Pure Vida
Brrrr… Costa Rica is cold! I could see my breath in the restaurant and the employees all had winter jackets on. As we were heading back to the BnB we found a lone cop car with the hazards on, lighting up alternating sides of the forest, one in red, the other in blue. It was surreal, like a scene from a Blade Runner sequel except set in Costa Rica. A utility truck was parked in the entry way to our place when we got back so we pulled up to a hill that overlooked the activity and saw a transformer had blown. After a while the truck left and went got into the BnB and there was no power, so we crashed out at 8PM with the sound of the winter storm howling across the rooftop.
But then the sun returns! The country looks like its straight out of the pages of a vacation brochure again. With warmth restored, we gathered our things and talked to the bnb owner on our way out, who explained that a cow had stomped on the power line last night. Suddenly I’m in the mood for a burger.
We took off in the rental car over country roads and through tropical jungle, occasionally punctuated by small villages where the sound of cheering football fans and scent of wood fires emerged from each. And everywhere the air is heavy with the fragrance of tropical flowers. The roads feel Alaskan, as does the traffic over them. There are so many pot holes here that it's like a video game trying to avoid them, and most of the vehicles here are either 4WD or old cars. My frugal ‘96 Nissan 200sx would fit in here since many of the cars are Sentras, the 4-door variant. My car’s generation must have died out in Colorado 15 years ago, but here it seems like every 4th car is one of the old Nissans. We’ve been rolling an absolute gem of a rental car ourselves: an early-2000’s Daihatsu 4x4 with 160,000 miles on it. It was one of the best the rental agency had, and a reminder that Costa Rica is very much a developing country.
After miles of dirt and rock we arrived at the national park where the rain forest is thriving and full of a never-ending chorus of chattering insects and singing birds. There is so much life in one place, and walking along the pathways under dense choking tree canopy reminds one how insignificant they are. Just hiking them feels like the Forest Temple from Ocarina of Time (I’ll lose a couple of you with that reference but it’s an accurate description). Stretches of dark shaded trail suddenly give way to a rickety bridge or exposed cliff, and one emerges into the light again as if they’ve been cave spelunking.
Bouts of rain and sunshine drifted over the rain forest and gorgeous arachnids that are absolutely enormous. Seriously, this is the Forest Temple.
It was all so therapeutic until a passing troupe of howler monkeys found us and one of them started to bomb me with nuts. At least it was only nuts…
But past the aerial assailants are cerulean waters with some of the bluest hues I have ever seen.
After leaving the eco farm we drove north to La Fortuna, stopping at a small restaurant on the way where a cute girl served me the pancakos her mom made.
The new place boasts the capacity for a couple hundred and sprawling manicured lawns with ornate tropical landscaping lay throughout the grounds. The landscape architect is an absolute devil of a genius and to be commended. But despite the new place’s capacity, there’s no one else here except the two of us and the staff. It feels like a tropical version of The Shining, complete with maddening landscaping. I poured myself drinks at the bar while the wind howls overhead.
After leaving the hauntingly empty massive hotel the next day we found a nearby hot springs where a hilarious Indian (the other kind - dot, not feather) guy got into our pool with his family. He told them it was a private pool that I had warmed for them and that he had paid me for access. Hah! Fucking guy, I love him. After the bubbling water, we head west to the Pacific coast and Tamarindo.
The beach across from the hotel was full of tourists, so I walked south on the beach and collected dentalium shells, the same kind of shells that were a currency in Alaska back when a Russian flag flew overhead. I didn't make it far before finding a cove and laying down and conking out after getting whipped by the beating sun. After a while a man showed up and from what I could tell, he was telling me not to sleep here. I thought he was a policeman, but realized he was just a local and that he only spoke Spanish. That minor inconvenience didn’t stop us from having a conversation for almost half an hour where we scrawled things in the sand. He taught me some Spanish and then pointed to the crowded beach and said “mucho Americanos”. Then he pointed the other way and said “tranquilo”. After saying goodbye to him I went towards tranquilo.
I took the chance to write on the beach, which made me think of how Hunter S. Thompson must have had a similar experience writing the Rum Diaries in Puerto Rico. There were French-speaking people here that made me want to go to some French-speaking Caribbean island next.
Next and last, the capital. Even in the main city of San Jose many of the streets are dark, yet they have services like Uber Eats. At night I head to a grungy bar where I wouldn’t presume to try to get them to understand English, so I acknowledge the bartender with a nod and hastily point at the first can I see on the shelf behind him and read the label.
“Smirnoff Ice.”
Ah, fuck. I settled in and watched bull wrangling on TV. Between rounds they have kiss-cam and show couples making out in the stands.
But this night there’s a wave of euphoria, cresting off a swell of downtown energy from a strange city, fireworks exploding outside our flat, a scandalous cocktail dress, and the always rejuvenating New Years holiday that wipes the slate clean and delivers a fresh start. The first night of the new year starts.