On Friday (viernes for those of us so fluent in Spanish–NOT), we were exploring the nooks and crannies on the side roads near Playa Flamingo.  I’ve passed signs pointing to Flamingo Towers more than a dozen times in the past few weeks but have not veered off the beaten path to see what it looked like.  I turned onto the dirt road with no “Towers” in sight…a big risk in Costa Rica!

Roads in Costa Rica are mostly a series of potholes tied together with dirt.  Once off the “main” road, all manner of adventures await–monkeys, coatis, birds, lizards, and an occasional herd of cattle casually walking down the road in front of you.  As we bounced from pothole to pothole, thankfully with four wheel drive, we headed uphill at about a 45 degree angle.  Convinced we were about to meet Crocodile Dundee coming out of the woods, we crested the hill to see an absolutely spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean and a beautiful complex of condos in the middle of nowhere.  It was about a 1-2 kilometer drive up hill.  It was afternoon under clear skies and the hot sun about 650 miles north of the equator was a temperature approaching Fahrenheit 457.

We drove around the buildings, snapped a few pictures, and admired the view some more.  We were struck by the location and the opulence in the middle of a third world country.  For a mere $400,000 (USD) or so, you too could own a piece of paradise.  I’m not sure what the folks do for a living who own these “vacation” homes, but they certainly weren’t university professors.  These make owning a boat look cheap.

As we started the long, bumpy trek down the mountain side (felt like we were rappelling with a car strapped on our asses), a young (30ish) Tica came out of the building and started walking down the road.  We waved as we passed and received a pleasant Tica smile and wave in return as we continued on our way.  Heide said, “Should we pick her up and give her a ride down the hill?”

Being a USA American (Estados Unidos de América), my mother beat into me that you never pick up strangers along the road.  She would eloquently describe how I would be hacked into small pieces and left in a ditch for the buzzards while the perps made off with the poor excuse for a pickup truck my brother and I drove in high school.  However, with Heide as protection, it seemed like a good idea and fairly safe–there were no machete in sight and the Tica didn’t look the least bit threatening.  It seems fairly commonplace in Costa Rica for the locals to hitch rides, patiently wait along the road for the next bus, and/or simply walk to their destination.

I said, “You’ll need to ask her.” Heide’s Spanish is better than mine !  The Tica happily agreed.  She spoke only a few words of English; we only a few words of Spanish…a match made in heaven.  Through much pointing, grunting, and monosyllabic vocabulary, we established that she was heading down the hill to catch the bus to Huacas (the “H” is silent), a small town whose claim to fame appears to be that it’s where you turn to go to Tamarindo–a bustling beach town hot spot for surfers and beach goers.  It turns out she was going to change buses there meaning wait along the side of the road in the heat for the next bus that would take her home to the even smaller village of Portogolpe.  I figure it had to take her 30 minutes plus just to walk down the hill, then about an hour or more in non-air conditioned bus rides to get home.  And…she’s been doing this for the past six years.

We had a very nice conversation in what amounts to SPANGLISH (Adam Sandler would be proud) but we thoroughly enjoyed her company, the ride and the chance to talk with a native Costa Rican who wasn’t in the tourist trade.  She told us about her grandmother (we think!), her children (ages 7 and 15), and when we arrived in Portogolpe, she invited us to meet her husband, Gustavo, and oldest son, Eddie (the younger was still in school).  The village, while quite poor, consists of a few streets with rows of typical Tico houses (i.e., no A/C) but all seemed very clean and maintained.  I suspect the residents have a sense of pride in their homes and community and it seems like a nice place to go watch a soccer game.

A taxi driver once told us that every Tico community has five things: (1) a Catholic church, (2) a soccer field, (3) a school, (4) a bar, and (5) a police station–usually next to the bar!  I’m not sure the taxi driver was correct that all communities have all five, but the soccer field, school, and church were evident in Portogolpe.

I wish I knew more Spanish.  It would have been fun to crack open a few cold Imperials (Costa Rican beer) and chat about life in Costa Rica with folks who aren’t tourists.

Believe it or not, I’m bored.  So is Heide.  In the land of beautiful sunsets over the Pacific, spectacular beaches with gently sloping fine sand, and all the sunshine you could ever want, I have managed to find a rut and get stuck in it.  Deep down, I know I should be pitied.

The daily routine starts with a pot of Costa Rican coffee…perhaps some of the finest in the world.  We’ve been sampling a few different varieties in search of the perfect brand to stuff our suitcase with on the way home.   Next, I check email and sort through the half-dozen messages in my inbox (what a pleasant change from the 150-200 per day I got while working).  That takes about 5 minutes since they are mostly advertisements about Travelsmith clothing deals or Viagra.  After making breakfast or heading to the local morning hot spot, Marie’s Restaurant, to let them do the cooking for me, I spend a little time pondering deep thoughts.  My thoughts have begun to wander to redoing the kitchen counters, finishing the workshop and man cave in the basement, and completing the interior remodeling on the boat.  Kind of sick, isn’t it?

On some mornings, I give our son Mark a call for an update on his, Eileen’s and Thomas’s worlds; I periodically give my brother Jim a call for a Michigan update.  A walk on the beach and/or swim in the pool completes the morning ritual by about 9:00 AM.  By this time of the day, the temperature outside is already climbing to that on the surface of the sun.  I expect to see solar flares coming off the beach any day now.  Consequently, it’s time to run for the air conditioning, which by the way, Ticos don’t seem to bother with.  In spite of the intense afternoon heat (mid-90s F), I have yet to see a Tico sweat.  It really is starting to piss me off as I am pouring sweat like Seabiscuit after kicking War Admiral’s ass.  Breathing makes me work up a sweat and air conditioned restaurants, stores, and malls are non-existent.

About noon, we start thinking about lunch (no different than at home) and try to come up with a new place to eat.  As it turns out, there are relatively few options in Playa Flamingo and we’ve tried them all.  It took us three days to actually find the new place we wanted to try: El Coconut Beach Club.  I saw advertisements in The Howler magazine (named for the local monkeys) and saw signs along the road.  Street addresses and house numbers are nonexistent here as are route numbers and road signs.  If you don’t know where you’re going, you shouldn’t be on that road to begin with…

By the time we are finished lunch, it is time to drink about three gallons of water to replenish body fluids and plan my afternoon nap.  I always tell Heide that I’m going to lay down for a while and read my Kindle but she knows the real truth.  About an hour and a half later, I’m done “reading” and it’s time to start thinking about dinner.

After watching the sunset over the Pacific, dinner is usually out somewhere…e.g., The Beach House (Marianne bubbles while telling us about “sock coffee”), Flamingo Hotel’s Arenas Restaurant (where Orlando gives us Spanish pronunciation lessons and a history lesson about coffee), or Angelina’s (everyone there knows my name–excellent pizza).  After a few drinks at dinner, I’m ready to head back to the condo for an evening on the balcony listening to the surf crash below, drinking some scotch and smoking a fine Cuban cigar (bought a box out of some guy’s backpack on the beach in Tamarindo–I’m sure they aren’t counterfeit !!!).

Let’s recap:  Costa Rican morning coffee, walk on the beach, lunch, a nap, dinner, scotch and a cigar.  I am so bored.  I have to try to find some things to do….seriously.

The hills all around us in Playa Flamingo Costa Rica have been slowly burning over the past several days.  For two days or so, the smoke was wafting our way and we smelled it in the air.  But as the fires got farther away we could only see the smoke.  Wildfires here in Costa Rica are not like the roaring wildfires of California.  Rather, like the lifestyle in Costa Rica, they appear laid back and slowly the ground-level brush is burning.  The tree trunks seem hardly blackened by the passing fire.  Many plant stalks seem unharmed.

At first, we were alarmed as the sky was filled with smoke.  The fires aren’t fast moving but rather a slow, smoldering burn producing copious amounts of smoke.  I’m not sure how they get started here.  Certainly not lightning as there hasn’t been a drop of rain in Playa Flamingo since we arrived on February 1.  I suspect they start accidentally from burning leaves or cigarette butts carelessly tossed out of car windows.

I was talking with a very patient lady from England in the Maxi Pali store (one of Walmart’s contributions to Costa Rica) in Santa Cruz a few days ago.  I was puzzled why the fires aren’t put out.  She told me that residents are troubled by them but the small towns simply do not have the manpower to fight the numerous fires.  She and her husband live in a typical Tico house in a very rural area.  They regularly have wildfires outside of their house and she said the fire trucks come every single time within 5 minutes.  The fire trucks only have to come out if the fire is near housing or National Parks.

We have tried to explore the area and have made frequent trips from Playa Flamingo to Huacas and Tamarindo.  On the road to Tamarindo we noticed a field burning around the base of a telephone pole.  The next day, the pole had completely burnt off at the base and what was left was hanging from wires above.  We thought surely someone would see it and extinguish the fire before it reached the wires.  The road is patrolled regularly by the local police and all it would have taken is a bottle of water to put it out.  Apparently, no one really cared.  As you can see in the photo on the right, two days later the pole was still smoldering (look closely at the base and you can see the smoke).

On an drive the following day, we passed the pole yet again.  It was continuing it’s slow burn.  Much to our astonishment, all that was left was a small nubbin–the pole had burned all the way up to the wires with only about 2 feet left.  Out of curiosity, Heide and I went cruising again yesterday and there is nothing left but the bracket !!!  The pole is completely gone and nothing but an ash heap on the ground.  The wires appear to be unharmed.  The bracket is ready for a replacement pole.

The lifestyle in Costa Rica is restfully laid back.  Apparently even the loss of a telephone pole does not cause anyone to spring into action.

In their defense, I didn’t stop to put it out either.  I may be becoming an honorary Tico !

Addendum:  And then there was nothing left but the bracket !!!

For more than 65 years, Costa Rica has had no standing army.  In December, 1948, President Jose Figueres publicly handed the keys to the nation’s military headquarters, Bellavista, to the Minister of Education. President Figueres announced that Bellavista would become a national museum and the military budget would be redirected to education, healthcare, and environmental protection.  With a literacy rate of more than 96%, a national healthcare system available to all, and environmentally protected lands equal to about 28% of Costa Rica, I’d say Figueres’s goal has been achieved.  But it should come as no surprise that in a poor country crime is problematic particularly where money is involved.

I filled-up my rental car with gas for the first time on a trip from Playa Flamingo to Playa Tamarindo. Standing outside the gas station in plain view was an armed security guard complete with shotgun and Glock.  He looked like he knew how to use them and would not hesitate to take action.  Although his presence was somewhat unsettling to me, I filled up and left uneventfully.  On my next visit to the gas station, the armed guard was similarly placed and vigilant.

Gas stations (at least the ones I’ve visited so far) are not self-service.  Attendants pump your gas, wash your windshield, and handle the transaction.  I started talking with the attendant as he filled my tank and asked about the armed guards.  He told me that because of the amount of money on hand at gas stations they are prime targets for robberies.  In a country that is slightly larger than Vermont and New Hampshire combined and where the average per capita income is a little over $7,400 per year, I can understand why a lot of cash on hand would be a target for those desperate souls trying to escape poverty.  The good news, according to the attendant, was that robberies were rare in the coastal touristy area we are in.  He said robberies are more problematic in the urban areas such as San Jose.  Still, it was disconcerting as it isn’t typical to openly see that level of security in the USA.

As an aside, in Costa Rica, the price of gasoline is set by the government and distributed to gasoline retailers by the state oil refinery, RECOPE. The price of gasoline is the same at all gasoline outlets across the country and is now ¢739 per litre (about $5.40 per US gallon).  It costs me about ¢20,000 to fill the tank ($40 US).

Using the ATM

Mostly, I’ve used ATMs to get cash in the local Costa Rican currency (+/- 500 colones (₡) per US dollar).  Although US dollars and credit cards are widely accepted, we decided to use the local currency as much as possible, particularly at small farmer’s markets and roadside stands, loaded with delicious fresh fruit and vegetables, to minimize exchange rate differences.  Doing so also gives us a little more feel of the local culture.  Although I am not yet an honorary Tico, I feel less like a Gringo when using the local currency.

Going to the bank added an additional level of security.  Our good friends, Sam and Sunny (buenos amigos), are visiting from the USA and wanted to change some dollars to colones so we needed to actually go inside the bank…a first for me here.  As Sam and I approached the frosted window doors, you couldn’t see inside the bank from the outside.  A guard inside a closed foyer saw us approach and opened the locked door for us immediately asking us to empty our pockets on the table.  He then passed a metal detector wand over each of us. Once he did that, a second guard opened the next locked door (also with frosted glass) to permit us entrance into the bank.  Both were armed.

We must have looked as clueless as we were because the inside guard asked why we were there and helped us with the kiosk that gave us an appropriate service number.  Much like waiting at the deli counter or DMV at home, you waited for your number to come up on the screen telling when it was your turn and what teller window to approach based on the type of transaction you need.  Everything inside the bank was watched by the guard and recorded on video cameras.  Once at the teller window, a showing of the passport was all that was required for the transaction (USA banks won’t even talk to you if you don’t have an account with them).

Seamless, quick…and secure.

When our son Mark was younger, he and I went on a number of motorcycle trips together that, at one time or another, took us as far south as southern North Carolina, and north through upstate New York into Canada crossing the bridge at Windsor, Ontario and into Detroit.  We made it a habit to avoid the chain restaurants and focus on the local eateries along the way.  As a result, we discovered some interesting tidbits from local people that we would not otherwise have learned (e.g., how Horseheads, NY got its name).   Prior to Heide and I coming to Costa Rica this year, Mark and I were reminiscing about those motorcycle trips.  Mark, wise man that he is, said, “Look for a place where the Ticos are lined up and there will be the best food.”

Saturday, I wanted to get away from the tourist areas and experience more authentic Tico cuisine.  Here in Playa Flamingo, it seems the majority of Ticos I encounter are service personnel in restaurants.  Because tourism is the number one industry in Costa Rica, all of these service folks are “Americanized.”  Most speak passable English and, as a result, (USA) Americans are not forced to use the local language.  Even many of the restaurant menus contain options like “American Breakfast” with prices in US Dollars ($) rather than the local currency Colones (¢).  So it would seem that to come more in contact with the Tico culture and people, we needed to leave our comfort zone.

We decided to have lunch at a soda in Huacas, a small town to the southeast of Playa Flamingo.  A soda is a small, inexpensive, family run restaurant in Costa Rica with fare more traditional than the typical tourist restaurants in the area and they are open-air.  We ate at the Soda La Perla del Pacifico (The Pearl of the Pacific).

We drove to Huacas and spotted a couple of sodas and decided to try this one.  Honestly, from the outside, this is the kind of place you would simply drive by in the USA and never dream of stopping.  However, as we entered, I was struck by the sense of pride Gabino (the owner)and his family showed in making us feel welcome.  It was like he was inviting us into his living room.  Through his broken English and our broken Spanish we got along just fine.  His smile was infectious and you couldn’t help but feel like part of the family.

I was particularly impressed with how clean and neat everything was inside the soda.  Even though the tables and stools were obviously handmade, unfinished wood and long-used, they were spotlessly clean and there seemed to be a pride about it.  Gabino answered our many questions about the menu choices and helped us with the correct pronunciation of words we were mangling in Spanish.

The food was some of the best we have had so far during our stay in Costa Rica and we all had trouble finishing the portion size.  It was served with pride.  We started a conversation with Gabino’s wife (brief because we just don’t have the vocabulary yet) and she happily waved us into the kitchen.  I instinctively grabbed the camera as I got up from the table and, to our surprise, there were three howler monkeys in the tree just outside the kitchen window (bars on the window, of course).  The monkeys were just leisurely enjoying their lunch while we were enjoying ours.

The food was delicious, our hosts were gracious and welcoming, the price per meal was just ¢3,300 (about $6.60) for more food than any of us could eat.  As you can see in the picture to the left, a good time was had by all.

There is little doubt the weather here is spectacular (even as our hometown is getting 12-18″ of snow dumped it), but immersion in the culture and talking with Ticos is the real gem of Costa Rica.

I was outside early this morning waiting to see the sunrise over the mountains beyond Potrero Bay to the east of us.  I have no doubt that at 6:00 AM my appearance screamed, “Gringo!”  As I sat on the wall along the road, a young couple was pushing a bike up the long, steep hill talking pleasantly with one another.  When they got closer, their conversation stopped and they looked seriously at the ground as they approached where I was sitting.  In my best (so far) Spanish, I said, “Hola!  Buenos dias.” and I was struck by their response–they immediately looked up and broke in a very big smile and responded, “Muy bien.” (very well) and then resumed their previously interrupted conversation.  I’d like to think the smile was because an obvious Gringo was friendly and addressed them in their native Spanish.  An alternate explanation and not totally out of the question, of course, is they were laughing at my accent and/or pronunciation.  I’ve discovered that very subtle differences in pronunciation are somewhat like a dog whistle to those of us from the USA…the sounds are simply inaudible to us.  I’ve heard it said that Americans have a “lazy tongue” when it comes to speaking foreign languages–we tend to slur our words and not pronounce the vowel and consonant sounds distinctly.  We also have a lazy ear because we often don’t hear the distinct sounds spoken to us.  For example, my greeting of “Hola! Buenos dias.” means “Hello. Good morning.”  However, a very subtle difference in pronunciation such as “Hola! Buenos dios.” (note the “o” instead of the “a” as in dias) means, “Hello.  Good God !”.  Not exactly sure which I said to the young couple.

As I’ve been observing American tourists for a few days now and their interactions with the Tico people, quite a few of them have no clue about any Spanish words or phrases whatsoever.  I would have thought they would at least have learned a few rudimentary phrases before embarking on their trip to a foreign country.  In their interactions with shopkeepers, restaurant servers, and service people, there appears to be an attitude of, “I can find someone who speaks English (or enough English) so I don’t need to learn/use any of their language.”  Yet, I’d wager, these very people are some of the most vocal critics of immigrants who come to the United States (legally or otherwise) and do not speak any English.  It struck me how hypocritical we Americans can sometimes be.  As guests in a foreign country, it is common courtesy to learn at least a little of the host country language.  How much you learn may depend on the length of your stay.  But for any trip planned in advance, learning a few key words and phrases and using them shows respect for the people and their beautiful country.

Costa Rica is home to some 50,000 folks from the United States according to the US Department of State.  Lured by the beautiful countryside, exceptionally friendly and welcoming people and the favorable climate, it is a popular destination for tourists and those looking to retire frugally.  Americans seem to live in clusters here and stick together.  I wonder how many of them actually speak the language.

Food for thought…

Meeting new people, experiencing other cultures, and perhaps learning a new language (one can only hope, Amigo) places traveling on my list of life’s enjoyments. Heide and I have embarked on a two month trip to Costa Rica and, happy to say, we aren’t missing the 8 to 10 inches of snow our hometown received yesterday.  I am sitting on the patio listening to the waves break on the beach and the birds sing in the morning.  It doesn’t get a whole lot better.  And I don’t feel the least bit guilty about leaving winter behind.

We arrived in Playa Flamingo, Costa Rica on Saturday.  Planes were on time, connections went smoothly, and the assistance we got from a few folks with Heide’s handicapped access was amazing.  A thousand thanks to Luis (at the Liberia airport) who helped us expedite customs and immigration.  Even though he spoke limited English and we spoke almost no Spanish, it was a smooth entry into Costa Rica.  He was a tremendous help and comfort as he was the first person we encountered in a foreign land.

Many thanks to Vicky Goodloe, Real Estate Consultant with Blue Water Properties.  Her patience with my endless questions over the past few months and recent days is much appreciated. Renting a place for two months sight unseen in a foreign country is a risky business to be sure, but Vicky’s description of the condo and Playa Flamingo were spot-on.  We worked from afar to find the right housing while in Costa Rica and working through Vicky was a smooth, reassuring process.  She has a warm and welcoming personality and is a very professional real estate consultant.  Vicky kindly took me to the grocery store to pick up a few things to get us situated and I appreciate that she did.  We needed some basic necessities like food, snacks for what pretended to be the “Super” Bowl and a few personal items (e.g., shampoo, soap, etc.).  We’ll have wheels today so getting around will be easier.

Jorge Mendez, Property Manager, was waiting for us when we arrived on the shuttle from the airport.  At the end of a very long travel day, it was nice to see a smiling face in the parking lot. He helped us into the condo with our bags and showed us around to get settled.  His offer of help in the future was very reassuring.  Thank you, Jorge.

Playa Flamingo is a wonderfully quiet, peaceful, and friendly beach community in the Guanacaste Province in the northwestern part of the country along the Pacific coast.  The Nicaragua border is just to the north.  It is unexpectedly hilly here with quite steep inclines (45 degrees might not be an exaggeration) and everything is uphill both ways…!  Billy goat heaven to be sure.  It looked flatter on Google maps !!!  I suspect we’ll be in Olympic walking form by the end of the trip.  I’ve gotten off to a good start yesterday with walking twice and swimming some laps in the pool.  I hope to increase the distance on both walking and swimming in days ahead.

Today the rental car arrives and we will be off exploring.  Vicky told me where the local produce market is so we’ll be stocking up on fresh fruits and vegetables locally grown.  We’ve been here three days now and it’s time we get to the beach to start working on my tan.

Like Bilbo, we are off on an adventure.  Although no dwarves are involved, I have, in fact, forgotten my pocket handkerchief and I am sure we will encounter some trolls, giant spiders, dragons.  More importantly, magic elves are appearing everywhere and I have no doubt we will end the trip with a dragon treasure worth more than gold.

Share the journey.  Stop by periodically.