Mal Pais: Bad Country Done Mostly Right

International Tally:
Canadians: 36
Finns: 6
Swedes: 2
Aussies: 2
Kiwis: 1

Eventually, you learn to disregard the helpful advice and information offered by employees of hotels and other Costa Rican booking agencies, because if you pay attention you'll either spend three hours waiting for a bus, miss the bus altogether or book a ride on a bus that doesn't exist.

It was the latter I discovered on the morning of New Year's Eve: a promised and paid-for shuttle from Tamarindo to Mal Pais that proved imaginary. The tourist ranks in Tamarindo had grown steadily in anticipation of El Fin Año, the dusty streets packed with bikini-clad girls and surfboard-toting guys. I probably just made it sound better than it was. In reality it was a solid mile-long traffic jam, 30-minute waits for breakfast, clogged beaches, skyrocketing prices and NO VACANCY/NO HAY HABITACION signs.

With no room booked or bookable, no desire to stay and a seven-and-a-half foot piece of luggage to lug, I found myself once again resorting to the hire of a taxi. This would cost me dearly, as the guy wanted to be sure he would be duly compensated for risking his own late arrival to the party upon return to Tamarindo that night. Good old Jerry (pronounced Yeri) made the drive in under four hours, a good time I'm told, traversing rivers and dodging jacuzzi-sized potholes in his truck. Perhaps more remarkable was the fact his brother came along to keep jerry company on the return trip--the entire voyage spent with my luggage in the pick-up bed.

Nevertheless, we all arrived safely in Mal Pais by 3:30PM, and I was delighted. Mal Pais (translation: Bad Country) is actually comprised of two small villages, Mal Pais and Santa Teresa, both stretched out along a single, roughly 4 (maybe 6?) mile stretch of road running adjacent to the ocean. It's all quite rural, featuring a small grocer, a liquor store, 3 cafes, a dozen or so restaurants, four real estate agents and six surf shops. Not even a bank to accommodate the many, many gringos inhabiting the twenty or thirty lodgings.

Although there didn't seem to be the density of crowds I'd seen in tamarnido, there were easily more expats than ticos in mal pais for new year, and when I attended the local New Year's party, held at a club on the beach, there were probably 3-400 grinning white faces. Bright pink, with puffed up and cracking lips from the brutal sunburned earned the day before at Witch's Rock, I was quite content to sip on a few drinks and discuss politics, health care and taxation with the two Finnish couples staying next door at my hotel (they were shocked to hear what little federal services we received for our income taxes, and I was equally shocked to learn that they all surfed). I should mention that this was the first club i had been to in nearly a month spent in country that didn't play some form of reggae; instead, some very loud, fast house music kept people dancing til what I'm told was dawn.

I went to sleep early though, anticipating an early morning of empty waves while everybody else slept off the hangovers. I found more empty than waves, and the few rides I was able to get were sullied by my newfound fear of the sun. Despite the widebrimmed hat strapped to my head, the combination of saltwater and open exposure kept me from fully enjoying the surf. instead, I struck up a conversation with the only othe rperson out there, a lovely kiwi girl (new zealander), who regaled me with stories of her recent travels through scotland, guatemala and cuba.

She would go on to introduce me to some friends she had made locally, an eclectic group of internationals who make an annual winter pilgrimage to Mal Pais, some dating back six years, some for as long as six months at a stretch. They're easygoing people, of course, because when you spend so much time in such a warm, tranquil place, the word 'stress' pretty much becomes an abstraction, a whisper that would go unheard, if uttered, by ears better attuned to phrases like "maybe later."

As the days passed, I moved to some cheaper available lodging, knowingly referred to by part-time residents as "the Turkish Prison" for it's high, bare white walls and sparse furnishings. Here I befiended yet more Canadians, setting the stage for many more nights of cards, beer and dancing.

The waves managed to pick up a little bit, and I discovered that Playa Carmen, the beach at the center of it all, offers large, gentle, slopey and loooooong rides. My longboard proved the perfect compliment to such breaks, and so as I peeled away a hard-won layer of deep tan, I rejoined the sunshine with some super-fun afternoons, catching more than 20 waves an hour. As it turns out, most of the Canadians, Swedes, Finns and the assorted landlocked Americans who found their way to these easy beachees each year aren't the most experienced surfers, so even my mediocrity stood out. As the water would get crowded with longboards, I would paddle further out and catch the bigger rides, slaloming through the paddlers to aovid collision, and feeling like quite the man. Well, it's a rare conceit for me, as I usually more closely resemble a bobblehead doll when I surf.

Honestly, I felt like I could stick around forever in Mal Pais, and I initially planned to spend the remainder of my time there. However, a few factors conspired to drive me out. First, the internet access was palty, frequently broken and slow. Living there would be problematic, at least for a little while longer (the place is developing rapidly, and a few homes for sale are advertizing hi-speed connections). Second, the swell was dying. My luck in Costa Rica was terrible with regard to surfing, and most places I went I was told of great surf just passed by or good thems soon to come. At PLaya Carmen, weak surf is almost worse than no surf at all. Last and probably most important in driving me out: the community that remained once New Year's passed was quite small and, as a result, you were prone to seeing the same people all the time. this would have been fine, fun even, except a couple of girls took a liking to me. This also would have been fine, great even, except that one of them was not travelling alone, and the other exhibited a surprising and unwarranted jealousy. Suffice to say, I felt a bit under scrutiny, and found myself in awkward situations not of my own devise. In just over a week, I'd already found myself unable to surf or walk down the street without running into new acquaintances; a sword that swings both ways. When an honest-and-actual, affordable shuttle to tamarindo came up, I bolted, nearly a week ahead of schedule, and just hoped that the place would be more palatable without the crowds. Or, if not that, then at least a source of anonymity.

Witch's Rock and Roca Bruja

San Jose didn't have a lot to offer, so I beat it out of there hastily and head for the beach. With only a vague notion of where I might stay I split for Tamarindo by bus. Unfortunately, this was in the few days leading up to new year's, and the buses were sold out a couple days in advance. I had to resort to a pricey taxi ride, which wound up being kind of cool because it meant a five hour conversation in spanish with my driver, who was patient and helpful with my conjugations.

Tamarindo was packed, in fact overflowing. Somehow, my driver was able to get me a couple of affordable nights at a centrally located hotel, and I was able to reacquaint myself with the pacific ocean pretty easily. However, the crowd was too much, cars and people clogging the streets, kicking up dust, and prices high for the busy season. It didn't take long to decide this wasn't the place for me to end the year, so i decide to move to Mal Pais a couple days ahead of schedule.

Phones are in short supply here (for example, in my current hotel I am online via highspeed wifi, but there isn't a phone in sight), so I had to walk down the street to find Mal Pais lodging, armed with a list of phone numbers and a phone card. Passing muchos ticos and gringos on the street, I thought sure I was mistaken when I heard someone shout my name. When I heard it again I thought maybe crazy.

No such luck, though, it was my friend Gillian, wife to Charles and fellow spades adversary from Pavones. Turns out, the'd driven up from Pavones a couple days prior were staying about an hour away with Gill's extended family. They'd driven into tamarindo so Charles could book a boat to go to Witch's Rock, which is probably Coasta Rica's most famous wave, though difficult to reach except by a half-hour boat ride.

Let me tell you how wonderfully this worked out for me: Witch's Rock, or Roca Bruja, was definitely on my to-do list, and I figured I'd have to sign onto a baot rented by a bunch of strangers. Instead, I was able to join onto Charles's boat. And since that boat left Playas del Coco (an hour or so north) at 6am, I was invited to spend the night with the family at Playa Azucar, aka Sugar Beach.

After a susnet surf session, Charles and Gill drove me up to Sugar Beach. This proved to be a beautiful resort featring many rooms and rental houses on a private cove. the family proved to be big, quite big, with uncles, cousins and siblings numbering about 35. With the power out, we ate dinner, drank a few beers, played some more cards and tried to get some sleep.

The wakeup call came early, and five of us stacked a bunch of boards on an SUV and head out for the boat. A bumpy ride finally led us to an empty stretch of beach on the coast of a forest reserve. Truth is, though, I never set foot on that beach. For seven hours we surfed, with only about twenty minutes spent on the boat for a quick lunch break. For most of that time the waves were frequent and good, and we had them all to ourselves, just the five of us and our two boat guides, Garbiel and Jose. In their early twenties, these two are two of the best surfers I've ever seen, which makes sense. For most of the past decade they've surfed this break four days a week. They flipped around their boards and flew into the air with ease, often even giving the rest of us a chance at some waves. I think we all learned from them, however, and by the end of the day I at least was a better surfer. One of the guys brought along a disposible, waterproof camera, so with luck I will soon have proof in a picture or two of myself surfing, taken from a few feet away and, in one case, about six feet below.

What a day! One of the most fun I've had since I was a kid. It cost me though. I somehow forgot the long-sleeve rash guard I'd broaght specifically for this trip, forgot to wear the strap on hat, forgot the lip balm and forgot to reapply sunscreen regularly. Well, we all did, by the time we got off that boat, all five of us were beet red, and if the others are anything like me, it only got worse the next few days.

As it happened, Charles and the others had a family dinner to attend nearby, the birthday party of one of the younger cousins. Since taking me back to my stuff was incredibly out of the way, I was brought along to a restaurant in nearby resort Playa Ocotal, specifically a restauratn called, appropriately enough, Roca Bruja.

Now, I don't know how it is I have found myself in situations like this several times in my adult life, but being the odd man out at a large family gathering is not new to me. In this case it was a family made up predominately of lawyers and texas oil men: two families of several siblings with their spouses and children. I was the strange guy from California who volunteered to take the big family portrait before submitting drink orders and joining the buffet line.

The entire family turned out to be incredibly gracious and friendly, and somehow I managed not to feel unwelcome for even a minute. It was kind of a bummer when dinner ended and everybody went back to Playa Azucar. Another beer and cards night was brewing, but I had to get to Tamarindo for an early ride to Mal Pais the next morning, new year's eve.

The City Break

Pavones was about as country as it gets; trucks kicking up dust, fireflies flashing green in the orange dusk, iguanas scampering down from the trees and darting into holes in the ground. It was staying here that I realized: with three weeks gone by, this particular brand of country had become my reality. I woke up expecting clear skies, quiet and humidity.

So landing in San Jose was a bit of culture shock. We reached our hotel after dark on xmas eve, and, like most of the city, it had a weathered, bars-on-the-window vibe. Would have been fine, except that somewhere in the street, somebody was blasting a long, loud, all holiday mix of music, along with some even louder fireworks. This went on til about midnight, and began again promptly at 7. Apparently they do xmas down here louder than at home.

After breakfast the next day, Roy hopped in a cab for the airport, and I switchced over to a hostel that featured wifi and a pool table. Once the holiday passed, there wasn't much to interest me in San Jose. I checked out the Jazz Club, recommended to me by an american/tica couple met in Dominical, and it was actually very cool; it would have been cool even in LA or NYC. Nice decor, mellow clientele, and at 9PM a couple of guys sitting around the place step up on stage and start playing music. In this case it was three guys: a pianist, a drummer and a bassist playing a lovely 5-string number. After a couple of songs, the bass player, who'd seemed to be the leader of the trio, stepped off the stage, and a different guy stood up, picked up a different five string bass, and played another great groove. After him, a third bassist followed, and I looked around uncomfortably, worried that I might be called on stage next.

Next, I asked a cabbie to tgake me to calle de amargura (street of sorrow), which is a local scene of bars and clubs. it's basically a seedy alley where fistfights and other unsavory ac ts might be witnessed, and i spent about twenty minutes in one crowded club, where guys stood around menacingly, socping girls and pissing on the bathroom floor. The next day, i took off for tamarindo. And to think I thought I was a city boy.

Old Neighbors, New Friends in Turkey Town

Canadian Tally: 21

After surviving Dominical, Roy and I boarded a morning bus for what would be the most challenging stage of our journey, the circuitous roads down to Pavones, which literally translataes to ‘Turkeys,’ apparently named for the wild turkeys that once roamed the area.

Pavones is way south on Costa Rica’s Pacific coast, only a few miles, in fact, from Panama. It’s also very disconnected from the real world, lacking so much as a phone line, let alone a bank or internet connection. What was our purpose for going so far south and out of the way? The world famous left-breaking wave there, known to offer kilometer long, two-and-a-half minute rides.

Our bus took us as far as Rio Claro, where a well-timed second bus backtracked a bit to drop us in Golfito, so named for its position on a small inlet of the Golfo Dulce, or Sweet Gulf, which is a beautiful blue body of water surrounded by the thick jungle and pal cliffs of the Oso Penninsula, described by National geographic as the “most biologically intense place on Earth.”

In Golfito, we tried to catch the day’s only remaining bus to Pavones, and would have, except it was particularly packed, leaving no room for the 7’6” coffin of a surfboard bag we dragged behind us. Although we would run low on funds for two days in ATM-free Pavones, we wound up hiring a taxi for the 2 hour drive through the jungle over bumpy roads and a short ferry ride. Our driver, Uriel, was up to the task, and we got there in an hour and a half.

It was already dark by now, or trip from Dominical lasting about 7 hours, and so we grabbed a cheap meal at one of the 6 or 7 businesses in the entire town. Upon returning to our duplex cabina, we ran into our north Carolina neighbors from Dominical, staying next door to us once again. We laughed about the coincidence then sat down to a few sixpacks and a hearty round of Spades. As it happens, Costa Rican beer is pretty tasty.

Charles, the upright bass playing husband and father, woke me up early the next morning to hit the waves, and more than three hours later we finally hiked our way back to the pad, where, later that night, we would once again settle in for drinks and cards.

The following afternoon, after a few rounds of ping pong (Roy once again dominated), we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped the bus back to Golfito, where we caught an afternoon flight to San Jose. The tiny airstrip, manned only by a one-armed baggage handler, would be easy to miss from the road, surrounded on three sides by densely vegetated hills.

Somehow, our plane managed to take off without problem. I say “our plane” because it might as well have been a charter; just the two pilots and ourselves. The plan climbed above the clouds in time to see the sunset, and as Roy brought out his camera to take some pictures (forthcoming here, I promise), I nudged him, reminding him the pilots asked for no personal electronics devices to be used until we hit cruising altitude. Roy just nudge me back, and pointed out that the pilots also had a camera out, and were clearly the more avid shutterbugs on this particular flight. If you get a chance to fly without the hassle of fellow passengers, I’d highly recommend it.