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| Costa Rica Honeymoon, Fall 2000: Tamarindo, Day 4
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Thursday, October 26, 2000: We fly the Costa Rican skies
They wouldn't refund her money, saying that SHE could go, it was just her surfboard that couldn't (because they had switched to a smaller plane with no cargo room). They argued that if SHE opted not to go, it was not their fault, so they wouldn't give any of her money back. We sort of hopped in a little to take her side (I mean, duh! What's the POINT of getting on a plane without your luggage?), but couldn't convince the guys at the counter to see things her way. Finally, she decided her only option was to take a bus, so that's the last we saw of her.
Right on time (surprise!), we climbed aboard the tiny aircraft, which seated eight in a space smaller (I swear!) than the inside of a minivan. I could touch both sides of the plane while seated--without stretching. There was no cargo hold; our luggage was shoved behind some netting in the back of the plane, and that was it. There was no copilot. This made us slightly nervous, and made us all wish fervently for good health for our pilot.
We made a pit stop at Liberia International Airport, which is basically a hut under construction. OK, it's more like a medium-sized condo, but you get the idea. It's "international" only because it gets little prop-plane flights in from neighboring Nicaragua, to the north. (We were getting the idea that traveling in third-world countries is a tad different than, say, traveling in Duluth.)
The beach is absolutely, incredibly gorgeous. We had a killer view from our balcony and just loved watching the surf roll in (mellow, clean, perfect -- although it was REALLY low tide and unsurfable at the time). The beach was both long and wide; to the north, the beach ended at the Tamarindo rivermouth, a channel that separated Playa Tamarindo from Playa Grande; to the south, the beach continued past a harbor and into Playa Langosta. We even saw a bunch of horses frolicking along the sand (we found out later they were owned by a local entrepreneur who rented them out to tourists).
Dave and I had lunch (arroz con pollo and Imperial beer) and headed back to the hotel, where we finally got to meet Lisa, the reservations manager. Lisa had exhibited the patience of a saint in making our reservations and answering my never-ending questions about what to pack, where to go, where to surf, etc. etc. -- all via e-mail. Turned out Lisa was originally from England, had traveled to Costa Rica with a friend on a holiday, and just never went home. I'm starting to see how that might happen.
It was hot as hell, especially since we were wearing longs pants and long sleeves for bug protection (the bugs at night can be ferocious; we met a woman on the tour whose legs were covered in large welts and horrifying bumps--courtesy of the tiny bugs that attacked her while she was having a sunset stroll on the beach with her husband. They'd both gotten bitten so badly, and had such severe reactions, that they'd had to see a doctor and get antibiotic injections.) That was enough to make me glad I'd committed to wearing DEET, scary as it was, for the trip.
Our guides led us carefully and quietly out of her path (we were only supposed to get the near the animals when they actually began to lay eggs, because it was then they would go into a sort of trance and not be disturbed by us being nearby). A few hundred yards later, we were led near one that had already begun laying eggs, and allowed to gather around her to watch. It was amazing. She dug a deep hole in the sand with her flippers, then began to deposit eggs in a slow, steady rhythm. They were white, round, and fairly large -- baseball or softball size. We weren't allowed to take photos (the flash would've been very disruptive), but we did get great close-up looks at the process. It took about an hour; when she was done, she started filling the hole back in with her giant flippers again. It was just an awesome sight, in the truest sense of the word. We got back to the hotel about 1 a.m., and crashed. On the agenda tomorrow: surfing! |
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We awoke today, sore and tired from our rafting adventure, and bid farewell to lovely Xandari Plantation. We were shuttled by Oscar to a little local airport (not the big San Jose one), where we were to catch our "commuter flight" to Tamarindo. While there, we were onlookers for a little airport drama...turned out a woman from Colorado (who was a surfer spending two months in San Jose and had only a small backpack and surfboard with her) was being denied space on the flight for her surfboard, despite the fact that she'd reserved cargo space and had actually sent them a check months earlier.
We learned two things: (1) traveling with surfboards can be harder than it sounds, and (2) always use a credit card for travel, whenever possible.
And then we were off! We could feel every tiny shimmy and shudder of the runway, and currents of air constantly buffeted the tiny craft. For the first 10 minutes or so I was nervously listening to the engine; every time the drone changed slightly I'd get a little bit panicky. But after a while, I relaxed and started enjoying the views, which were spectacular.
Then, the final leg to Tamarindo! As we descended to Tamarindo airport, we flew very low over a grassy field and panicked a small herd of cows. (This is generally not a good sign when trying to land a plane, methinks.) We finally touched down on a dirt runway in the back of somebody's field. Welcome to Tamarindo! The entire airport consisted of a dry field, a bus stop, and a lone tourist van waiting nearby. We were approached by a "tourist representative" who charged us $5 each for a ride to town (twice what our hotel contact had told us to expect)...but, it was either that or lasso one of the cows, so we accepted.
We bounced and jounced as we left the airport, crossing a half-dry riverbed and then turning onto a rutted, potholed, stone-strewn dirt road that raised a huge cloud of dust behind us as we traveled. We passed some ramshackle huts off to the side of the road and saw stray dogs and the occasional chicken (yes, the chicken did cross the road). It was oppressively hot--it must have been 20 degrees hotter than in Alajuela, easily 90 degrees-plus in the shade.
As we rattled our way on, we didn't see anything that could even come close to approximating a town, at least in our estimation. We were getting a little nervous, with visions of our "hotel" being nothing but huts and standing water, when we turned a corner and found our destination, nestled next to a bait shop and across the street from a run-down liquor store. We pulled into the parking lot, which was gated and manned by a guard who had to literally hoist up the gate arm with a rope to let us in. Happily, we soon found that our hotel was great...28 villas nestled up on a hillside, lovely landscaped grounds, a beautiful swimming pool with a "waterfall," a large outdoor restaurant, and even a surf shop attached. (We learned later that the hotel was owned by a surfing dentist who lived in Santa Cruz, Calif., and it definitely had a bit of a California feel to it.)
We checked in and were thrilled to see our villa -- it was enormous! Bedroom, kitchen (with full refrigerator, stove, microwave, double sinks, dishes, pots and pans, etc.), living room, wraparound balcony (pool on one side, ocean view on the other)...best of all, color TV with cable, and about 47 channels showing soccer (Dave was a happy camper).
We changed our clothes, slathered on some sunscreen, and went exploring. We discovered that our hotel was on the very fringe of town, which explained our less-than-civilized impression on our ride from the airport. The dirt road even gave way to concrete paving blocks (although only for a little while) the closer to the town center you went. "Village" is perhaps a better word to describe it; the entire main strip was only about a half-mile long, and bordered on both sides by little cantinas, restaurants, tourist outposts, and surf shops. The town's main grocery store was about the size of your average 7-11; they had a bank, two real-estate offices, and a couple of other businesses we could see (including, hurray, an Internet cafe!). There was a rental-car outpost, right next to our hotel, but no gas station. And tons of hotels, motels, and cabinas -- little cabins that could be rented for as little as $5 per night. Great for a low-budget college kid on safari, but unfortunately, not the ideal destination for honeymooners.
The funniest sight to me was at the solitary crossroads in town, where dozens of colorful signs had been nailed up. It was the closest thing we saw to a city map, and it turned out to be pretty handy.
We hopped in the pool (did I mention it was hot?), then went out exploring again. We shopped for some supplies (including the must-have Pringles, which are, happily for me, seemingly popular everywhere), walked on the beach a bit (the water was so warm!) and then kicked back at the hotel, napping and reading, until 10 p.m., time for the turtle tour. We and a half-dozen other tourists were picked up at the hotel in a minivan, driven 100 yards down the road (no lie), and loaded on board small skiffs for a ride across the Tamarindo rivermouth to Playa Grande, where we started trudging up the beach (led by guides with red-filtered flashlights) for a half-mile hike through the sand.
Finally, as we stumbled, sweating, through the sand, we caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of our eyes...and saw, in the gloom, a