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.