It’s Not as Good as it Sounds…

Some things that have been annoying me lately: 1) the impenetrable plastic wrapping that comes on DVD’s: what the heck’s up with that. 2) SPAM emails from someone named Sandra: who the heck is she? 3) Cereal bags that unravel the second after you fold the flaps of the box: Damn. 4) The way reef sandals stain your feet when it’s raining out…

From only the past few days of rain, the soles of my feet are practically dyed yellow for life. The heart of the rainy season in Costa Rica brings new meaning to the phrase when it rains it pours. Down here, when it rains it floods and when it floods, people lose their homes. So, when I think about it, my yellow feet aren’t so bad.

The rain was coming down pretty steady as it had been for the previous 72 hours as our bus dodged through curvy streets and chugged up the steep mountains. It waded through 3-foot deep puddles and swam over class-4 rafting rapids. Around us, orange tricycles and carved pineapple carcasses bobbed in our wake. Cars had flipped over, street signs struggled to stay upright and people scampered for higher ground. It was the kind of situation where you laugh and giggle until you realize it is actually threatening your life—at which point you become completely humorless and quiet.

Dinner that night was at Issimo Suites, a posh, glass-enclosed hotel in the mountains. We dined with fellow agents who work out of San Jose. One friendly realtor on the trip was Bismark, an excited, scatterbrained, guy whose passions were grilled meat, women, and psychedelic trance music. He reminded me of the kid in middle-school who was always last in gym class running the mile because he was busy eating lollypops and staining his shirt with Hershey bars. He constantly did things that a man should never do past 30: he ate Oreos in stages, he carried a Velcro wallet, he jokingly flashed gang symbols in photos, and at one point he asked a policeman “hey, you ever shoot anybody with that thing?”

Nonetheless, Bismark was looking to have a good weekend and so were we! Among the other funny people on our trip were Sylvie, the lightly-bearded French girl, Leonardo, the typical sporty gay guy, and Kirsten, the blonde sorority girl turned travel consultant. Our meal started with giant prawns in a homemade cocktail sauce. That was followed locally-picked grilled peppers, wasabi-studded tuna sashimi, and whatever fish the guy happened to catch that day. I must embarrassingly admit, I was pretty buzzed off one glass of wine and I made a few little stumbles but successfully blamed them on the rough yet waxy floor. We were then delivered like a DHL package to our hotel.

The hills of Manuel Antonio are really dense with hotels, restaurants and just about any establishment that enjoys preying on tourists. Where there was once nothing, there is all of a sudden a thousand different choices for the persnickety traveler. In a region where everyone is trying to sell you something, our hotel sold itself. Our hotel, Buena Vista Villas (modestly named for its good views) was made up of 7 separate luxury villas tucked neatly away into the side of a heavily-forested mountain. Its shiny floors, plush furniture, chef-approved kitchen, and thematic “rain forest shower head” were dazzling. The villas rent out for $590/night in the high season and $3,325/night during Easter week—we were living large.

Saturday morning we were collected at 6 AM and driven to Damas Island—a small village most commonly known for the destruction it saw during the earthquake of 1991. The village is like a shanty town community with children running in the streets chasing coconut soccer balls, old people sitting on porches in broken patio chairs, and dogs roaming around like canine hobos. We eventually reached the water and loaded into our kayaks for a leisure tour of the island.

Now, for me kayaking is one of those things that is never quite as good as it sounds—right along with tandem bicycles, flavored toothpicks, hidden tracks on CDs, and tug of war. The tour was B+ at best, but we did see several monkeys, lots of crabs, and a few wild raccoons.

Dinner that night was at the Hotel Parador which plays host to whatever rich and famous people make it there. It’s decorated in a style that I can only describe as Spanish colonial meets The Jetsons: lots of old relics and artwork alongside high-tech gadgets and gizmos. The food was great: perfectly grilled meats, crazy-fresh salad bar, and sashimi so fresh that it looked to be still squirming. Eager service, beautiful ambiance, good company.

After dinner that night, we were escorted to a bar called The Lounge where we attacked an open bar with thirsty livers. One hour later we were feeling pretty good—with a little bounce in our step and that little drunken smirk on our faces. Suddenly, almost frighteningly, appeared a drum line of Caribbean dancers and musicians. The thumping drums and screaming whistles were invigorating and in no time we were dancing along with the beat.

Later on, a shuttle took us over to a beachfront disco which reminded me of a lodge party, only with impatient prostitutes, funny Latinos, and no puffy-chested guy at the door to stamp your hand. We hung out mostly with Karpazi (or some name close to that), a guy who was either fat or really muscular: also a guy who was to be our whitewater rafting guide the next day. Roaming around our partying territory was a 76 year-old grandma who talked more trash than my little brother. She drank like a frat boy, had the mouth of a sailor, and the agility of a puma—just kidding with the puma part. She said she was there with her granddaughters wedding party, but no one believed her. My new friends and I partied the morning away until about 3 AM, when we luckily got back to the hotel safe and sound.

The cancellation of rafting in the morning due to weather was probably a blessing in disguise. Instead, we went horseback riding with Guillermo, a native Costa Rican and a self-proclaimed horse whisperer. (Horseback riding: another thing that is better in theory.) Luckily, my horse was just as hung-over as I was and gave me a smooth, shock-absorbent ride through rivers, over stone bridges and under droopy tree leaves. The trip’s climax was the waterfall—this huge wonder hidden away in the depths of the forest. A quick dip in icy springs and a hydraulic massage—the perfect remedy for my dodgy stomach.

The ride back home to San Jose was angelic. I mapped out the chapter you are reading right now, snacked on a meat sandwich then snoozed with a timeless smile on my face. It was such a good weekend that the tours, people, and hotels fixated themselves in my dreams. I like you.

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