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Tamarindo Tico Moments

A friend and I were in Sugar Beach vacationing for the weekend. We had rented a car and planned to take a day trip to Flamingo. We were 45 minutes from the nearest gas station and we weren’t sure we could make it to Flamingo with what we had, so we stopped in the small town of Braselito to search for a gasoline station. Like almost every small town in Costa Rica, this one was special. It had a few rustic shops, a quaint residential area, and a bakery. We stopped at a bakery for a snack and hopefully directions to a nearby gas station. The directions we got were peculiar. “I know this guy” one person said in Spanish. “Go to his house. He’ll get you gas.” After laughing hysterically and questioning whether or not to believe them, we decided to give it a shot. We arrived at the house where four middle-aged men were sitting around a counter drinking beer. No bartender in sight. It could just as well have been a private get-together or perhaps a town meeting. We didn’t know. We inquired about gasolina in our best Spanish accents and sure enough, they understood. They directed us to the adjacent house next door (certainly not a gas station) and suggested we simply shout out what we had come there for— gasolina. I entered the house cautiously, feeling as though I was on some sort of hidden camera show, and did exactly what I was instructed to do. I shouted out “gasolina!” There appeared to be some sort of family gathering going on in the backyard. The family members sitting in plastic chairs motioned me back. Hearing my mom’s voice in my head scolding at me for my foolishness, I wandered through the house to the back where an older gentleman asked me how much I wanted. Since I wasn’t sure of the going rate for backyard gasoline I requested three gallons. The man was pleased with my selection and proceeded to disappear into a hidden area. He returned with a plastic jug that looked like a large milk container. As we went out to the car to fi ll her up, I noticed other people coming for gas. This was bizarre. While he refueled the car, I was thinking of all the different liquids that the “gasolina” could possibly be—apple juice, cod-liver oil, beer? Before I could conclude what planet I was on, he had fi nished fueling and kindly gave me the rate. It turned out to be a pretty great deal. This story taught me a good rule for Costa Rica living. If in doubt, ask the locals. If still in doubt…trust them.

Katie High