What self-imposed evacuation looks like to two foreigners
“Holy shit!” pronounced Mark. Smelling fire. Wiping away grimy grey blotches.
Flames were rocketing up toward the barely visible moon, licking away the dusk’s darkness.
“Wanna get closer? Wanna go see?” Mark asked. The splotch of terror wedged in my belly did not want to see. The rest of me did. Dangerously curious, the latter won.
Up the steep laneway we traipsed. In mere minutes humidity stained our t-shirts and settled into the crotch of our shorts. Less than a city block away hilltop vegetation was being greedily swallowed. Fueled by the dry season’s papery underbrush and parched grasses, the fire got higher. And closer.
“Do you think we should evacuate?” I asked. Surprisingly there was little more than a tinge of anxiety choking my words to a whisper. “In Canada, we’d evacuate.”
“Let’s ask the workers, the new couple down there, “ he suggested. Mirroring my calm.
When we asked the new guests, and the workers staying in nearby metal sheds, nobody but us seemed all that concerned. Shoulders were shrugged and they went back to scrolling their phones.
“Happens every year,” translated our millennial-aged neighbour, arms lazily anchored in his jean pockets. “They did a controlled burn here last year so there’s nothing that can go up in flames.”
“All the buildings are concrete and steel,” his partner said in impeccable English, smiling, flipping her ponytail.
“We’ll stay. If anything happens, we can always head out fast. And after all, it’s not my house, so they won’t be my buildings burning down.”
The wildfire got closer. And closer. It threatened to cut off our only escape route.
We discussed options. Running downhill, our belongings weighing us down as we attempted to trudge gravelly paths amidst spiky-branched forests. Dunking into the pool and hoping we had good breath control. Packing up our belongings and driving away while we still could.
With the fire dangerously close, the latter solution won.
Our evacuation plan included a sports bar patio overlooking a gang of mange-ridden dogs playing tag between moving cars. For a few hours, neon-braided fighter Sean O’Malley hurled MMA moves from the TV screen above us. The reek of spilled rum and my smoke-filled clothing assaulted my nostrils as a somewhat belligerent waiter slammed down the world’s worst negroni in front of Mark.
“It’s not even a negroni” whispered Mark, choking it back. The waiter didn’t hear—he had wandered off to sink billiard shots and ignore customer requests.
“So, this is Costa Rica,” I said, slurping on a gin and tonic that wasn’t even a gin and tonic. I watched a woman awkwardly teeter past on heels. I marveled at how she had magically managed to somehow squeeze herself into a dress big enough for a cabbage patch kid. And then I eye-rolled as the beefy patrons beside us sent leers and whistles her way. What do women’s rights look like in this Central American country?
After a couple of hours, the firetruck slid past.
“That means two things,” stated Mark, trying to finish the world’s worst rum and coke.
“What’s that?” I responded, hoping it meant we could head back up to our bed.
“Either the fire is out…or it’s out of control and they’ve given up.”
“Well, let’s go find out.”
Driving back, a trail of fire, played the role of patio lanterns, lighting the way up the nearly-perpendicular concrete drive. Strategically deserting our suitcases in the vehicle’s trunk, we exhaustedly stumbled into our smoke-filled ‘home away from home’.
The warm wind had altered course. The flames aimed their hunger to the valley below.
“Let’s leave all the curtains open.” Mark yanked fabric until flames and moonlight flickered through three sides of the room. “If we’re going to burn to death, at least we’ll see it coming.”
Burn, Baby, burn…
Find out more about our trip to Costa Rica in March 2024 in upcoming stories.