At my recent high school reunion, one curious ex-classmate asked me to describe a “typical day” for me in Costa Rica. I was stumped. After over thirty years of working in a variety of professions here, I am now semi-retired. No two days are alike.
One day might include a 50 kilometer bike ride followed by an afternoon at the beach. Another might see me baking bread and preparing pots of black beans and spaghetti sauce to last most of the month. Another day could be spent watching ball games with a smoky bowl and a few chilled drinks. And my location also determines my behavior. My day in San Isidro de el General is quite different from my day in Quepos/Manuel Antonio.
This past weekend was spent on the coast. My Saturday began before dawn with the sound of a rooster crowing from a perch on a hillside above where I stayed. This roosters’ calls were answered by assorted flocks nearby. The call and response continued as I drank two large glasses of water before preparing my morning coffee.
Costa Rica has well over 100 different types of coffee available, from high priced gourmet, to bottom shelf varieties cut with ten percent sugar. Even the popular generic brands make a good cup of joe. I drank two cups with a pinch of brown sugar. As I waited for the sky to morph from black to early morning gray, I peeled and ate a banana. Though the peel was black, the banana inside was not overripe. This was a sign that the banana was not grown on a multinational plantation. When their banana peels turn black, the banana inside is spotted mush.
I headed out for my morning hike toward Playa La Macha. It is not a long hike in distance, but the series of long uphills and downhills on rocky terrain through an active jungle takes around 50 minutes to complete. The halfway point is the majestic overlook that few people visit daily. As I approached the apartment, soaked in sweat, a pack of scarlet macaws flew overhead. Their squawks are annoying, but being so stunningly beautiful, they can make as much noise as they like.
Back home out of the intense sun, I drank more water, ate a breakfast of eggs and beans, and took a shower. Warm water was provided by the “shock shower,” commonly known as a suicide shower or termoducha in Ticolandia. Cold water passes through an electrical heating element inside the shower head, which instantly warms the water as it flows. If improperly grounded, the user gets a jolt of electricity that is felt in every cell of your body. No one who has ever been shocked by one of these ever forgets.
During the heat of the day, I stayed inside. The beach was filled with tourists languishing under umbrellas, sipping cool drinks, soaking up the intense tropical sun before their returns to the frozen north. I relaxed in front of a fan, watched a basketball game, worked through the New York Times game page until it was the hour before sunset.
I walked to the corner and caught the first bus to the beach. At the central beach I got off the bus I was greeted by a gaggle of tourists pointing cameras in the air. I looked up at a tribe of Titis springing across treetops. I checked my bag with a friend who has had a beach chair and umbrella business for over fifteen years. I paid him later with two beers. The waves were small but steady. Novice surfers caught brief rides. 150 meters overhead, a paragliding couple dangled in air.
I went in shore a few minutes before sunset. Up and down the beach a hundred people, probably more aligned facing the sun. I walked in at an angle, not wanting to photobomb. Sunset blazed briefly, then was gone, fiery red remnants lingered on the night horizon. After dark there was a bottleneck that paralyzed traffic for nearly half an hour. It eventually fixed itself and I rode the bus back up the hill and walked home to the sounds of barking dogs and motorcycles.
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