven. The young kids in our group wouldn’t have been able to make it on a good day. With the rain now coming down in droves, each step was harrowing as we navigated slippery rocks and swift streams that had overflowed onto the trail. People were dropping like flies, literally and figuratively. The precocious 4-year old and his father who were bringing up the rear of our group turned back about 15 minutes in, and an entire family aborted the hike soon after. My adorable yoga pants were so soaked that the crotch was sagging to my knees. When Lauren bellowed “WET PONCHO PARTY!!!!” I ditched the pants, trying to simultaneously evoke the spring break spirit of our yesteryears while actively combating a mean case of diaper rash.
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| The "serene" swimming hole |
And that beautiful, tropical lagoon I was waiting for? It turned out to be a fierce, brown waterfall spewing into a pool of mud. John, being prudent by nature, told us we could go for a swim if we wanted; but, with the current so swift and none of us being Olympic caliber swimmers, we declined. Disappointed, we made our way to another parking lot on the trail loop, where John promised to meet us with the bus. When he finally showed up, his dress pants now soaked, we were loaded onto the vehicle, eager to go back to the hotel for a dip in the hot tub. But our headcount came up two people short. The dad and his four-year-old were nowhere to be found.
Upon inquiry, John found out that the park had been evacuated due to inclement weather and unsafe trails. No one was left at ranger station, and soon our bus was creeping down the mountainside as our leader navigated hairpin turns while squinting through a fogged up window. Lauren had her hand on our window’s red, safety release latch, and I was white knuckling my seat cushion. Mitch looked across the aisle, and dryly asked “Do you think you’ll tip?” Grateful for the comic relief, I slowly released my grip on the seat. All the while John was still chattering away on the loudspeaker “the rangers had to evacuate because sometimes people go hiking when it’s wet. They slip on rocks, hit their heads, go unconscious… and die. I’ve seen it happen.” Thanks for the details John.
Emerging from the woods, we sat in heavy traffic in a small town at the base of the mountain. A random man ran up to the bus and knocked at the door… words were exchanged between him and John. A few minutes later, out of the mist, the missing father came trudging towards our bus, carrying his four-year old, who was now naked except for the towel he’d been wrapped in. They were greeted on the bus with a round of applause. As they sat down, John got on the loudspeaker… “we are now in a barrio. A barrio is a town. A town has houses, a school, a post office, and sometimes a grocery store…”
