When we arrived, the city, the whole city was watching the futbol (soccer) game between Mexico and Costa Rica. People sat in vigil around store window TV’s and shouting could be head throughout the streets as the game progressed. One solid scream of triumph containing the voice of every Costa Rican was heard when Costa Rica won2-1. People ran out of their houses and out of stores to jump up in the air and dance in the street. Horns were honking; people gathered in the streets stopping traffic and sang national pride songs, “Aye, Aye, Aye…Ticos, Ticos!” Such solidarity and pride.

And this is just a part of something much bigger. People are free here to express themselves and it makes me feel free. People sing love songs on the buses, on the streets…and the dancing-wow. The hips of men and women sway together smoothly as their feet tap out the fast beats of Salsa, Meringue, and Cumbia. It’s sexier than I can begin to describe, and it’s totally accepted here. Even eight your old know how to swing their hips to the music.

Naturally I wanted to get into this fun after class, my adult students have been teaching me how to dance. We blast the Latin music and they take turns showing the rigid American how to move sauvecito style. It takes time and a few beers to learn these dances. Americans look like such stiffs on the dance floor when standing next to Latinos. We may have wealth, but most Americans will never manage to dance like this.

I can’t truly describe dancing without describing Costa
Rican fashion. The men dress casual, but the women all wear the tightest clothing. They wear heels with pants that form themselves around the curves of the lower side. Many women wear a top that pulls tight against the chest and ties in the back with spaghetti straps. What I love is that every woman dresses this way. Skinny, short, fat, thin, young, old; it doesn’t matter, you’re showing off everything that you got.

There’s the Costa Rican walk that accompanies this look. They walk with their torso held high and straight, and shoulders rolled back. Their legs move forward in long casual strides while their butt sways back and forth. By American standards, most Costa Rican women would be mistaken for prostitutes, but that’s just the way it is here.

Ok, back to my favorite thing. Dancing. People, young and old, flock to the discos, and they’re so fun. Michelle and I have now traveled to Monteverde and San Jose together. We go to the discos at night and have no problem finding dancing partners for the night. Two weekends ago our dancing partners were Oscar and Julio, rural farmers. Last Friday night we were at our local bar when a group of men asked us to join them at their table. We agreed and as we sat they brought a candle to our table, and one of the men pulled out a guitar and serenaded us with Latin folk songs. Everyone in the bar started to sing along full out and tap rhythms on their tables and glasses.

Last night we first went to a tiny Argentinean tango bar where 70-year-old musicians took turns playing accordions and guitars while belting out songs of love and loss. One of the old passionate goats sang a song to Michelle and I about how sad it was that we were alone, “Que triste, mi pobrecitos estan solo.” Oh God. Then we went to a disco and danced the night away with an Argentinian magician and his friend. While dancing, the magician pulled a red cloth and feathers from his empty hand.

Es una vida loca aquí. Ciao, Laura J

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One evening, during a full moon, Sarah and I put on our headlamps and set off on a night journey. We met on the road and walked down the road with the moon casting a grey-blueish shadow and dimly lighting our way. The full moon cast a silver-blue hue over the tall rainforest trees. You could hear, and almost feel the restlessness that the moon was creating amongst the colonies of insects, animals, and plants of the rainforest. You felt yourself tucked inside its world amongst butterflies curled under leaves, Toucans perched on branches, snakes keeping warm under fallen foliage, alligators lying still in a pond with only their nostrils and eyes peering up at the moon. You weren’t alone in the rainforest-especially on a moonlit night.

As Sarah and I walked down the road in the quiet of the night, few cars passed. We didn’t make our usual stop at the local karaoke tavern, but dept on down the paved small road. This road was deceptive. One minute you felt comfortable walking down it and waving to the country folk in their simple homes, and the next, a Dole Banana truck would pass by you at 80 miles and hour coming so close to you that you felt the breeze it left in its wake. In the eight months that I lived in Sarapiqui, one drunk and two children were hit and killed.

After walking about twenty minutes in the dark, we spotted a dirt road off to the left that led past a hovel of tin roof shacks where illegal Nicaraguan immigrants lived. One time I visited an 8th grade student of mine who lived in one of the shacks. I was taken aback. It’s one thing to see poverty from afar, and have no real connection to it, but another thing to see a child that you know living with so little. When I stepped inside her house to meet her parents, they were sitting on chairs atop a dirt floor. In a separate section of the house were two beds atop the packed dirt floor, one for four children, and another for the parents. They also had a TV blaring in the shack. I watched them watching the TV, and tried to imagine what it must be like to do back-straining work all day, carrying and harvesting one hundred pound bags of bananas and then coming home at night and watching the TV- peering into a world of fancy cars, and big, comfortable houses.

We kept following the dirt road that wound around a hill. We turned off our headlamps because the dim light of the moon was enough to light our path. We reached the top of the hill, which was flat and littered with an old car, a fridge lying on its back with the door flung open, and the foundation of an old house that used to have a phenomenal view. From the top of the hill we could see the rainforest canopy below, the Rio Sarapiqui that snaked through it, the vast, open expanses of cut forest turned into cattle pasture, the points of light from the distant houses in remote regions, the rain forested mountain ridge to the south, and the full moon lighting it all in a phosphorescent glow.

Sarah and I didn’t speak for a time as we stood in awe of the beauty below and above us. The silence was finally broken by the sound of a few local kids coming up the road. They were kids that we knew from our after school program. One boy jumped in the old fridge and pretended that it was a boat that he was rowing out to sea in. Seeing that made me smile, and gave me hope that as long as a child had imagination, was surrounded by the purity of nature, had some rice and beans to eat, and a rusted tin roof overhead, life could be good, and magic could be made by a child playing in a pile of junk on a moonlit hill.

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To get to Bocas Del Toro I took a bus from San Jose, Costa Rica to the border of Panama. From the border I took a local taxi that brought me to a boat launch where boats leave hourly to take tourists and locals out to Bocas Del Toro.

On the boat ride to the islands, we first followed a narrow canal with tropical trees that hung overhead. We passed by the wooden shacks of “campesinos” (country folk). After a half-hour of winding through canals, we left the canal and glided for another half hour over the open ocean to reach Bocas Island, one of many tiny islands in the chain.
When the skiff pulled up to the dock at Bocas Island I noticed a small group of tan-skinned local islanders looking my way. Once I got off the boat and walked passed them I could hear a little hiss, whistling, and “hola macha” (hi, blondie.) As a North American woman this type of thing brings up some conflicting feelings. The feminist in me says, “Shut up you chauvinist pigs,” but the woman in me says, “I’m sexy and someone finally sees it.”

The island life also attracts retired men from North America who build their dream get-aways in the tropics, buy fishing boats, and drink beer from sunrise to sunset. The only problem they seem to encounter in their new dream-life is that on the island their dating pool shrinks to the size of the tiny islands they stand on. If they haven’t found a young, tropical girl to take care of them, they become as pesky as sand fleas to any new woman that comes to the island.

Walking past the island storefronts painted in sunshine yellow, mango orange, lime green, and sea blue, my traveler’s reserve started to melt. I looked around to see which hotels were charming, but affordable. I came across Las Olas, (The Waves) a three story building which was built over the ocean. On the second floor there was a balcony filled with wicker chairs to sit in while you look out at the sailboats anchored out at sea.

It was a very romantic place, which is perfect if you are traveling with a companion, but saddening if you’re traveling alone.

When I went to turn in the key to reception, I noticed that the staff were a group of dark haired, dark eyed, broad shouldered masculine creatures speaking in an unidentifiable foreign tongue. I handed the key to a young man that looked like a Trojan warrior with his broad shoulders, olive-toned skin, and thick brown curls. He winked at me as I turned and walked away. I perked-up in an instant. Romance at least seemed possible, if only in flirtation.

That night I barely slept and thought obsessively about women with families and how I didn’t have one. I even wished for a second that I were sitting in my room watching cable TV with a husband. I imagined that he would turn over in bed, initiate sex, and I would politely say “sorry not tonight hon” as I turned away from him and fantasized about the Trojans running the hotel. However, the thought of passionless companionship still seemed better than the single life where passion is still possible, but companionship often unavailable.

The next day I woke and drank dark, rich coffee as I sat on the balcony and took in the sun sparkling on the ocean. I self-consciously turned my key into yet another handsome man. I asked him where he was from, and he said Israel. He told me in English that he spoke Hebrew and that the group of men and women running the hotel were all from Israel. I found it odd but interesting that I had stumbled across my first community of Israelites on a tiny Panamanian island. They were all so handsome. “Perhaps they really are God’s chosen people,” I pondered.

I set out down the one street of Bocas wearing a long purple, turquoise, and yellow skirt, and a halter top, with my long blonde hair flowing loosely down my back. “Que Linda” (how pretty) some men said softly as I passed by. I was surprised that they noticed me, because in Latin America far sexier women than I display their cleavage as if they were serving the men a full coarse meal on a platter. Latino men are constantly complimenting the eye-catching bright red bloom of tropical women, but to my surprise they equally complimented the far subtler wildflower blossom of the North American woman.

As I walked down the street I heard locals from black Caribbean decent and Latino descent speaking Spanish, English, and Gauri Gauri (the local Creole language of Bocas Del Toro).
To get to the public beach I walked past the main drag, past the grass field that is used for small incoming planes and for local boys as a football field, past the worn-down pastel colored wooden shacks, and past a cemetery with a white washed archway and cross. I reached the white sand beaches where only one other North American couple, and a few local kids were playing in the waves. I jumped into the waves and swam around a bit. After splashing around in the waves a bit, I got out, laid back on a log, and relaxed. A young Caribbean man with black skin, defined muscles, and dread locks was staring out at the ocean just down the beach from me, lingering about. I must have looked like a cliché to him; young single woman traveling alone, and lonely for some young dark surfer. I ignored his attention, and he finally gave up and walked away.

Living here in the tropics, I’ve seen a constant influx of North American women that come here and fulfill their fleeting beach fantasies with young local surfers. It becomes a routine for the local boys. I imagine them showering on a Saturday afternoon, splashing some cologne on, and readying themselves for a night of dancing and sex with yet another starry-eyed tourist. Seeing the routine of it all makes me avoid contact with the tropical beach boys.

I walked back to Las Olas to wash off the sand and salt water. That night I asked the tan-skinned Israeli at reception for an early morning wake up call. “Sure” he said glancing into my eyes. We looked at each other in silence for a moment, a nice moment of casual intimacy. He said goodnight in a soft voice, and I went back to my room alone, thinkng that maybe I wasn’t the only one sleeping in this hotel wishing for the comfort of having someone beside me.
Early the next morning I boarded a skiff with a full load of tourists from North American, Panama, England and Australia. We skipped over the smooth morning ocean toward the mainland, and in silence we said our good-byes to the islands of Bocas Del Toro as they faded behind us.

The only romance that had transpired on Bocas Del Toro was a love affair with the shining turquoise water, the sun warming and caressing my skin as I lie on the beach, and the passion of fantasy with the olive-skinned men in Las Olas, (The Waves).

By Laura Dulin
Laura Dulin is a contributor at Costa Rica Addicts. You can see her personal blog at http://lauradulin.blogspot.com

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Our whole group (which included my girlfriend and myself, my best friend Patrick and his new Costa Rican girlfriend whom we had just met) was fully aware of the difficulties involved in attempting to make the trek from the Pacific to the Atlantic in one drive. Thus, we decided it would be nice to treat ourselves to some luxurious dining the day before the big journey began. What we did not expect from this meal was to encounter one of those rare and precious moments in a lifetime, where everything in your life seems truly perfect. We ate the most magnificent seafood imaginable as we sat by the beautiful beach under the night’s sky and listened to the waves come crashing into the shore in a wonderful cadence, creating a peaceful ambience for our evening together. What’s more is that some of the culinary delights we were enjoying were on the house as my good friend Patrick explained to the waiter that we represented a Costa Rican travel service provider… nothing like corporate patronage, Costa Rican style!

And now for my end of the proverbial bargain through a shameless plug for this place… if anyone is ever in Brazalito, a sleepy town on the coast just north of Tamarindo in between Flamingo Beach and Tamarindo, you must visit El Camaron Dorado. Be prepared for the prices. They are certainly not typically Costa Rican. But I can state with absolute certainty that it is well worth the added expense. The quality of seafood served, its presentation, the charm of the waiters and the fact that you are literally sitting on the beach under the stars as you indulge in these delectable’s, more than makes up for the rather hefty bill that follows this unforgettable meal (Again, I need to re-iterate, the price is hefty by Costa Rican standards… this quality of meal would run anyone in a developed Western country in the hundreds of dollars per couple… we paid much less than half that price).

Needless to say, love and romance was definitely in the air for our two couples as we walked back along the beach to our resort and we went to bed with filled stomachs and anxious hearts for the day that was to come. The next morning, we got up as the sun rose (6 am for those that have not travelled to any equatorial countries), packed up our car and headed out for the trip back around *Arenal Lake (a must for anyone who appreciates beautiful sights… ok so a must for everyone*). Having been asked to take over driving duties after we stopped for breakfast was certainly interesting as I reminisced back to my last driving experience in Costa Rica just a over a year ago. I remembered with a chuckle being stuck in the middle of nowhere with an unleaded gasoline-filled, diesel SUV gas tank (please read: “What can happen…” for this interesting tidbit of a story). The post-breakfast part of our journey should have signalled events to come as the car would not start. We found ourselves pushing our car down the main road of a pueblito (Costa Rican for a small town that almost surely would not show up on any map) to get the engine to finally fire.

Obviously the vehicles owner, my best friend Patrick`s girlfriend, was slightly concerned. Strangely enough the car was only a few years old and although, as evidenced by my troubles at Costa Rican gas stations, I am by no means a mechanic, everything else seemed to be in perfect working order.

In case you have not guessed, I am foreboding our impending doom. Well, that perhaps is slightly melodramatic, but as I remember it, our doom as it were, began with another type of one of “life’s moments”: where time seems to stand still. As I drove through the arid desert-like climate of Guanacaste during the dry season and attempted to negotiate some of the highways pot holes at 80 km/h, I noticed something quite strange. Along one of the better roads I have driven in this country I watched as this flatter portion of Costa Rica actually provides for a slight mirage like effect. This became even more apparent as suddenly I noticed a massive Guanacaste tree branch (this normally beautiful tree is the province`s namesake). With a vehicle in the opposite left lane on-coming and the impending potential of yet another Costa Rican ditch incident my only other option to the right (again, see my “What can happen…” story), the aforementioned “moment” had arrived. I quickly decided an attempt to stop the vehicle before the enormous tree branch was my best choice. Slamming on the breaks and putting the clutch down I managed to bring the car to a stop within perhaps a foot of the large branch… phew! The strange part about stopping the car in this way is that the engine stalled (I could have swore I had the clutch all the way down). I could see the concern in Pat’s girlfriend’s eyes as I attempted to start the car again. Apparently Costa Rican manual transmissions need to be geared down even when slamming on the breaks (my unending and most sincere apologies again Georgia for my weak driving skills).

This whole episode put a little damper in our cross country adventure. Although we could eventually start the car again, the uncertainty of driving in the rural regions of a third world country with a vehicle that had stalled twice in the same day did not appeal to anyone, especially the vehicle’s owner… it was after all, her car (and no, they don’t have AAA or CAA here, I asked). So we found a small mechanics shop in the next town and stopped to see what we could find out about the vehicle’s conditions.

First let me clarify, by a mechanics shop I mean a couple of Costa Rican dudes working on some cars next to a little shack like shelter to protect from the elements while they did their work. Pat’s girlfriend Georgia engaged herself in a conversation with the mechanic about the troubles we had been having with the car and asked them what they thought. They said that it sounded like a problem with the battery as they inspected the engine. Patrick meanwhile got increasingly frustrated as he felt it had nothing to do with the battery, and that the recharging of the battery they were proposing would essentially be a waste of our time. I agreed as Patrick has a tendency to be right about these things. So I sat back, kept my mouth shut and feared the worst as we waited for the mechanics to do their work.

Patrick’s frustration would only grow as an American ex-pat turned rural Costa Rican local walked up to us and tried to explain to us what was wrong with our car. The American quickly transitioned the conversation to explaining his life’s story, which neither of us were interested in, nor in the mood for. As an aside on this topic: I have a couple of quick questions to all American`s (or “Gringos’’ as they are known here) who decide move to Costa Rica. Firstly let me clarify, as I am not talking to those that decide they will teach or live in Costa Rica for a while. Rather my query is only to those who actually decide to make their move permanent. My questions: Why do you, as an American living in Costa Rica, feel the necessity to boast to other Westerners (or Americans/Canadians rather) about the life in Costa Rica? Or how old you are and how young your Costa Rican wife is for that matter? Or even how well you were doing while in the US but that you just couldn’t live there anymore because of: a) George W. Bush, b) the society going to crap, c) the quality of life being worse in the US than in the more laid back Costa Rica. And lastly how every time you go back to the States you realize just how smart you are for having made that fateful decision one fine day upon discovering the wonder this country had to offer.

Now, I know many reading this may be thinking that the stereotypical Americans are normally quite arrogant in any case. I have heard this many times, even from close friends of mine, and I have never personally ascribed to that viewpoint. I am Canadian and I feel that Americans, with respect to personality or arrogance, are quite similar to Canadians. You can find some arrogant ones, just as you find arrogant Canadians occasionally. But generally speaking, I find Americans to be genuine and wonderful people whether you meet them in their hometown or travelling through Europe. And yet, for whatever reason, the ones I have met living in Costa Rica are very boastful and ignorant, thinking they have discovered some hidden treasure in Costa Rica that others just aren’t smart enough to understand. Believe me, we understand. That`s why most people who travel to Costa Rica go back a second and third time, and maybe more after that. So please don’t come to me in Costa Rica and tell me that in no uncertain terms I am an idiot if don’t decide to make the same amazing decision to move down that you did, thank you very much. I, like many others who have fallen in love with this beautiful land, have other things to consider when we decide to move a continent away from our families, spouses, loved ones, friends, not to mention jobs and other business interests. And no amount of talk about the 18 year old wife you hooked up with when you moved down here is going to entice me any more than the things I truly appreciate about this country, like its people, its natural beauty and the obligatory Church and Soccer pitch in every single charming and unique town can.

Back to the story now… As I sat there waiting for the car to have its battery charged (which Pat was right it didn’t need to be charged) and contemplated the American`s proposal to go to back his place for a fiesta, where his 18 year old wife and their daughters could prepare us a feast (hey, he was still a nice guy after all!), a scary thought suddenly came to mind: it was already the afternoon, we had another three quarters of the journey to go and no accommodations really booked on the Atlantic coast.

We thereby negotiated with the mechanic and advised him that we would not pay him for the battery charge as it didn’t help our cause, gave him a tip of 5000 Colones instead (about ten bucks) and decided we would tempt fate with the car. Sure enough we made it across the country in close to 12 hours instead of the usual 8. Although we ended up arriving at dusk, we were all in one piece, safe and sound and ready to start our quest to find a place to sleep. In case you’re wondering, the only problem with the vehicle at the end of this lengthy and fun filled trip was the headlights that decided they would not turn off.

Next time we rent!!

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If you have ever talked to someone who has been to Costa Rica they have certainly spoken to you about the driving conditions of the country. Although few countries can rival the majestic views you are bound to see while driving in Costa Rica, few also have such bad road conditions. Thankfully the government has recently made fixing the roads a priority and improvements on bridges and roads have drastically improved in the last few years.

What makes driving around Costa Rica even more complicated is the fact that the country does not name their streets. So as you can imagine, finding a place that is 300 meters south of the National Bank in Barva of Heredia can prove to be quite the adventure.

My advice for those who decide to drive themselves around the country: Be as patient as you should be safe. As long as you do not mind making a wrong turn or having to ask for directions often, you should not encounter any problems. Of course, you should also avoid making any passes in any area that could in fact be dangerous. Costa Rica is fully of mountain roads that are anything but wide. At times larger vehicles even need to pass into your lane in order to make a turn, so be careful.

So why drive at all? For the freedom and the special moments that happen in between destinations. Some of my best memories have been on these wonderful roads. My favorite drive is along the roads less travelled on the Pacific Coast. I strongly recommned it. As for roads to avoid, the only one that comes to mind is the road into Monteverde. Those 30 kms that take three hours to cross are just not worth it. Much easier to just that a boat across Arenal lake and back.

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What makes this place so amazing is that it has yet to be inundated with resorts and has managed to keep a somewhat rustic vibe. It is still untouched beauty that can be seen by all. Wonderful empty beaches are everywhere, but if you want to see people all you have to do is go to one of the beaches where hundreds of surfers can be found.

A cursory warning to anyone wanting to swim on some of the more dangerous beaches in this region (which are usually those that have the most amount surfers attempting to ride the massive waves): Red flag means danger.

A more thorough explanation will follow in a future blog post.

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Let me preface this story by stating this is not altogether abnormal for my friends and I as danger and trouble seem to follow us around when we travel.

Three of my best friends from Canada were visiting me for 10 days shortly after I had arrived in Costa Rica to start my life here. Luckily both myself and George spoke Spanish reasonably well and we decided to rent an SUV and drive to Arenal to see the Volcano and experience the hot springs the Friday after they had arrived. To give you an idea of the type of absurdity that normally surrounds our trips together, up until this point of our trip we had already destroyed 2 of our 4 digital cameras in various ridiculous scenarios involving two unforgiving basic elements: sun and water.

Anyhow, on the way there my friend George was driving and decided to stop the Toyota Prado that we had rented and fill it up. An elderly Costa Rican gentleman from this small town where we stopped tried to engage in a seemingly important conversation as he gesticulated incessantly and raised his voice as we pumped the gas. According to George what the man was speaking was inaudible, although he felt it was most likely a Costa Rican Spanish dialect he had never heard before so he thanked him for wise advice he did not understand and we continued on our way. Two kilometers later, once our Prado had broken down, we realized what the nice elderly Costa Rican gentleman had been attempting to explain in his incomprehensible tongue: George was filling a diesel SUV gas tank with regular gasoline. After a nice two hour wait baking in the Costa Rican sun in the middle of nowhere, Budget sent us another Prado (this one was Green!).

Once in Arenal FOUR HOURS LATER than expected (the trip is normally 2 ½ hours), we enjoyed the thermal hot springs and went to bed at a reasonable time. We got up early and commence our Jungle river hike without a guide, almost destroying our last two cameras when our friend Long fell down into the river off a four foot drop. We followed that adventure by going Horseback riding and doing an exhilarating canopy tour. Well, George almost broke his toe and I am missing half the skin on the back of my neck, but it was worth the rush of flying down zip lines deep into the Jungle. When all was said and done we decided to head back to Heredia to go out to a nightclub in San Jose that we wanted to see.

On our way back to Heredia in the exact same town, with a population of maybe100, where our car broke down on the way there, we just about killed ourselves.

Essentially our good friend Long decided he would try to complete this portion of the trip as if he was Indiana Jones attempting to escape the Temple of Doom. But unlike popular action-adventure movies, when you drive at 70 km/hr in Costa Rica along a winding Cliffside road in the pitch black of night not to mention through a thick fog (or perhaps cloud cover… we were pretty high up), well… sometimes things don’t work out as the driver plans and you end up thanking God you are still alive. I still contend that the ditch we hit is the only one of its kind that exists in the mountains of Costa Rica. This was the only time I have seen something that can actually stop a car from going over the edge of the cliff when you drive straight through one of the bends in the road.

I swear I will always wear a seat belt from here on out because breaking the front windshield with your head is no fun. But we all survived the crash, except for the SUV of course, and the rental company at this point refused to give us another vehicle. This time it took us again six hours to get back, but we all survived and we still made it to the party we wanted to attend, just as we always do!

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Well, the biggest reason I have moved here is to start up my own tourism company. I have been working hard with a few of my friends to get this thing off the ground these last six months and it has been very rewarding for me. I wanted to do this as I really believed, and still do, that this wonderful country has so much to offer so many people who visit it. For me it was just a matter of establishing a company with integrity and phenomenal service standards in order to bring people here and keep them coming back.

Given the fact that I have no background in business, everyday seems to have provided me with good learning experiences. The biggest lesson I’ve learned thus far you ask? Well this is simply to make sure you take the time to do things right in all of your venture, whether it be with family, friends, business partners or clients. People really do appreciate when you are willing to take the time for them: it makes them feel special!!!

It really has been an amazing experience to be able to call the shots, and I don’t know how easy it will be to go back to taking orders if things were not to succeed the way I would like them too. Everyone who knows me is well aware that I tend to be a little difficult on authority. I won’t really give any more details about my business but I really think that I might surprise a few people when they come down, at least I hope I do, if you don’t believe me give our offices a call and find out for yourself!!!

Let me also introduce you to my new hometown and the birthplace of Exclusive X-Cursions Travel Inc.: Barva, Heredia. This quiet little town I live is about 20 minutes away from the capital, San Jose. This place is everything I had hoped for in moving here. I really took a step back in time and have had the opportunity to experience how things must have been like years ago. There are no large multinationals, restaurant chains, no street lights, and everybody in the town really ends up knowing your name. Everything is within a five minute walk, whether it be the food/supermarket, bakery, local pubs, gym, Internet café, bus stops, park, basketball courts, football fields, and even a beautiful church. It did not take me long to realize I would be happy living somewhere where no car was needed. I walk and take the bus everywhere, and if the need ever occurs, I take a taxi. All in all it is very cheap to get around, and I don’t have the guilt of polluting or putting a large dent in my pocket. Barva is known in Costa Rica as the city of artists because of the large number of famous artists and sculptors living here. What I like most about being here is that there always seems to be a festival of some sort on any given weekend. The picture I posted is of one of my friends while he painted a scene depicting a yearly festival that takes place in front of my Church every year in August. He painted this painting of a Festival during a different Festival, where artists from all over the country travel to Barva to produce something for all to see and appreciate.

Until next time!

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We were shown a quick ten minute video of the hotel and taken to our rooms afterwards. The rooms were not amazing, and we could hear what was being said next door, but this was but a small inconvenience. Trust me when I say that the view made up for any other small issue we could encounter.

The magic really started in the early morning when we were awoken by the sounds of howler monkeys communicating with one another. It was amazing to hear their calls and to be so close to them. We opened the window and could see a group of them in the distance. We followed it up with a walk in one of the many private trails offered by La Cusinga. This land was rescued by an American in the 70´s and has since been protected by the government.

One of the trails led to an amazing natural pool located in the jungle. We swam in the pool that was being supplied by various waterfalls and enjoyed the coolness and freshness of the water.

During the afternoon we decided to head back to the guest area of the hotel to watch the sunset. What we did not expect was to see such a wonderful spectacle as the receptionist showed us two whales swimming in the distance. We watched in awe for the next twenty minutes while the sun was putting in a spectacular show itself. This was definitely a day I will never forget!

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