JACO -- AND PARQUE NACIONAL MANUEL ANTONIO

 

 

Thus begins the start of a long weekend drive to Jaco (Hawk-o).  Five hours away from La Fortuna, out of the highlands and in the center of the country on the Pacific coast. The primary surfing capital of Costa Rica (at least by reputation), alleged prostitution center of the country, and developer’s “never say no” paradise.  The type of place you either love or hate.  Tourists, hippies, surfers and land barons vs. disaffected Ticos and environmentalists.  I decide not to be swayed by either camp, and to sample the popular resort area for myself.  The trip – often in first or second gear – takes at least five hours.  I arrive well after dark.

 

The weather is still quite warm, but with a redeeming beachfront breeze.  Numerous storefront tiendas offer up souvenirs, casual and fine dining, drinks, and souvenir drinks.  Surfboards are for rent everywhere.  Surfing lessons are offered alongside.  Beach clothing is available in every permutation of color, size, and design.  Low cost is the only missing variable.

 

The shops are all modern.  The goods are still kitschy.  Jaco beach itself reminds me of Ipanema and Copacobana beaches in Rio de Janeiro.  It is a huge curving arc, very clean, well attended, and surprisingly … enjoyed mostly by families.  Jaco has the feel of a spring break sort of town yet for Mom ‘n Pop and the kids.  And a surprising number of touring retirees.

 

Part of what contributes to this feeling is the lack of stress in town.  You are not assaulted by carnival barkers insisting their family’s survival is dependent on spreading your filthy lucre locally.  There are plenty of people, but no crowds, and no long waiting lines.  Even during the high season, from December to April.  There is little to no pushiness.  No sidewalk sales aggression.  Vendors are polite, and don’t drag you by the arm into their shop for a look-see.

 

I pick a local restaurant for dinner, largely on the proximity of it to my rental car, the availability of wi-fi for internet access, and the fact I could watch Costa Rica dismantle El Salvador 1 – 0 in the ongoing Central America Cup.  The mandatory souvenir hunt takes place afterward (I am a looker, and rarely a buyer, because 45 days on the road mandates little success for bringing home your now Himalayan sized bags without prodigious extra tack-on fares).  Then the hunt for a hostel.  Luckily, I am familiar with the extremely easy to use and helpful HostelBookers.com.  Five minutes after booking a hostel online, I arrive at their doorstep.

 

The Jaco Inn is guarded like Fort Knox.  There are three barriers and then an iron gate across the driveway alone.  An all-night guard is also posted inside the compound.  I am wondering if they fear a prostitute invasion?  Or ransacking attempts from the nearby disco, where “Ladies Night” every night ensures a regular crowd to fraternize with hostel residents unless stern measures are taken to keep the local riffraff away from the great unwashed who reside with me for the evening.

 

With the late arrival and having enjoyed the initial (evening) introduction to Jaco so much, I decide to stay an extra day.  It begins with a rare breakfast, especially Americano style bacon and eggs.  Then a shirtless long walk along the beach, from the middle to both ends.  It is almost mandatory to get in that daily venture somewhere.  Then back the two blocks into town for an equally mandatory gesture, the afternoon caipirinha and now Bloody Mary exercise.  Suitably armed, a forced march is once again leveled against the beach.  This time with swimsuit under.  Unbelievably, this is the first time I enter the sea in eight countries and 42 days in Central America.

 

One of the reasons Jaco is so popular is the waves are right for just about everybody but the expert surfer.  And that set manages to find their perfect medium here at other (championship) times of the year.  For now, many beginners dot the crestlines of rhythmic pattern waves.  They are joined by waveboarders, and body surfers.  Most do not get any rides of distinction.  I am among them. Nobody notices.  It is a mellow and not particularly competitive place.

 

Later, a game of beach soccer informally begins.  Several local teenagers have been kicking the ball around, and occasionally kick it to me.  They are surprised that a gringo – and well over 35 something Gringo at that – knows what to do with the ball.  I don’t, really.  I play goalie in real life.  And fake the field stuff really well.  But they either don’t care or are desperate for players.  So I play pickup beach soccer for the very first time.  With teenagers.

 

The lines are unmarked.  Part of these include the advancing tide surges. The rules are unclear.  I merely follow.  Guard like I am supposed to. And occasionally make a run to the opposite goal.  On one of these, I make a goal.  And have several near misses on others.  At the more familiar defensive end, I block numerous goals, but allow two against much faster opponents.  In the end, the six of us play to a 4-4 tie.  I am happy to be able to walk and breathe still when it is all done.

 

Thoroughly sunburned, the next stop is made at a beach shower enclosure with private stalls.  One American dollar (widely accepted in Costa Rica and indeed, most all of Central America) gets you a cold shower – most welcome at this point – and a towel and a chiclets sized bar of soap.  Add another dollar, and they look the other way if you shower with a chica.  I have noticed for Central America that Rules always have a back door when extra money is involved.

 

And then next door to dinner.  Seafood soup, and the proverbial guacamole and chips.  Plus more caipirinhas, and more beer (hey, it is HOT out there!).  The sun descends rapidly, then sets even faster.  Naturally, my camera is not present.  I am traveling light, without backpack.  So the next best thing to the evening solar firestorm at Atitlan is not caught on film.  The image of the fierry orange oblong globe descending into a crimson and magenta colored sea remains seared in my mind, nevertheless.  Dancing and yet more liquid heat relief follows.  The hostel is not even approached, let alone entered, until well after midnight.

 

Part of the reason is solving a tidy little problem related to losing the key to the rental car.  I put money and a credit card safely into the bathing trunks, but neglected to treat the key with equal respect.  Needless to say, somewhere between the body surfing and the beach soccer, it too an “exit, stage left.”  The local locksmith smelled a Yankee, and charged $30 just to open the vehicle, and another $70 to make a surplus set of keys.  I had no choice but to agree.  No telling what new rules and related fines the car rental agency would have made up on the spot had I revealed that I’d lost their key.

 

Blogging until 4:15 AM (to make up for my habitual tardiness this trip) hardly prepares me for an early departure.  Up by 9 though, still groggier than a shanghaied sailor.  And bound for Manuel Antonio National Park.  While only the second smallest national park in Costa Rica, this coastline gem 80 minutes south of Jaco is disproportionately popular.  This is due to its accessibility, abundance of wildlife, and variety of landscape.  The road in is so narrow, and the streets so jammed the last three kilometers, that sometimes the shopping area around the entry has the feel of a Nascar event.

 

The draw is being able to walk up right next to tame park animals, and photograph them easily.  Nearly always present are sloths, lizards, squirrel monkeys, agoutis (capabari type small rats), coatis, and armadillos.  Occasionally parrots, macaws and toucans also show themselves.  Then there are the magnificent geographical features of the park.

 

Those include a long, curving beach much like at Jaco but with the added bonus of a palm lined perimeter (Playa Espadrilla Norte), the family playground of Manuel Antonio Beach, where surf meets narrow rocky defiles,  which create huge blowholes and eddies as the waves and tide  sweep inward toward a steeply inclined beach); or, the secretive and isolated Playa Puerto Escondido – where the romantically inclined are most likely to be found lingering in fond embrace in the softly surging surf of a lagoon type enclosure.

 

Leaving the park at the tail end of a loop trail, one encounters a waist deep channel perhaps 30 yards across.  Almost everybody here takes a so-called ferry (really a dugout canoe type punt that handles eight passengers at most).  The charge to cross is $1.  The passage takes perhaps one minute, max.  Nearby signs in large letters say Peligroso (Danger) and warn of the presence of crocodiles.  It is not until you are nearly across that you notice small school children, swimming with great ease amongst the roots of the mangrove swamp at rivulet’s edge.  Crocodiles?  Perhaps every other leap year.  A Croc?  Almost a sure bet …

 

Once again, the sunset driving back is not to be missed.  It appears as a brilliant orange H-bomb type mushroom glob on the horizon, that is at first bifurcated by a low hanging ribbon cloud, and then made whole again.  And once again, my camera is unavailable, having blown its last ounce of juice taking photos of lizards in Manuel Antonio.   The ride back to San Jose – which is supposed to take one and one-half hours – instead takes five with the Sunday evening traffic.  As a consequence, I miss my 11 PM all night bus to Panama City, and have to settle for a bus the following day at noon.  Costa Rica will just have to endure me for another day.