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. 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 are 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 that includes pelicans, frigates, osprey, and parrots, a run on the beach is like having a therapist without the bill. My eyeballs also 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 on the sand who have apparently forgotten to put their tops on!
Weather-perfect afternoons sire dazzling hall of fame sunsets that set the sky afire as a swollen sun welds the sea and sky together. Occasionally even a few humpback Brahman cattle wander onto the golden beach to appreciate the perfection of the moment.
After a 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. When I inquire if 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 I won’t make it on a bike. Duly noted and disregarded! I place this warning in my mental shredder and recklessly point my front tire 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. On the contrary, the demanding track continuing through the tight jungle growth 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.
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 ‘sensible’ and I have never exactly been the best of amigos, and I’m sure many would argue that 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 bike-hating 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, wearing 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’m a man on a mission, with a killer ‘spinstinct’ to get my bedraggled body into a hot shower and indulge my inner sloth with the company of a few frothy cold ones. Lounging on my laurels after today’s workout, 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, 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, like I’ve just asked if I could borrow their underwear to blow my nose. Later I learn ‘langosta’ also means 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, I find the beaches alluring; but bullying my thick-tired bike through the soft sands is causing some serious ‘engine trouble’ 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 currently the best of amigos, I slip inside and quickly morph from my steed’s engine to its radiator by eagerly topping up with liquid inspiration for the ride back.
Early morning when the streets are lean my runs take me past the daily wake of breakfast-scavenging vultures. The ‘flying foreheads’ garbage-gorge in horrid heaps of ill-smelling trash, while leathery-jowled iguanas a whisper away sternly spectate as I coax my feet over roads splotched with flattened toads. Fortunately running becomes a little more exotic in the countryside, with a chorus of parrots, squirrel cuckoos, parakeets, and other boisterous birdies busy gossiping in the tree canopies.
Running through the quiet of the forest I hear a throaty call of a Howler, and spot it eyeballing me from up in a tree while impolitely scrotum grooming. Since it appears to be giving me the finger I stop for a photo. 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 fusillade of verbal sewage up at the ape in the off chance it understands English. All out of curses I 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!
It’s mid-December and Christine has flown down to join me. Each day we walk between Tamarindo and Playa Grande, with the unsullied sand scrunching under our toes creating a blank canvas for our footprints. For crossings of the river between the beaches we use a small boat to avoid the tooth-filled snouts of resident crocodiles potentially keen on snacking on our 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’re entertained by a brilliant young musician while savoring 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.
The month in the condo treads past and we travel on to the teensy town of Samara. We find our lodging, but wish we hadn’t. It should have been named ‘The Fiddle’, as it truly is a vile-inn! The wretched room looks like the perfect advertisement for insect repellant, with hordes of unbashful mosquitos 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, a grief counselor would be right at the top of our list!
With tonight being Christmas Eve we’re 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 we manage to escape a cruel Yule by finding a room at Belvedere Hotel. Ensconced in a brilliant jungle-like setting, it is a perfect Christmas present to each other, and dinner is spent 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 morning song of a wee songbird with a seemingly unbridled zest for the prospect of a virgin day. Making for an ideal kickoff to the day, I run out to Playa Carillo Beach; an unsullied Robinson Crusoe-like setting where streams of sugar-white sand rooster-tail in the air behind.
Back at the room in Samara I escort a disoriented celery-green cricket outside, and then at the swimming pool liberate a half drowned frog unable to free itself from its chlorine-contaminated pond. With my good deeds all done I’m now able to relax and work on my tan. Yes siree, a good Samara-tan!
Christine’s Zen-like calm poolside turns into panic, when an iguana appears out of the jungly gardens and struts towards her. I move in between them, and chivalrously playing matador with my singlet, manage to grab the intruder’s truncheon-like tail to divert its course and end the ‘e-reptile dysfunction’! Crisis over and a damsel in distress saved, I try hard not to preen.
Inhaling the briny-sweet Pacific air during happy hour with drink glasses puddling in the delicious sun, we are 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 the 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 howling through a clenched jaw like a gut-shot wolf and dropping the F-bomb with abandon while kneading my throbbing foot and hopping about like an inebriated kangaroo!
Today walking the beach with my foot still swollen from the ant assault, a flirtatious little squirrel launches from her haunches, lands on my arm, and runs up to perch atop my hat. I love my new little squirrel-friend, although I probably shouldn’t. Squirrels and rats, after all, are basically the same rodent, the only difference being rats have been 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. The absence of rain for so many months is responsible for respiratory problems for locals caused by the fine road dust, but they’ve cleverly devised a ‘sweet’ solution. Using a cocktail of hot water and molasses from the sugar cane harvest, they pour the mix over the roads using a sprayer truck, and once hardened, the mix bonds with the dust and becomes similar to asphalt; lasting for five to six months providing it doesn’t rain.
Gone at dawn for my usual run, I unexpectedly find myself in a rather sticky situation courtesy of a potholed road freshly covered in this not yet hardened molasses. My strides start losing their quick in the golden goo and officially make me as slow as molasses in January! It looks and smells like I’m running atop a gawdawful waffle, and extra effort is required to haul my sweet feet back to town for breakfast!
In Costa Rica, 5 a.m. is ‘monkey o’clock’, and the Howlers’ guttural bellows serve as a furry alarm clock with no snooze button. Although the ‘quiet-averse’ simians show little concern for waking my soundly sleeping ass, I find their vociferous vocals captivating, as they sound a lot like a land lion and sea lion duking it out.
On the positive side, there’s no chance of sleeping in and missing 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 stunning sunrises are must see nature; painting the sky with colors that other skies can only dream about.
Well …. th-th-th-that’s all, folks. Pura Vida! 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