Although the central part of town is a bust, the area around it is extraordinary. Over breakfast the next morning, I watch men dive off small boats to collect oysters. About eight miles north, in San Blas, boats leave for excursions into an ecological paradise along La Tovara River.
A wide expanse of water soon narrows as we travel through mangrove swamps and woods, past wild orchids and a red tree with peeling bark that the guide calls the "gringo tree." Osprey, vultures and cormorants perch in the trees as long-legged herons and egrets feed along the banks and pelicans dive for fish.
On Playa Las Tortugas, visitors help rescue baby turtles on the beach, then release them.
(Renee Renfrow)
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The guide points out birds, iguanas, turtles and crocodiles that I can't see until he stops right next to them and patiently directs my eyes. Until a hurricane two years ago, there were 250 species of birds here, he says. Today there are about 60.
There is nothing but beach and a sprinkling of small oceanfront restaurants between San Blas and Santa Cruz. The best of these is the Etc. beach club, a bright, white stucco building trimmed in yellow and red. For about $10, I sit on a tiled plaza beneath a coconut tree and gorge on grilled shrimp with garlic. While waiting for my food I swim in the ocean and, later, take a dip in the pool.
Californians Dennis and Irene Williams, a couple I'd met the night before at my Santa Cruz hotel, agree to accompany me to a waterfall near an Indian village about eight miles from Santa Cruz. We head up a mountainside, agreeing that the views alone are worth the 25-minute drive to El Cora.
The town is marked with a sign, but there is no mention anywhere of a waterfall. We've been told to simply say "el salto" to any villager we meet. When I say the magic words, a boy about 10 years old runs off and returns with his father, who carries a machete.
Both of them hop into our back seat and point the way down a deeply potholed dirt road. I'm extremely glad at this moment that I'm not alone. As we bounce past a cemetery, Irene jokes: "That's where they bury the tourists. No wonder all the kids waved goodbye."
A one-mile trek through woods brings us to the top of a mountain. The waterfall is across a wide chasm, crashing from the top of the next mountain. I figure that's as close as we're going to get, but the man with the machete beckons us to follow him down the mountainside on a winding path that I'd call a billy-goat trail, except I doubt a garden-variety billy goat could make the trip.
But our sweaty, 25-minute hike ends beside a large pool of water at the base of a tumbling, roaring waterfall that is about 100 feet high. We jump in, wishing we had time to use the rope swing or picnic on the smooth rocks that jut from the pool.
We hike out just as darkness is falling and stop to listen to a strange noise in the distance. "Jaguar," the boy says. We hasten, glad now that our guide is armed.
