Once again the local L.S.D. has me ‘tripping’, and tropical tendencies arising from the ‘long steady drizzle’ of winter lead me back to Costa Rica’s beach town of Tamarindo. The trip has a hint of nostalgia, as more than thirty Novembers have passed since Christine and I first ventured to the once tranquil fishing village.
Outside my Balcones condo a symphony of spirited birdsong is sporadically interrupted by a few furry fellows appropriately known as Howler monkeys. Considered one of the loudest animals on Earth, their ferocious roar is a most ‘un-timid-aping’ sound meant to protect both their territory and hairy mates.
The essential nutrient of Tamarindo is its seductive sandy beach, and having walked a lot of coasts in a lot of countries, I guarantee this is one that’ll have you dashing for your flip-flops. Local Ticos and Ticas can be found out surfing the waves, playing fetch with Fido, or simply sprawled out on the beach protecting their blankets from the sun.
With the aerial kingdom above home to a plethora of plumage from pelicans, parrots, frigates and osprey, a run on the beach is like having a therapist without the bill. Another plus is my eyeballs get to join my legs and lungs in the workout, as I can’t seem to stop them from ping-ponging back and forth between a bevy of bikinied beauties who have apparently forgotten to put their tops on!
Weather-perfect afternoons sire dazzling hall of fame sunsets setting the sky afire as a swollen sun welds sea and sky together. Occasionally even a few humpback Brahman cattle wander onto the golden beach to appreciate the perfection of the moment.
After my grunt-filled cycling trip up the coast to Playa Avellanas I stop at a roadside shack to replenish lost carbs with a beer and burrito. Inquiring whether there is an alternative route back to town, the owner informs me of a dicey ATV track but tells me it’s a fool’s errand, and that I won’t make it on a bike. Duly noted and disregarded, I set off with my front tire pointed in the direction of the alleged jungle path.
Ten minutes into said trail I ford a river wishfully thinking this will be the worst of it, but sadly it’s only the first of it. The demanding track is a risky cocktail of rocks, roots, and mud slipperier than a squid in olive oil. Distracted by flailing at battalions of biting bugs I’m frequently dislodged from my unstable bike by the muddy enemy below.
Mud and bicycles do not a compatible combination make, and a corrosion of confidence has me questioning my cycle-logical fitness! I suppose any sensible sort would turn back, but then again, sensible and I have never exactly been the best of amigos. In fact, I’m sure many would argue we have yet to be introduced!
This Tour de Farce is by far the most grueling ride my hide has ever tried, but at long last I escape ‘Muck- mageddon’ when the havoc-reeking trail spits me out onto a gravel road. Cycling back to town I feel like I’m in the winner’s yellow jersey, but in reality it’s only a thick coating of mustard colored mud!
My bike is molting gooey splats of mud with every rotation of the wheels, and along with myself, caked in enough mud to build a small village in Africa! But after five hours in the saddle, the Michelangelo of Mud doesn’t give a flying flamingo. I am a man on a mission, with a killer ‘spinstinct’ to get my bedraggled body into a hot shower. Lounging on my laurels and indulging my inner sloth in the company of a few frothy cold ones after today’s pedaling perseverance my plan is to do nothing, and then rest afterwards!
At the Saturday market I have my first encounter with a monster cricket called a ’Langosta’. Nestled in a pyramid of papayas ripening in the heat, the red-winged critter’s face is locked in a cheesy grin and judging by its size it could be Jimney’s jumbo Jurassic cousin!
I try using my linguistically-compromised Spanishy phrases to inquire about the badass bug but locals look at me dumbfounded, as if I’ve just asked if I could borrow their underwear to blow my nose. Later I learn ‘langosta’ also means spiny lobster!
With the calendar page flipped to December I embrace the new month by once again testing the power of the pedal. Wending along the coast through the towns of Playa Conchal, Playa Flamingo, and Brasallito, the beaches are all alluring, but bullying my thick-tired bike through the soft sands is causing some serious ‘engine trouble’ that’s taking panting to a whole new level.
The bike and I come to a bar with a sun-bleached sign out front offering a ‘two for one’ happy hour. ‘Two beer or not two beer’, that is the question. Who am I kidding, this is a no-brainer! I am ‘wheely’ tired, and with bike seat and butt cheeks not the best of amigos I slip inside. A metamorphosis occurs as I quickly go from my steed’s engine to its radiator and eagerly top up with liquid inspiration for the ride back.
Early morning when the streets are lean, leathery-jowled iguanas sternly spectate as I coax my feet past a wake of garbage-gorging vultures; the denizens of the dump. But it shortly after leaving the ‘flying foreheads’ behind, running becomes much more exotic in the countryside with a chorus of parrots, squirrel cuckoos, parakeets, and other boisterous birdies all singing the praises of a new day.
Running through the forest I hear a throaty call of a Howler and spot it eyeballing me from up in a tree while impolitely scrotum grooming; the ape, not me! Since it appears to be giving me the finger I stop for a photo and only then do I realize it’s an ambush! The sneaky simian shockingly urinates down on my hat, leaving me mortified by the vulgarity, and forever altering my opinion of the hairy knuckle-walkers.
Greatly pissed off at being pissed on during the unsavory golden shower, I hurl a profanity-punctuated rant up at the ape in the off chance it understands English. All out of curses I then depart in a full-on snit, vowing that if I ever meet the shaggy treetop terrorist on solid ground I’ll lower my zipper, take out the dude in the turtleneck, and avenge the primate’s unpardonable sin! But for now all I can do is finish my run back to town and undertake a comprehensive cleansing of both myself and my monkey-nasty hat!
Mid-December Christine has flown down to join me, and each day we walk the beach between Tamarindo and Playa Grande, with tightly packed and unsullied sand creating a blank canvas for our footprints. For crossings of the river separating the beaches we use a small boat to avoid the tooth-filled snouts of resident crocodiles potentially keen on snacking on any appendages.
Today we ‘seas the day’ and splurge on a gourmet sailing cruise aboard an 80′ steel schooner called the Antares. Lollygagging about in beanbag chairs we are entertained by a brilliant young musician as we snack on gourmet appetizers prepared by a culinary savant in the kitchen. Five relaxing hours later our sail culminates back in Tamarindo Bay just in time to appreciate an epic pomegranate sunset. Pura Vida!
The month in the condo treads past and we travel a couple of hours south to the teensy town of Samara and eventually find our booked lodging; but wish we hadn’t. It should be named ‘The Fiddle’, because it truly is a vile-inn! Our wretched room looks like the perfect advertisement for insect repellant, with hordes of unbashful mosquitos loitering with intent and turning us into the Sultans of Swat.
Adding to our pity party, and about as welcome as a Nigerian email, a clan of hermit crabs clunk about the inside of our dour shower! Bloody Hell, of all the amenities this dump is lacking, an emotional support coach would be right at the top of our list!
Tonight is Christmas Eve but we are in a ‘bah humbug’ mood as efforts to hermetically seal our room have failed miserably. Fathoms of fun this is not, and willing temporary amnesia we hunger for daylight to hit ‘delete’ on the appalling shelter! Why-Oh-Why didn’t Noah swat those two mosquitos on the Ark?
It’s obviously a hectic time of year but luckily we escape a cruel Yule by procuring a room at the Belvedere Hotel. Ensconced in a brilliant jungle-like setting, it is a perfect present to each other, and we enjoy Christmas dinner beachside at a table in the sand, bathing in the golden glow of a sun balancing like a giant egg yolk where sky and sea connect. Tidings of comfort and joy!
Our wake-up call today is the chirpy and cheerful song of a wee songbird with a seemingly unbridled zest for the prospect of a virgin day. Inspired by our new digs I kick off the day with a run to the unsullied Robinson Crusoe-like setting of Playa Carillo Beach, where my feet send streams of sugar-white sand rooster-tailing in the air behind me.
Back at our room in Samara I escort a celery-green cricket outside, and at the swimming pool, liberate a half drowned frog unable to free itself from its chlorine-contaminated pond. With my good deeds all done for the morning I’m now able to relax and work on my tan. Yes siree, a good Samara-tan!
Poolside, Christine’s Zen-like calm turns into panic when an iguana emerges out of the jungly gardens and struts directly towards her. Fear not; moving in between my damsel in distress and the lizard I chivalrously play matador with my singlet, managing to grab the intruder’s truncheon-like tail and divert its course and put an end to the ‘e-reptile dysfunction’! Crisis over, I try hard not to preen.
Inhaling the briny-sweet Pacific air during happy hour with drink glasses puddling in the delicious sun, we’re seated beneath a sign reading: ‘A good day in Samara ends with sand in the toes and a sunburnt nose’. Well now, as far as that goes, I suppose that prose is hard to oppose!
Today’s bungle in the jungle is a reminder about bugs, and no, I don’t mean the first name of a bunny. I happen to trod on a warlike tribe of army ants that sink their mandibles into me as if ending a hunger strike. Taking four hits on my bare foot, and not bearing the pain stoically, the dignity train has left the station. In a whole heap of hurt I’m dropping the F-bomb with abandon’ and howling through clenched jaws like a gut-shot wolf while kneading my throbbing foot and hopping about like an inebriated kangaroo!
Walking the beach with my foot still badly swollen from yesterday’s assailants, a flirtatious little squirrel launches from her haunches, lands on my arm, and runs up it to perch atop my hat. I love my new little squirrel-friend although I probably shouldn’t. Squirrels and rats are basically the same rodent, with the only difference being rats are plagued with a rougher rearing and suffer from tail envy! All the same, the grin-inducing folly from my new pointy-eared pal creates a captivating conclusion to our days in sleepy Samara.
Dipping our toes into January we pack up and travel back to Tamarindo, where the absence of rain for so many months has the fine road dust causing respiratory complaints for locals. Ingeniously a ‘sweet’ solution has been devised, with workers using a cocktail of hot water and molasses from the sugar cane harvest. The mix is poured over the roads by a sprayer truck, and once hardened it bonds with the dust becoming similar to asphalt.
Gone at dawn’s earliest light for my usual run I suddenly find myself in a rather sticky situation courtesy of a potholed road freshly covered in this not yet hardened molasses. With my strides losing their quick in the golden goo I’m now officially as slow as molasses in January! It looks and smells like I’m running atop a gawdawful waffle, and a little extra effort is required to haul my sweet feet back to town to put a hurting on some breakfast!
In Costa Rica, 5 a.m. is ‘monkey o’clock’ with the squabbling Howlers’ guttural bellows serving as a furry alarm clock with no snooze button. The inconsiderate simians show little concern for waking my soundly sleeping ass as their vociferous vocals sounding much like a land lion and sea lion duking it out.
On the positive side of the captivating creature’s early awakening, there is no chance of sleeping in and missing out on a glorious opportunity to watch an emerging sun chase the stars from the sky. After all, just like its first-class sunsets Costa Rica’s sunrises are definitely a must see, with nature painting the sky with colors that other skies only dream about.
Well …. th-th-th-that’s all, folks. Thank you Costa Rica, the wonderfulness of your winter camaraderie was very much appreciated; except, of course, for the petulant pissing primate!
Mark Colegrave 2014