The first thing I did this morning was look at my phone: where was Monkey?
Obviously, we’d left her behind in Calgary, but it was the first time we’d ever been separated by this kind of distance. She was on her own, doing … whatever it was she wanted to do, some 5,200 kilometres away. It felt odd, wrong. I’d abandoned my firstborn.
Neither Alex nor Choo Choo were conscious yet, still recovering from a brutal couple of days of travel. Me? I went wandering. I had to.
When I travel, I want to see things. And I’d never really seen Tamarindo before. I’d barely seen it last night – I was looking for our hotel. Even know I knew where it was going (I do Google Streetview research), I wasn’t looking. One should never take one’s eyes off an unfamiliar Costa Rican road at night.
I’d barely made it a couple hundred metres down the road before I saw a cluster of white people staring up. One great thing about white people (yes, I know I am one): we don’t look like idiots when there’s nothing to see. When you see two or more cars pulled over at the side of the road in the mountains, there’s usually an animal. A crowd of them pointing into a tree? Oh, look, Howler Monkeys!
Lots of them. Males (with the most painful-looking dangling balls I’ve ever seen), females carrying babies, crossing a monkey bridge to a tree on the other side. Weirdly, not making a noise. All the other Howlers I’d ever seen were waking my sorry ass up at some ungodly hour of the barely-dawn.
I looked around a wee bit before heading back. It was time to peel my compatriots from their slumber, lest we lose the day. I got Alex, but Choo Choo simply rolled over and ignored me.
Breakfast was at the hotel’s “restaurant” (I use the term soooo loosely), which was lacklustre at best. The coffee wasn’t even reasonable, no matter how I tried. The hotel must have been decent once upon a time, but had fallen a long way since then.
With Choo Choo still in bed, Alex and I went exploring. The monkeys were gone. We turned down one road (sans signs, which is normal in Costa Rica) and found the Supermarket Pura Vida, which had a wild range of Tico and North American fare (including, hilariously, potato products from one of my clients, based in PEI).
We found our way to the beach, and ran into a guy selling signs. We’re not normally tourists who buy tourist crap like this. But the sign, wood painted a light blue with “Costa Rica, Pura Vida” in white, was something Alex wanted. And I had no cash. One does not expect tap when buying from a Nicaraguan working tourists on the beach.
So I had to find an ATM. Which was populated with a woman doing her monthly transactions.
The guy wasn’t far away when I returned. We haggled a touch – just a little, one expects it – and headed off down the beach. We kicked the sand, took some pictures with the sign, and sat for a quick drink and a bite. Which, of course, attracted more sellers.
There are sellers up and down the beach and main road. Almost all of them are Nicaraguan, all of them “imported” (we shall not attempt to suggest how) for the purposes of selling “Costa Rican” items to tourists. Which includes, among many, many things, a really annoying ceramic whistle made to look like a toucan. You hear them long before you see them.
One woman came to me with a bunch of carved wood items. She had platters and small statues, and bowls … and I stopped her. How about a large bowl?
My parents had a salad bowl that I coveted for years. Where it came from, I don’t know. I think Cathy has it, but I’m not sure. Either way, I’ve looked for years to find something similar. But all the bowls I’ve seen are aggregates, made of multiple pieces of wood glued together. I want a single piece of wood, carved out, less likely to crack. It will be for salads. I expect the bottom, after a few years, to be worn down and need sealing.
Lo and behold, out of a backpack, she produces a massive one. Exactly what I’m looking for. And even a bit rustic.
$80. I’m not sure it’s the right thing. And to be honest, I’m mostly not wanting to hug around a bowl that I’m not even sure I can get home! $60. Dammit. It’s a great price - I couldn’t get a bowl like that back home for less than $250. I waffle again. $40. DAMMIT. I’m not even trying to haggle and she’s breaking me. I promise her that I will check my luggage and if I see her tomorrow, I’m in. At the time, I’m partly hoping not to see her tomorrow.
But as it turns out, there’s more than enough room. It would work. And suddenly, I’m hoping to see her tomorrow…
Today, though, had other plans. Specifically, Nosara.
We’d heard of Nosara back when we lived here. One of the things we’d heard is that you don’t visit Nosara without a 4x4, and preferably one with a snorkel, just in case of flooding. It wasn’t the rainy season, so I wasn’t worried, but I did wonder what Nosara would be like.
We were visiting with Merisa and her husband, Matteo, who’ve lived in Nosara for about a decade. Merisa was one of the people who’d helped Alex when we’d lived in Costa Rica back in 2008/9. As one of the Canadian Club – a group of expats – she knew everyone, which really helped Alex when I disappeared for 10 hours a day.
There are two ways from Tamarindo to Nosara. The first is the highway, which is over 100 kilometres. The second is Ruta 160, the “secondary” route, which is only 70 kilometres. Obviously, we chose the shorter route.
There’s reason the locals suggested not to use the secondary route. First, it’s barely paved. There are portions of which that are paved, but the majority is gravel, with bus-eating potholes you have to drive around, or go through very slowly. (And suddenly, I understood the reason for a 4x4 in the rainy season.) On a map, the route is relatively short … but grossly misses the litany of bends and turns and bumps and curves and Choo Choo rapidly approched “heaving cookies” level of nausea.
We missed the turnoff only barely, partly because it wasn’t super clear where to turn (standard problem in driving in Costa Rica, I’ll say). But we found the Sweet Dreams without too much difficulty. They arrived on a moped a few moments later.
The ice cream treats were wonderful. We talked at length about all sorts of things, some from home (Merisa is a Calgarian), some of her daughter (moving to Vancouver to start university), and how much life has changed in the last decade.
They suggested we go down to the beach. Which, why not, it’s a good place for a sunset. It was late enough in the day by this point and seemed like a great idea. We continued down the road, carving through an area that looked suspiciously like the built-up part of Tamarindo, and it hit me that all of Costa Rica is being gringo-ized, certainly at the coast.
Being on a moped, they continued down a car-lined road that indicated the playa, pointing us down a less-paved road. We found a spot not far from a security guard. Ticos love their security guards. As it turned out, the reason the road to the beach was packed was due to a surfing competition.
No massive waves here, though. They were small, nothing serious, a local competition for people not out to prove the size of their testes. We watched them for a while, I snapped a few dozen photos, before Merisa and Mateo declared they needed to leave before it got dark. Hugs and promises not to wait another decade, and they were gone.
We didn’t last much longer. Before it got too dark, we headed back to the car and tried to pay the security guard for his time, but he’d have none of it. Apparently, it’s a local service? We would not retrace our route, however, as I refused to tackle the 160 in the dark. We opted for the longer, paved road.
Dinner was at Il Basilico, a restaurant that seemed to be more Italian, which was mildly interesting as there weren’t many people there. Choo Choo had her first batido there, all pineapple, and I think she’s been changed for life.
The road back is longer, winding south and then east quite some distance before turning north to Nicoya, where we turned northwest to Santa Cruz, then back to Tamarindo. I think we got back faster than the shorter route could have, even in the middle of the day.
Choo Choo decided her mission that night was to befriend the orange cat. Which as it turned out, was a different orange cat than last night – and this one has but one eye.
As for me, I went exploring Tamarindo in the dark. Little towns are always so much more interesting at night.
