Lazy Vacation Days With the People I've Met - Monday 4-6-2009 to Friday 4-10-2009

Not much to say lately. A few people left the hostel and a couple more people arrived. I spent most of these days reading, sleeping in a hammock, and talking to the other people at Casa Brian. I’m so relaxed here. Part of it is Brian’s hospitality – he really does treat his guests like family. We had another dinner party one night, where Brian lit his grill and we all grilled our own food and then ate together. Another night, we had a huge bonfire on the beach beneath a nearly full moon. We threw palm fronds on the fire and the flames leapt ten feet into sky before dying down again, spent. I stayed out of the sun a few days, content to listen to the ocean from my hammock and feel the warm ocean breezes on my skin. Wednesday and Tuesday, I sat on the beach and talked more with some of the residents. I watched the sun set with folks from the hostel a couple evenings, too.

I talk to the other travelers here a lot. Meeting people and hearing their stories is my favorite part of traveling. Viktor and Charlotte are a twenty-something couple from southern Sweden who planned to stay three nights but got stuck in Samara longer than they anticipated because the Easter holiday made booking transportation elsewhere maddeningly difficult. They’re really nice, their English is excellent, and they’re both quite funny. I laughed when I watched them play Alphapet, a game identical to Scrabble but in Swedish. I’ll be sorry to see them leave on Friday. Juan and Golan are good company, as well. Golan is a professional dancer in New York. Juan is a former video editor from Spain. He’s hilarious. Both are leaving after the weekend, Golan back to New York and Juan to another city on his trip through Central America. Leonie and I don’t talk a whole lot, but you just need to spend ten minutes with her to see she’s a great gal. She studied Spanish at the local language school for a few months, and then has stayed a few months after school because she loves being here.

Friday night, I spent a couple hours talking to Jane. Jane lives a few doors down from Casa Brian. She spent about eight years working for investment banks in London, including RBS, Goldman, Merrill, and other names I immediately recognized. She was asked to be a manager at Barclay’s and said no, then left. She had enough of the high-demand/high-pay banking lifestyle, with its stresses and unhappy people, and used her savings to travel through Southeast Asia and Central America for three years. She picked up massage training in India and uses that to support herself here in Costa Rica. Sounds like she also worked on a commercial fishing boat in Alaska to pick up some money at one point, too. She wants to use Costa Rica as a base from which to explore South America. I loved finding someone with her career background living in paradise and loving it. The thing I’ll remember most about her, besides her Irish lilt, sincere smile, and surprisingly robust knowledge of shamanism and astrology? This sentence she told me after I told her my story over a dinner we made together at the hostel: “Henry, you create your own reality; you can do whatever you want to.” Thanks Jane.

Barefoot in the Forest - Sunday 4-5-2009

From Casa Brian, I walk with six other people to a supposedly gorgeous, secluded beach known only to locals several kilometers south of Playa Samara. A tall cliff separates Playa Samara from this beach. We walk south to the end of Playa Samara, and then walk carefully on rocky outcroppings sheltering tide pools. These rocks curve around the point and open into a cove and small beach. Five hundred meters directly across the water from this secluded beach is an island with a tall cliff and its own tiny beach. Our guide points to a steep trail leading up a cliff at the end of the beach we are standing on. We start walking the nearly vertical trail. I lose my breath quickly and struggle to keep up with the others. The trail isn’t even marked, it’s just the only discernable path up the cliff. We step across roots and branches and fallen logs, holding tightly onto tree trunks when we can, and always careful of our footing on the pathway. The pathway is barely the width of a person’s foot. Two-thirds of the way up the cliff, the path bends along the cliff face so that I can turn my head left and look down the cliff. The path is terribly narrow here and there is nothing for me to grab onto if I lose my footing. I take a deep breath and keep walking.

The trail is so steep and the day is so hot. I stop to catch my breath several times. The trail leads us inexorably up, doubling back on itself, cutting through the trees and bushes. The trail finally ends at a fallen tree. We carefully climb across its length, reaching a dirt road near the top of the cliff. I’m breathless and drenched in sweat. We follow the dirt road to the right. The road ends at the edge of the cliff and we can look straight down on the rocks below and directly across the water to the island, 500 meters away. We stop for pictures and water, some of others also take a cigarette break. The strap on my left sandal separates from the sole, wrecked from the climb. My left sandal sole is connected to the rest of my sandal only by a bit of glue on the heel. As the group follows another dirt road down the other side of the cliff, I have a moment of clarity. My left sandal is so wrecked that it’s more comfortable for me to walk barefoot. If I walk down to Playa Carillio, I’ll have to do it barefoot. That means I’ll have to climb back up to the top of the cliff barefoot and then back down the narrow, barely-marked trail to Playa Samara barefoot. I cut my losses and tell the group that I’m headed back to Casa Brian.

I take my sandals off. It takes me several minutes to find the fallen log we climbed to reach the dirt road at the top of the cliff. I gingerly grab a hold of the trunk and slowly slide down. I think I find the trail back down, but it dead ends after a minute of walking. I go back to the log, but can’t find the trail. Part of me seriously wants to sit and wait several hours for the others to return. Instead, I make my own trail through the leaves, branches and fallen logs. After a minute, I think I find the trail and I start following that down the cliff. The path seems even steeper and narrower going down. I lose my footing a couple times, but catch myself before I slide down the cliff. It’s a weird rush for this suburban kid to be walking barefoot down this cliff, hemmed in by thick vegetation and worried more about spending $10 to replace my sandals than about getting bitten by some hidden snake. About fifteen minutes after starting my slow descent, I reach the hidden cove and the gravelly beach. It’s blazing hot today and my shirt is soaked with sweat. I put my gear down and wade into the temperate waters. The terrain changes quickly from gravel to rocks which are too sharp to stand on so I retrieve my gear and keep walking toward Playa Samara. I cross the sharp rocks and tide pools slowly because I have to pick my steps carefully while barefoot. Forty-five minutes later, I’m back at Casa Brian, sore but pleased that I didn’t freak out or give up partway down the cliff.

Playa Buena Vista and a Birthday Party - Saturday 4-4-2009

All photos in this post are from Juan.

Mid-afternoon, six of us take Clark's rented SUV down a gravel road to Playa Buena Vista, a hidden beach that one of the locals who is friends with Brian takes us to. The road takes us past small houses and ranches. We pass cows standing by the side of the road unattended. Clark’s rented SUV crosses a shallow river with ease. We follow the gravel road through a dark forest, with large trees that block the sunlight. Large potholes and ditches make for a rough ride. Blind corners keep Clark’s attention while he curses about this ridiculous road cutting through the middle of nowhere. After twenty minutes, we reach a dirt parking lot. We walk to the beach. This beach is short, ended on each side by a steep cliff and rocky tide pools, but wide. The beach leads down to the ocean very gradually, where strong waves crash loudly. Small crabs skitter quickly across the sand. There are no people on this beach on this beach but the six of us. There aren’t even the footprints of other people. The local girl who guided us here leads us to the tidepools. We climb gingerly on the sharp rocks. We find starfish, urchins, and small fish that dart from pool to pool. We stop to take pictures.

Stepping off the rocks, I walk with the other five back to the beach where I put my things down and hit the water. Tall, long, dark blue, beautifully symmetrical waves crash around me. The strength of the currents surprises me several times and I stop body surfing, content to wade as deep as my shoulders. The water here is slightly cooler than at Playa Samara. The setting sun, casting its fading golden light, also cools things down.

Later that night, the hostel heads to Las Palmitas, a quarter mile east on the dirt road directly in front of Casa Brian. Tonight, Brian's friend is celebrating his birthday and we are all invited. On the walk over, I talk to Tyler from Boston. He's been in town for several months attending the local massage school and knows Brian and Leonie. The hostel folks combine several small tables into one long table and we all sit together at the restaurant. I talk with Tyler and Clark much of the night. Clark tells me that long-term travel will delay but not solve my problems. Getting away is a good idea, he concedes, but being away from months at a time might not lead to any important revelations. I start thinking about searching for a less demanding job in finance upon my return home instead a of the clean break from my past that I envisioned at the beginning of this trip. For dinner, I order Sopa de Mariscos, a spicy seafood soup with shellfish, fish, and squid for 4,300 colones (about $8.50)

After dinner, the group heads to Barracuda, a large, upscale, modern bar on a small hill at the opposite end of Samara's main street from the ocean. Barracuda is famous. Several years ago, Tracy Chapman played here while Sting was in the audience. The club used to broadcast musical performances by internationally famouse artists on Costa Rican television. Barracuda burned down several years ago under questionable circumstances (the cause was officially recorded as lightning, though Brian implied lightning wasn't the true cause) and then rebuilt. The club's current claim to fame is a mechanical bull that patrons can ride for 1,000 colones ($2). I don't ride it, though several other folks from Casa Brian do. I spend the night watching the bull riders, and talking to the people I know. At 2:00AM, I walk back to the hostel.

Arrival in Playa Samara - Friday 4-3-2009

Interbus picks me up from Cabinas Marielos and we drive to the transfer point at Las Huntas. This was also the transfer point for the Greyline shuttles I took to Monteverde and Tamarindo. After waiting 90 minutes for my transfer, I’m off to Playa Samara. The road from Las Huntas leads to both Tamarindo and Samara, before breaking off into two directions halfway to Samara. The road becomes narrower, with less maintained paving. We pass into deep valleys, steep hills on either side covered in golden grass. Thick rows of tall trees in the bottom of the valley denote a stream. In some places, the terrain flattens. Tall trees with thick branches loom on either side of the road, their canopy meeting above the road. We pass grassy parcels of land, fenced off with barbed wire and occupied by a horse or a few cattle.

I arrive at Casa Brian ($35 per night for private room, $16 per night for a dorm bed, casabrian@hotmail.com), down a dirt road and only 60 feet from the beach. I get out of the shuttle and walk into the fenced property. A well-tanned, bearded man of about 60 with salt and pepper hair and a cigarette hanging from his mouth and without a shirt comes out to meet me. Brian Pearson shakes my hand and welcomes me to his hostel. He takes me around for a few minutes, showing me the kitchen laid out like a ship’s galley (he was a commercial fisherman for 22 years); the open air living area with its hammocks, futon, and long communal dining table; the books; the toy box; my room; the dorm rooms, and a few other things. “That’s the program, now you’re on your own,” he smiles. I put my things down, come back out and introduce myself to everyone. There are Nick and Clark, a pair of long-time friends from Chicago; one Spaniard they picked up along the way, Juan; a college student from San Diego they also picked up, Ran; a Dutch woman who was at the local language school for three months and is just hanging out until late May, Leonie; and a professional dancer originally from Amsterdam and currently from New York, Golan. Ran and I strike up a conversation immediately about home. Someone is making lunch and they offer me some. I talk more with the other travelers. An hour after I arrive I ask Brian if I can extend my stay past Easter, more than a week past my original departure date.

When I read my guidebook, Casa Brian’s review stood out. Samara called to me the way no other place in Costa Rica called to me. When I booked my trip to Costa Rica, I wanted to spend some time in San Jose, visit the rainforest, and spend a lot of time on the beach. Tamarindo was a taste, and I considered foregoing Samara for the Caribbean. But when I found out that I could get to Samara from Tamarindo, I knew I had to give Casa Brian and Playa Samara a try. Playa Samara is a long, wide beach protected by rocks a mile or so offshore. The rocks break up the waves, making Playa Samara excellent for swimming and for beginning surfers. Sodas, cabinas, hotels and surf schools sit on the shore but there are fewer here than in Tamarindo. There are also fewer people here today than during the four days I spent in Tamarindo. The shuttle bus driver drove down Samara’s main strip before dropping me off. The main strip was about six blocks of small restaurants, hotels, laundries, and real estate offices. I did not see any of the large, luxurious, ostentatious places that depend so heavily on well-heeled tourists that were common in Tamarindo.

That night, Nick and Clark throw a dinner party for everyone. Nick's food is amazing. Even better, everyone comes together for dinner. We all sit at the long dining table in the open air living area, including Brian and his wife Sandra, to eat, drink, laugh, and tell stories into early Saturday morning.

Old French Canadians Have Awesome Stories - Thursday 4-2-2009

Michel and Nicolas Roy

Nicolas' father Michel is one of the most interesting people I have met on my trip. He has been a professional golfer, a restaurant owner, a bar owner, a golf teacher, a golf course manager, a golf course owner, and traveled through Costa Rica 17 years ago in a van, never once paying for a room during that time and meeting countless characters along the way. He has lived in Florida, Quebec, Costa Rica, and, for 18 winters, on the sun kissed coast of the Dominican Republic. His stories stand beautifully on their own as tales of youthful self-indulgence and adventure, but his passion, body language, French accent and liberal use of the f-word and the m-f word put his storytelling over the top. He also has more stories about whorehouses in Santo Domingo and Port-au-Prince than any man should. This story was my favorite:

When Michel was about 20 years old, he and his friend from Quebec traveled to the Dominican Republic. While there, he was told that Santo Domingo was such an amazing place that he would never want to leave. In fact, not only was Santo Domingo amazing, but a brothel there called Armenia had so many beautiful girls that it was the happiest place on Earth for the customers. Curious, he and his friend traveled to Santo Domingo. After checking into their motel, the set about finding the brothel, but no one would admit to knowing its location. In those days, Santo Domingo was a devoutly religious city and locals just did not talk openly about brothels, especially with two men as young as Michel and his friend. Frustrated, they begin asking for directions to street that the brothel is on. People answered this question and soon Michel and his friend find the street. It is a long street and they do not want to drive all of it, so they ask a 12 year old boy, “donde esta Armenia.” They twelve year old boy excited offers to take them there himself, calling the brothel the “best place in the whole world.” With the boy’s help, Michel and his friend arrive there about 10:00PM. Michel and his friend pay one peso (about $.80 at the time) to enter. The walk down a long corridor. On one side is a bench with dozens of beautiful women just sitting, waiting for a client. On the other side is a large bar and several other huge open spaces, each with its own bar and its own live band playing salsa and meringue underneath the night sky. Michel and his friend go from bar to bar. The women walk through the open air rooms, but do not approach the clients. Finally, Michel and his friend each find a woman they like and negotiate $10 for the night for each escort. Michele takes his woman, and drives to a motel room. The room has only a bare bed, so Michel’s escort orders sheets, pillows, and such. In the morning, he takes her to breakfast and then drops her off at Armenia. She and her pimp demand $100 from Michel and his friend, who is also there dropping off his escort. Michel and his friend look at each other and ask in French if the other has $100. Neither man has the money. Then they ask each other if their negotiated price was $10. Each friend tells the other that it was. Michel then tells the pimp and the women that they do have the money with them, but they can easily pay if the women would just accompany them to the nearest Royal Bank of Canada branch. The pimp and escorts agree. When Michel and his friend arrive at the bank, they ask in French to speak with the manager. The manager comes down and listens to Michel and his friend explain the situation. When the bank manager fully understands the situation, he looks over the escorts and tells them dismissively to go home. Seeing they are not going to get $10 much less $100, the escorts leave.

That night, Michel goes back to Armenia and all the women start yelling at him and pointing. He finds his escort from the previous night and says this: “I am sorry for not paying you $100, but the negotiated fee was $10. So here is $10. You treated me very well last night and so here is another $10. And I wish to spend tonight with you again, so here is $10 more.” The escort thanks Michele, and soon dozens of escorts are swarming the wealthiest John in Armenia.

After six months of nightly visits to Armenia, Michel and his friend finally left for the coast.

Playa Negra - Thursday 4-2-2009

In the morning, I eat breakfast and handle emails using the wireless router Nicolas had installed at Cabinas Marielos. He is taking it with him, so there will be no wireless if I return here since Nicolas is headed to his new life in San Jose tomorrow. In the afternoon, he and take his truck and three German women who check out today and who Nicolas befriended this morning take their rental car and we meet at Kike’s Place, a bar and soda attached to a small hotel at Playa Negra. Playa Negra is only about three kilometers north of Playa Tamarindo on foot. By car, it is much longer because we have to drive around Parque Las Baulas nature preserve. Nicolas and I reach the open air soda fifteen minutes after we set out. A few patrons are eating and drinking beer when we arrive. Nicolas greets the owner. Having been in Tamarindo for four months, Nicolas knows many people in the area. The women arrive and they have a friend with them, a Tico from Liberia who has traveled south from that city to meet them. All four will continue to Liberia after our afternoon together. I order a flavorful casados with chicken breast for about 3,500 colones and wash it down with a Cuba Libre, about 1,000 colones. Nicolas has the seafood rice, which he has raved about before. It is basically seafood paella. The three women, their Tico friend Saul, Nicolas and I trade stories over lunch. Two of the women have known each other for a dozen years – they used to work in a bank together. One became a teacher and met the third woman, also a teacher. One of the women studied Spanish in Liberia seven years ago and she knows the Tico. The women now live in Northern Germany, one in Osnabrook and the other two in Bremen.

Saul works in tourism and I talk to him about tour companies. Profit margins in Costa Rica are thin because there are so many operators, and because the operators have to contract with transportation companies to take the tourists to and from the tours. The transportation companies charge high prices for their services, further thinning the tour operators’ margins. This year is particularly bad because there are so few tourists. Saul says industry overcapacity is a real problem. Worse, some tour guides are cocaine addicts or alcoholics. This hurts their job performance and leads some to unethically ask for tips at the end of every tour. Both damage their employer's reputation. He tells me that some tour guides he admired and who made good money because of their knowledge fell victim to drug abuse and now beg for money on the street.

After lunch, we drive about one mile to a parking lot at Playa Negra. Sadly, I have forgotten my camera. The parking lot is next to a small luxury hotel. Eight people are on the sand beneath a line of palm trees enjoying the afternoon. Playa Negra is a long, wide beach. The waves are coming in strongly, but the beach is so wide that it looks like low tide. The parking lot ends where the sand begins, and you could still walk three hundred yards towards the ocean and be only knee deep in the warm, clear water. We walk on the beach away from distant Playa Tamarindo, which we see on the far side of the bay. Away from the luxury hotel, the beach is deserted. We pass a small condominium complex, or perhaps a second small hotel, but no one is on the balconies or on the sand. The tree line changes from palms to short, thick green trees with white branches reaching out over the sand. Further on, scrub brush replaces the trees. We continue walking on the Playa Negra away from Tamarindo and towards a huge, black, rocky outcropping that looks like a chunk of coal dropped onto the beach. Shallow tide pools break up black rock surrounding the outcropping. Tiny fish swim and small hermit crabs walk awkwardly in the warm pools. Waves crash loudly against the parts that jut into the ocean. Past the black outcropping, we follow the bend in the beach to the right. We all walk further, and then Saul turns back, and I go into the water. Nicolas and the girls keep walking. I wade in the surf for half an hour. Then we regroup and explore the tide pools. Some time later, we all walk back to the cars where Nicolas and I bid Saul and the German women goodbye and watch them drive off to Liberia.

Playa Tamarindo By Night - Wednesday 4-1-2009

I move from Hostel de Leche to Cabinas Marielos because Hostel de Leche 1) is too loud at night, 2) has workmen in front of my window all day performing maintenance work, 3) put me right next to a road, and 4) just didn’t feel right. Cabinas Marielos is quiet, but it has a beautiful garden right in front of my room with mango trees that drop the sweetest mangos I’ve tasted in years. I’m also right across the street from the beach and can hear the waves crash on shore at night. I’ve made friends with Nicolas who I met yesterday when I first visited the property. Nicolas is French Canadian. He and his Dad, Michel, left Canada October 1, drove through the US and Central America, and arrived in Costa Rica November 24^th. They have been living at Cabina Marielos for four months. Nicolas has a masters degree in computer programming and works by contract as a web page designer and computer programmer, a job he can do anywhere in the world. He is starting a new life in Costa Rica after a divorce and is leaving Tamarindo on Friday to move to San Jose and look for a job there. His Dad leaves the country on Saturday, leaving Nicolas to start his new life alone.

Nicolas is good company. His father grills some sausages and pork for lunch, which he shares with me. After lunch, Nicolas and I head to the beach and walk south on the beach all the way around and past the point that separates Playa Tamarindo from Playa Langosta, about four kilometers each way. It’s low tide so we pick our way carefully on the exposed rocks. Much of Playa Tamarindo and Playa Langosta are totally deserted. We do not see other people until we reach a portion of Playa Langosta in front a luxury hotel. Also remarkable is that a line of luxury condominiums set just back from the beach seem empty, no one in them and no one lounging on the sand in front of them. Nicolas tells me about his ex-wife, his divorce, his two children, his life in Quebec, hunting moose, and the confusion he feels about how to proceed with his new life. I can relate.

We go swimming after our nearly two hour walk. While I try body surfing, he chats up a trio of Spanish-speaking women. Nicolas is on the beach with two of the three women when I walk up after a couple hours in the water. His new friends are Argentine, have been in Costa Rica for nearly two weeks, leave for La Fortuna in the morning, and then leave for home a few days after that. They speak little English so I listen as the two women chat with Nicolas in Spanish. They bid us goodbye fifteen minutes later, promising to meet us at La Barra around 11:00PM tonight. Nicolas and I head back to Cabinas Marielos where I shower, change and work on my blog posting. An hour later he and I walk to Walter’s Seafood (I think) for seafood soup, a tasty bisque that includes shrimp, crab, lobster, fish, squid, and some vegetables that costs about $10. Afterward, we head to El Esquina where we shoot pool for almost two hours at $1 per game. From there, we head to Pacifico, a two-story surf bar with cheap beer, pounding rap music, and few patrons. It seems alright for the college set, but not for me.

We walk to La Barra, and I finally find Tamarindo’s crowds. La Barra is an open air bar, garden, and dance floor. About one hundred people are crowded around listening to recorded salsa music, drinking, talking. At its peak, latecomers swell the crowd to double this number. Not long after our arrival, the band starts. Men take their dance partners and lead them through turns and spins and dance patters both complicated and graceful. The dancers are very good and very fast, easily the match of anyone I saw in San Francisco.

I remember salsa in San Francisco. It was fun for a while. I took the hobby too seriously, demanding perfection from myself and becoming frustrated whenever I was not flawless. I ended up liking the people I met in my salsa class much more than the actual dancing. I remember my best friend Nathan, newly arrived in San Francisco and looking to meet new people while picking up a hobby. I remember Alexandrina, with whom I still exchange emails about what I should do with my life, and who once invited me to visit Africa with her – a nice fantasy during a time of great work stress. Most of all, I remember Tianne, without whose salsa class I would not have made the friends that made my life outside of work in San Francisco such a happy time, andwhom I thanked at my 31^st birthday party for just that.

The band plays long sets of salsa, meringue, and bachata. A tica girl with a pink top catches my eye with her grace and flash. She moves fluidly, easily, stylishly. The women Nicolas met today at the beach enter. We walk over and greet them. Nicolas speaks with them in Spanish. I am not dancing tonight. I am happy simply to be present. I push Nicolas to dance with his new friends, but he shyly refuses. "I don't dance," he tells me. I remember saying the same thing once.