Scuba Diving Fishing Land Rafting Xtreme Adventures Things 2DO

What The Pros Say

Paul kvinta

Costa Rica

At the intersection of big animals and big adventure, the wild Osa Peninsula finds itself at another kind of crossroads.
November 2003
By : Paul Kvinta

The two questions I have, after our first day of diving Costa Rica's remote Osa Peninsula, are these: Where did all the whales come from, and who the hell built that cell tower?

First, the whales. We're at a dive site called Bajo del Diablo no more than 10 seconds when a frenzied mob of leviathans practically leaps into the boat with us. "Balleena! Balleena! Balleena!" the captain yells as he spins the Island Hopper around and motors toward the humpback mother and calf breaching 70 yards off our stern. But just as he executes this whiplash maneuver, a pair of false killer whales arcs gracefully out of the water off our port side, prompting another ear-splitting "Balleena! Balleena! Balleena!" and a replay of the wrenching U-turn. Then, just for fun, a gang of spotted and spinner dolphins begins pirouetting in the hellacious wake we're kicking up. It's bedlam, it's "Cetaceans Gone Wild," and in the midst of it all, Iliana Esquivel, our divemaster, tears off her wetsuit and grabs a mask and snorkel. "Look!" she squeals. One of the false killer whales, an 18-footer, has moseyed up alongside the boat and is lingering there, just beneath the surface, as though waiting for a salsa partner. Iliana, more than happy to oblige, quickly slips into the water and disappears.

I'm still not sure where the whales came from, but I can confirm that the Osa Peninsula is Costa Rica's wildest, most pristine region, a factor no doubt bearing on all this uninhibited frolicking. The Osa, a boot-shaped spur of mountainous jungle jutting into the ocean not far from the border with Panama, contains the last stand of virgin rain forest on Central America's Pacific coast, much of it protected within the 104,000-acre Corcovado National Park, the jewel of Costa Rica's acclaimed park system. Save for one modest tourist town on Osa's gulf side, Puerto Jimenez, the peninsula remains basically undeveloped and a monster to access overland. There are no paved roads, nor beachfront hotels here. There's not even electricity. A handful of generator-powered lodges sprinkled about the jungle hosts a trickle of divers and assorted nature lovers at any given time. But that's it. What all this means, basically, is that critters here continue to do as they please, and you don't have to work hard to spot them. The Osa pulsates with life, mostly because there aren't enough humans to muck things up.

Yet.

Which brings us to the cell tower. I notice it as we putter back from the dive, all cables and steel, poking high above the emerald jungle canopy near the village of Agujitas. It is the one thing in this wilderness not like the others, and it would appear to symbolize ... something. Exactly what though, no one around here seems certain of.

* Text provide by: Scuba Diving Magazine-Paul Kvinta