Costa Rica Kj

Goin' on a trip? Time to start a blog! Of course, this is all assuming that there are ANY Internet Cafés in Nosara. After all, why would I want to unwire while on holiday?

Would Internet cafés survive without tourists?

Or worse, can tourists survive without Internet Cafés?

Tell you soon...

So, L&emdash;&emdash; and I have acquired this delightful little tradition of staying up all night before a trip, packing, and this time around is no exception. It's not that we've left things to the last minute (no, most of our stuff has been in the Living room waiting for a home for several days now), it's more like: it doesn't feel like a trip unless we stay up all night packing...

So, here I am. Two hours to departure. Nothing in a suitcase yet.

Tradition sucks.

(3 hours left to learn Spanish...)

I'm sitting in George W. Bush International (Houston), typing this on a public Internet terminal—mostly for the novelty value, but also to see how quickly someone steals my login information. It's always about the science with me...

(Incidently, the keyboard on this Internet terminal is carefully designed to cause typos. The "home" key is where backspace should be. The space bar sometimes causes a backtab. Delete is next to the back arrow—all a cunning plot to keep you online longer, at $0.25 a minute)

TSA—the organization in charge of Airport Security in the US of A—is even more scary than their Canadian counterparts. Unfortunately, I had to leave the security zone here in order to mail a couple of letters. Fortunately, I had the sense to look where the escalator went before hopping on (Once you get on, you have no choice but to leave security. Hope you had your boarding pass with you!). Coming back through the metal detector, I was a little surprised to be ordered back out (Since I'm not actually carrying anything metal).

"Go back," he ordered, fixing me with the type of look given to those who try to check daggers or scimitars through in their carry-on baggage. "You can't walk through there with your hand in your pocket!"

Right. Stupid me.

I feel safer already.

Yep. We made it. A prolonged taxi ride from the airport (about four hours) finally got us to the fabulous condo canadiense. Our taxi drive didn't exactly know where he was going, but several dozen people at the side of the road were happy to help us along. Of course, it was dark when we arrived, so we didn't actually get our first taste of Costa Rica until this morning...

Not a squirrel

Okay—so it's kind of purty. I was six steps out the front door of the condo this morning, heading for the pool, when I heard the rustling in the bushes. Six steps later, my brain finally convinced my feet to stop and my eyes to look.

"It's probably not a squirrel, dumbass."

It wasn't. It was a crab. A very noisy crab. The bushes are full of them.

I shall call them crabsquirrels.

Today is an exploring day— walking around our little corner of the Nosara district to get a feel for things like:

1. Where to get stuff (like, food).
2. How to get stuff (like, access to a phone).
3. How the hell do I speak this language, anyway?

So far, we've eaten. One down!

off to explore...

Little things the guidebooks don't tell you: Costa Rican roads smell a lot like licorice. The first smell we encountered as we got off the plane was cedar. Now it's mostly licorice, until the sun goes down. Then the plants start giving off their respective perfumes.

The other things that lets you know you're not in Kansas anymore are the sounds: hoots, hollers, growls (little monkeys make BIG sounds), and clicks. Very cool.

First Sunset

Last night was L&emdash;&emdash;'s first Ocean Sunset. It was a spectacular one to boot. A few minutes after the sun actually sunk beneath the waves, the sky lit up like it was on fire. For the next 40 minutes, the sky burned through the various shades of yellow, orange, and red before finally fading to a bright blue. (It's almost a full moon at the moment). It was absolutely spectacular. Needless to say, I have a few pictures.

Note to self: Space for 400 pictures is not enough... Next time, bring more film cards...

We've been exploring the area of late. Today we rented bikes so we can get a bit further into Nosara. (Last time we went for groceries, we walked the 2 miles in, and hitched a lift back with a Advil-seeking Texan named Keith). More later, perhaps!

It's siesta time. Too hot to bike. Then we go explore Nosara and the river mouth (Croc Hunt!)

Wildlife checklist:

• Howler Monkeys (check)
• Iguana (check)
• 18 million little red crabs (check)

The only 'Map'

A little geography. We're staying in an area just south of Nosara sometimes referred to as "the Beaches of Nosara." It's a collection of little resorts and retirement homes populated mainly by surfers and retirees. It's a very tourist-friendly spot, as the locals are long used to dealing with non-spanish-speaking gringos such as ourselves.

After our first attempt at hiking into Nosara (2 very hot miles), we broke down and rented bikes for the day. It made the trip easier, but no less hot. Nosara is a town built around a soccer field, and has a definite rural costa-rican flavor (or, what I'd imagine to be such) to it than do the "Beaches." We stopped at the Super Nosara for groceries, took a brief tour of the town, then headed back to soak our battered and bruised butts.

Yeah. We have to get on the bikes more often...

L&emdash;&emdash; doesn't do too well with bugs.

If you've ever heard the story of the "Sushi Incident," in which L&emdash;&emdash; went off sushi for a year after finding a maggot-infested bird in the backyard (the sushi connection is tenuous—we had had sushi earlier that day, and the association stuck), then you know that creepy-crawlies and my lovely wife do not go too well together.

Ewww.

L&emdash;&emdash; met her first cockroach the other day, and we all lived to tell the tale. Not just met, in fact—L&emdash;&emdash; inadvertently touched her first cockroach, in reaching for the cupboard handle in the dark. There was actually quite a bit less hopping, screaming, and showering than I had expected after such an occurrence...

In fact she seems to have come through the experience quite well. I came into the kitchen this morning to find L&emdash;&emdash; happily "plink"-ing bugs off the counter to a little sing-song-bug-plinking tune ("Plink. Plink. Bye bye Bug. Plink.") while making breakfast.

I'm so proud...

The Beaches of Nosara are in a state of flux. Hammer sound pretty much non-stop, and every second property seems to be in the process of being either built up, or torn down.

The Haunted House.

Sometimes, it's not always clear which is which.

The property next door, for instance (La Casa de Tres Lunes) looked completely overgrown (and largely abandoned) when we arrived. Now it's absolutely beautiful, and quite clearly inhabited. Of course, when the plants grow several inches a day, "completely overgrown" could mean the gardener took the weekend off...

Further down the road, it's not so clear. A huge abandoned house sits there with a "vendidos" sign nailed to a huge, but half-burned tree. Why anyone would choose to abandon such a property is beyond me. The locals call it the Haunted house.

The area is filled with once beautiful properties, now overgrown and for sale. Why?

The fact that an area with population, say, 400, has what appears to be three real estate offices, might give a clue. Seller's market, perhaps?

We passed the point of acclimatization the other night. 6 days into the trip, L&emdash;&emdash; turns to me at the pool one night and says "I'm cold."

I say, "No Way. It's like 30 degrees." A brief bout of wagering ensues, until I convince L&emdash;&emdash; to go look at the temperature. A few seconds later, a sheepish looking girl slips back into the pool and says "Alright. So it's 29 degrees."

Night Swim.

The other point of adjustment, of course, is the language. Since I began learning the language two hours before we touched down in Liberia, I'm a little out of sorts when it comes to communicating. Of course, my teacher is a traveller's classic: Lonely Planet's "Costa Rica Spanish Phrasebook." It only ever leaves my pocket when I swim. With the pleasantries down (hola. buenas dias. pura vida), and the basic "I want," "where is," "how much" type phrases out of the way, all you really need around here is the ability to point, and a goofy, uncomprehending grin. Still, I've managed to get a handle on most numbers, and those crazy little words. (Big words in spanish are very French-like, so reading is usually easier than speaking. It's the little words that are different, and the ones you need all the time).

The main hurdle is psychological, of course. Being ballsy enough to blurt out a horribly bastardized pidgin of what you think the right Spanish phrase is. I'm mostly there.

So temperature, check. Language, sure! Familiarity with the area, yep. Time to move on and have some adventures.

In case you're wondering how the first 6 days went...

6am

Alarm goes off. Brief period of wakefulness and ambitious plans.

8-9am

Stirrings in bed. Too hot to sleep. Eventual, though grudging wakefulness.

9am

Up. Shower (maybe). Put on bathing suit. Make coffee.

9:30-10:30

Morning swim in pool. Once cooled off, sit and read by poolside (without sunscreen) to get a little colour for the day. Make big plans.

11am-noon

Breakfast at the condo

noon-1pm

Shower (if haven't yet). Prepare for the day.

1-5pm

The day's festivities. i.e. Swim in ocean. Explore the neighbourhood. Bike to Nosara. Whatever.

5-5:30

Back to the condo for a swim.

5:30-7pm

Go to beach. Watch sunset.

7-8pm

Dinner at the condo. Rice and tuna, or rice and black beans, with Salsa Lizano. Yum.

8:30-9:30pm

Evening (night) swim. Watch (curiously unfamiliar) stars and bats. Float.

9:30-10pm

Do day's laundry in kitchen sink. Hang on bungee in shower.

10:30pm

Bed. Read. <censored>. Sleep.

We like it here...

Break-up Boat.

Adventure week began with a kayaking trip down the Rio Montaña. There were six of us: the happy couple (us, silly), a couple from Vancouver, the guide (Doblois), and a guy named Steve. We paddled down the Rio in break-up boats. (actually 2-person sea kayaks, but when coupled with the significant other in a physical activity which could—if done improperly—end in serious wetness, well, you get the picture). The river itself was like something out of the Shire, bordered on each side by mangroves, who looked like they might walk away at any minute on using their massive protruding roots as legs. Iguanas rested in the trees, and birds threatened to paint our kayaks a new colour as we paddled downstream. Eventually, we made it to Playa Ostional, a black-sand beach that forms part of the turtle reserve. Being daytime (and the wrong phase of the moon), we saw no turtles, but we did learn a bit about them, and then headed off into the surf for a swim.

On Turtles:

If you want to see them (Hi A!), they like to nest at high tide, and during a full moon. Check the summer calendar for when such things coincide (July-August sometime), and plan a trip around then. At such times, the turtles come in waves of a thousand or more. Get one of the local tour companies to take you out for the experience...

After our swim, we paddled back, saw a lot more wildlife, and rode back into town.

Mangroves are cool.

The next day, we hiked back to the same area (well, plodded along the beach until we got back there), and took a 4 hour walk through the wilderness preserve there. There's a nice little system of trails which, if you know what to look for, would allow you to see a whole lot of the local wildlife. We don't, of course, but it was a fun time anyway. The bizarre flora, huge (and foreign) trees, enormous ferns, and strange background sounds make the whole experience like hiking through the shire. You felt smaller than you would on a hike back home...

Today, with a few wilderness excursions under our belts, we opted for a different kind of wild life: Urban wild life. Up at a preposterous 5am (holiday! Ack!), we took a trip on the local bus into the nearest "city," Nicoya. The 2 hour bus ride cost us exactly 600 colones each: about $0.75 US, ("diddley squat," in metric). The bus is a fairly laid-back affair. You can find and sit at a bus stop if you like, but if you happen to see one, you can just flag down the driver anywhere along his route.

The bus itself was a yellow school bus. The only "improvement" over those you may recollect fondly from childhood was that each seat had seat belts, which, of course, no one uses.

For the first hour, we bounced and pitched along a gravel road, replete with one-lane bridges, blind corners, and pot-holes bigger than L&emdash;&emdash;. Half-way in, the road is paved, though not much other than the sound changes. At the two hour mark we pulled into the bus depot at Nicoya: 6 bus-sized parking spots surrounded by a host of souvenir, snack, and junk shops. Most of what was being sold was targeted at Ticos, of course, since Nicoya isn't high on the tourist destination list for most out-of-country travellers.

16th century church, Nicoya.

We had breakfast in Nicoya, did a little shopping, visited the restored 16th century church, and explored the "city" (the relevant bits of which fit in a 4 block square). Being less tourist-oriented, getting anything done requires much more spanish (and much more pointing and blank stares) than does Nosara.

After a few hours, our first urban foray a success, we wandered back to the bus depot to find our bus back to the beach. The Nosara bus, fortunately, was one of the few with a destination sign in the window. The crush to get ON the bus, however, came as a bit of a surprise. Since most of the travellers are rural folks heading in to Nicoya to do some essential shopping, there is about 6 times as much "stuff" on the ride back, so getting a seat is significantly more difficult. We ended up standing most of the ride home, which was significantly cooler than if we had sat. Score one for the home team.

Another two hours, and we were back in the sleepy beaches of Nosara.

From time to time, we acquire a little beach dog. She looks like a little mini greyhound, but has floppier ears and is coloured like a border collie. The first time we saw her was on the beach. L&emdash;&emdash; said hello, gave her a little scratch behind the ears, and Pollo followed us for the next two days—sleeping outside our cabina door at night.

We met Pollo fairly early in the trip. Her name ("chicken") has significance only because that was the word L&emdash;&emdash; was wrestling with all day. (pronounce it "poyo," not "polo"). Now she just tells everyone it's because Pollo has chicken legs.

One night, Pollo followed us to the bar. There she met a group of Colorado girls who had inadvertently "adopted" her earlier in the week. They call her Blackie.

I wonder how many names a beach dog goes through in a year?

I find myself investigating every little rustle in the bushes down here—you never know what to expect. From the little red stinkbugs (carrion eaters of the insect world—you find them dragging away all the little dead insect carcasses, or, when too big to drag, you get a little stink bug smorgasbord) to the lizards in the bushes. The crabs we saw the first day are mostly gone. Apparently, they only come out after a rain, and there's been maybe 20 minutes of rain since that day.

Up!

The strangest beasts of all you see out on the ocean. Twice a day, several hours before it reaches high tide, you see them paddling out to sea. When they get far enough offshore that the waves rarely break anymore, you see them lift up and rest, basking in the sunlight. They can stay that way for 20 minutes or more. Then, when a wave rises up that threatens to swamp them, the paddle vigorously for shore. Some times, the wave passes them by safely, and they paddle back out to their refuge and bask anew. Every once in a while, however, the wave meets them just right, and they manage to ride the swell towards the shoreline, sometimes making it most of the way back.

Around here, they call these strange animals surfers...

I'm surfing today.

We saw the third period of the hockey game last night. This was a little surprising, sitting in a little surf bar in tiny Nosara, listening to one of the local adventure guides play guitar. Little tiny satellite dishes make the world a small place. I don't imagine anyone else was too interested in the game, but it made our night.

We were talking with Dublois, the aforementioned guide, after the show. L&emdash;&emdash; was saying that the one thing she missed from home was reliable Internet access. Dublois laughed, and told the story of her house—a work in progress that currently has no windows or doors. She does have Internet, however, here in the sticks of Nosara.

Internet mandatory. Windows and doors optional.

Not as easy as it looks.

Wednesday was a surfing day. I ventured out early in the morning to catch as close to low tide as my "shiny happy morning person" persona would allow. (Low tide was at 3am. High 6 hours later). I made it for 6—half way to high tide.

The hardest part (for a little old rookie like me) is paddling out. First, I'm not the world best swimmer to start with. Second, I had a great beluga whale of a surfboard (a 9 foot 6 inch monster) between my arms, necessitating a haphazard, flailing stroke. Now, accomplish all this while balancing on your stomach on a surfboard, and fighting the waves as they come in, and you get a pretty good idea of what it might look like.

In the morning, I never quite got it, having to contend myself with two baby rides on two baby waves. By 7:30, I was utterly exhausted, so I toted my beluga board back to the condo for some breakfast, and a little nap.

In the afternoon, I tried again. (Quick point of reference for other land-locked Albertans: high/low tides are about 6 hours apart, and the tides advance an hour a day. Given the almost exactly 12-hour days around here, that means you get pretty much one shot at your tide of choice. For me, it's low tide—smaller waves, less crazy. So, at 3pm, I ventured out to try again.

Beluga Board.

This time, I started to get the hang of the paddling, and eventually, I found myself far enough offshore that very few waves were breaking anymore. Suddenly, it got quiet, and it was just me and the ocean.

"Cool." I thought, as I struggled to sit on the Beluga board. (Surfers make it look so easy. They just pop up and wait for a wave. Me, I fought the board the whole time.) Finally, I saw my wave coming. I tried to turn towards shore, but I was taking too long. I managed to get the nose pointed the right way, but I hadn't even started paddling yet, so I figured the wave was lost.

It caught me anyway. 15 seconds later, I was still riding the wave, lying stomach-down on the board. I decided "What the hell," and tried popping up.

It worked.

I rode that wave all the way back to shore—my longest ride by what seemed like hours. The whole time, I couldn't shake the immortal words of Ted (you may know him as Keanu Reeves). I was thinking:

"Whoah"

Alas, I tried for a few more, but never quite caught one so wild. Near the end of the day, I got caught up in a huge (relatively, I'm sure) wave, and got a taste of the insane speed you can feel riding it. Alas, I never got up, my wax having rubbed away to almost nothing. The water coursing over the board made it too slippery to stand.

I'll try again some day, but now, I need a few weeks to heal. Surfing is tough work.

Hang loose, dudes.

We got Wheels on Wednesday. "Excellent Car Rental" delivered our car, a little Daihatsu Terios (I'd never seen one either) 4WD beastie. We broke down and rented it to make the tail end of our trip easier. After all, we're leaving the delightful condo canadiense soon, and will need to find our way first to Monteverde, then to La Fortuna, and finally San Jose.

Guaitil.

Yesterday, we took a drive up the coast to a tiny, tiny town called San Juantillo. Like most small towns around here, it's basically a soccer field, with a couple of sodas around the outside, and some houses further along the way. Though it's only about 20 kms up the road, the drive takes most of an hour, and no matter what anyone tells you, 4WD is not optional around here. We ended up fording one river, and it was clear that come the rainy season, there would be at least 3 more crossings.

At San Juantillo, there is a little semicircular cove of a beach. At lower tides, it's a great shell beach, (which kept L&emdash;&emdash; occupied for several hours). Being somewhat protected from the waves, it also made for some not-half-bad snorkeling. Though not up to the standards of places like Bermuda, it was still a pretty cool way to spend an afternoon. (The waves that make the Pacific coast good for surfing also tend to make it crappy for snorkeling).

We spent around 3 hours there before making the long, 20km trek home. Today we go explore a little pottery town called Guaitil. It's further afield, but there are at least a couple of paved roads along the way. We'll see if they're any better!

It's incredibly hard to find an American-made vehicle of any kind here. Everything you see is Japanese, Korean or the like: Toyota trucks, Kia flatbeds, Nissan sedans, Suzuki 4x4s, and those strange, never-see-them-at-home models like our Daihatsu Terios. Just about the only American vehicle you see is the occasional old Jeep. (Never a new one, one, because they're just too damn big, and two, because they're no longer intended to be taken off-road.)

Daihatsu Terios.

It's very strange. Do American Auto manufacturers not consider Central America part of their target market, or are US-designed vehicles just too damned wide for these roads?

I might go with the latter. We met a couple at dinner last night who were musing that a Hummer wouldn't even fit over some of the one-lane bridges around here—the wheels would splay to either side and it would end up high-centred like some ridiculous, overpriced 4WD turtle.

Incidently, if you're looking for a well-built 4WD, I'd recommend a trip to the Nicoya peninsula. If you see a vehicle that's over 10 years old (and still moving), go home and buy one immediately...

We're leaving the coast tomorrow. It's hard to believe we've been here two weeks already. In that time, Nosara's gone from this strange, foreign, bumpy place, to the happy little small town we (albeit temporarily) call home.

Sunset over Lagarta Lodge

There's a lot of stupid little things I'm going to miss about this place. Everybody in Nosara waves when you go by. Beach dogs adopt you on a second's notice. The birds are constantly yelling in Norwegian. The bushes rustle with crabs wherever you go. Low tide is posted over the bar. Bats circle the pool at night. Everyone rides two or three to a motorcycle. A beer is the same price as a Coke. Prices in American, change in Colones.

Yes, Nosara is a nice little place. I'm sure by the time we get back again, it will be six times the size, and some of the lustre will be gone. That's the price of progress, I suppose, and popularity, brought about by people raving in blogs.

Our guidebook (a highly recommended "Moon Handbook's Guide to Costa Rica") ends its introduction with the phrase "Go now, before it is spoiled." I'd have to recommend the same about Nosara.

Tomorrow morning, we head for the Monteverde cloud forest reserve. We plan to spend the day (and night) there, then press on to La Fortuna to (hopefully) catch a glimpse of the highly active Arenal volcano. Then it's on to San Jose, and a flight back to reality.

I hardly remember what reality is like.

(or, "Things I would have told myself before coming to Costa Rica, if I had known any better")

• A good budget for the Nicoya Peninsula would be about $60 (US) per day, per couple (excluding accommodations). This is twice, or even three times what you need elsewhere in Costa Rica.
• "Rainy Season starts in May" here on the Pacific coast is an overstatement. We saw rain the night we arrived. Visit in May. Prices are lower, availability is higher, and the occasional cloud cover is a godsend
• Go and buy that traveller's "polyester underwear" that you see in places like Kodiak Country or Mountain Equipment Co-op. Cotton is a pain in the butt (so to speak).
• Wide-mouth Nalgene water bottles are the cat's ass around here. I realize everyone but us had them already, but the litre size is handy, they are utterly indestructible, and the wide mouth fits the mountain of ice-cubes that you're going to want to pack in there in the morning. Buy one and take it everywhere.
• The water here is fine. Drink it.
• On the subject of clothing, polyester is the ticket. Bring two of each shape—one for wearing, one that is washed and drying somewhere. By that I mean 2 short-sleeve T's, 2 long-sleeve T's, 2 golf/jungle shirts, and 2 pair of shorts/zip-off-pants/bathing suits. 2 pair of socks is more than enough. Bring a third if you're paranoid, but no more.
• Footwear: Before coming here, I had no idea what the definition of "Sports Sandals" really meant. It means, a sandal comfortable and sturdy enough to walk in all day, but that you're willing to wear into the ocean. Spend the money. Everything else is optional, except perhaps in the rainforest.
• Bring a little package of laundry soap and a clothesline. Wash your polyester clothes at night in the sink, and dry overnight.
• Muskol (40% DEET) stops ant-trails but good. Clears out nests forming in air-conditioners as well. Make sure you have some along, even if you don't plan to wear it.
• Bring Ziplocs—a whole box of the big ones. You can use them for everything.
• Bring along a bike (cable) lock. If you plan on renting bikes at your destination, it will be invaluable. It also serves to lock up your stuff if you feel the need.
• Slippers are nice. They keep bug guts off your feet.
• Bring a lighter. Power goes off. Candles don't light themselves.

It was one of the last things we were expecting to see in the jungle, really.

We had made our way inland from Nosara to Monteverde (actually, Santa Elena, 1km up the road), home to both the Monteverde cloud forest, and Santa Elena cloud forest Reserves. Despite being one of the main tourist destinations in the country, the approach to Monteverde is via Nosara-quality gravel roads. In other words, you'd better have a 4WD, and don't expect to get up over 30km/h. For about an hour and a half, you find yourself picking your way up a mountain, a fact you're reminded of every time the blind corners drop off into the valley below.

They have spiders, too.

When you arrive in Monteverde, the first thing you notice is that the roads in town are somehow worse than the ones you travelled on to get there. We searched through quite a few amazing (and expensive) hotels and resorts until we found the hotel that we eventually settled on—an eclectic little B&B called the Hotel Don Taco which was clean, cute, covered in murals, and served us the best breakfast we had in all of Costa Rica (all for $25).

We had arrived at about 10am, so we had the day to choose from the unbelievable array of canopy (zip-line) tours, walking tours, museums, birdwatching expeditions, and so forth. We settled on two: a guided suspension-bridge tour, and a bug museum.

Suspension bridge tours in the cloud forest are sweet. The problem with hiking on the ground around there is that the canopy is just so far above you that you never get to see much wildlife. The bridges take care of that, crossing at various levels in the canopy, and allowing you to do some spectacular bird (and scenery) watching along the way. Somehow, we managed to catch a slightly sunny break in Monteverde (it had been raining solid for the two weeks prior to our arrival), and so we got our share of scenery, bugs (leafcutter ants!) and birds. It started to rain as our tour wound down, so before going home for the evening, we chose a nice, indoor exhibition to wrap up our day: a bug collection like none I've ever seen.

But after two guided tours, I'd had my fill of being led around, so the next morning we hopped out of bed at 6am and headed into the Santa Elena Could Forest Reserve to explore on our own.

In the end, it was a 4 hour hike. And then halfway through, the strangest thing happened. I had stopped on the path to watch a bird on the path ahead—an unusual sight down at ground level—when I finally looked down at the ground beneath my feet. I yelped, jumped back about two feet, and called out to L&emdash;&emdash; "Back Up!"

"Why?" she asked?

"Because the ground is moving."

Large, furry trees.

We had stumbled onto (or rather, into) a column of army ants advancing through the jungle. The covered an area of path about two meters wide as thickly as carpet. Peering into the forest on either side was even more amazing. Ants covered all surfaces—leaves, vines, logs—as they made their way through to wherever they felt like going.

By now, you've heard L&emdash;&emdash;'s opinion on bugs. It was with some surprise, then, that I watched her hover at the edge of the column, utterly fascinated (and repulsed) by their advance.

In the end, we did the only thing you can do when confronted with several million insects between you and your destination. We waited. After about 20 minutes, the column had thinned to the point where we could dodge through with minimal covering of our body parts. (Fortunately for us, we had encountered the tail end of the advance.) Several hours later, we had made it back to our trusty 4x4, L&emdash;&emdash; content to take the second half of the hike a lot faster than she took the first half.

2 meters, 20 minutes. That's a lot of little bugs...

Our second-last night in Costa Rica was spent just outside La Fortuna, near the incredibly active Volcano Arenal. Our guidebook had told us of a Canadian-run B&B with a volcano view from the bedroom (Posada Colonial), so we decided to check it out.

La Fortuna was kind of a crapshoot. Arenal is one of the most consistently active volcanos in the world, so if we managed to see it, our chances of seeing some action were pretty good. On the other hand, Arenal is basically in a rainforest, so the chance of it being clear (in May, the start of the rainy season) is pretty slim. Everyone we had talked to who had been there recently had told us they could hear the rocks bouncing down the side of the mountain, but never actually got to see it.

We arrived in La Fortuna about an hour before sunset. The room at Pasada Colonial was vacant, and even though it was clouded over, it was clear that the bedroom (and veranda) offered a spectacular view of the volcano. After a little spanish negotiation with the housekeeper, we took the room. Shortly thereafter, we met Grant, the Canadian owner who lives in the cottage on the property. We soon got talking about Canadian things, and in short order, he had invited us onto his patio for a beer.

Aftermath.

The beer turned into three. As night fell, the cloud cover lifted, and we found ourselves staring at the near-perfect cone of most active volcano in Costa Rica. The top (or what we later discovered was the top—the black volcano against a totally black night sky made it hard to distinguish at the time) of the mountain glowed a near-constant orange. Every few minutes, a stream of lava could be seen rolling down the side of the cone. Some times, these streams would explode into a river of orange, offering a conversation-stopping (or at least pausing) spectacle. The particularly large flows were accompanied by the sound of boulders bouncing down the mountain.

In short, it's not a night easily forgotten.

Grant explained that the right-hand side of the cone was basically new in the last two years. With almost constant lava flow, the volcano was growing quite quickly (gaining 19 feet of height, and untold meters of width, each year). We sat, watched, chatted, and eventually burned through Grant's supply of beer. This led us to Grant's supply of rum (a delicious Nicaraguan liquid), and when that was done, my supply of rum. Conveniently, I had a near-full bottle in the car myself.

Grant and I stayed up until the mountain clouded over. In fact, we stayed up until we had largely clouded over. I made the (seemingly) long stumble back to the cabina, and enjoyed a good 4 hours of sleep before morning came.

When we got up, the clouds were still there. We never did manage to see Arenal by day. The night-time show was spectacular, however, and despite a great deal of Nicaraguan rum, not a sight I'm likely to forget soon.

We spent our last night in Costa Rica in San Jose—the big city. Getting to San Jose is easy: follow the "big" road.

On the maps, you'll find the mighty number 1—the Pan-American Highway—marked in huge grey lines. This may lead you to believe that it is the biggest road in the country. In fact, when we first turned onto it (near Nicoya, in the north of the country), we couldn't even tell it was the "highway." It looked like any other road: potholed, narrow, and blind-cornered. Closer to San Jose, the road widens, and by the time you get 40kms out, it feels like the big road you see on the map.

Driving in San Jose is an experience. Though we had accumulated 3 or 4 maps of the city by this point, it wasn't until we were leaving Nosara when we spotted a map with hundreds of little arrows on it.

"You don't suppose those are one-way streets, do you?" asked L&emdash;&emdash;.

"If they are, it's a lot of them."

They are. San Jose is a city of 1-ways, occasionally (but not usually) marked off into lanes. Though the roads were recently named using a nice, logical grid system, most Costa Ricans don't use street addresses, favouring navigation by landmark. (You learn very quickly in Costa Rica that "cien metros (100m) = 1 block", regardless of how far it actually is). For this reason, not every street corner has street signs. Navigation is therefore a challenge, and, if you didn't happen to grab the map with the 1-way street directions marked, nearly impossible.

Fortunately, we had the right map, and, after 30 minutes of crazy driving through crazier streets, we came to our destination—A little B&B called Cinquo Hormigas Rojas (5 red ants). Mayra (the owner) calls the place a "traveller's refuge," and the description is spot-on. Entering the tiny-little-courtyard-behind-a-locked-gate, you find youself in an urban jungle—a path winding through the foliage towards the reception area. Mayra is a painter, and has painted just about every wall, object, and surface of her converted home (including toilet) with colour. Everywhere you go, incense burns, and birds sing. Her paintings hang from just about every wall. It is a quiet, beautiful, and peaceful spot in the middle of a crazy, bustling city.

Cinquo Hormigas Rojas

We soaked up the atmosphere until the trip's stresses melted away, then ventured out on the town for souvenirs and dinner. The main drag (the area around avenida central & caille central) is closed to traffic, and is a crazy place—street vendors shouting out singsong enticements, shoe stores and bakeries beckoning from seemingly every second door, little doorways opening into huge open markets and little malls, and the ceaseless honking of cars in the nearby streets. The pace is breakneck, in stark contrast to the rest of the country. We braved the chaos for as long as we could hold out, but found ourselves longing for our quiet little refuge after only an hour or two. Gritting our teeth, we finished our shopping excursion, and then headed back to Cinquo Hormigas Rojas. We dropped our packages, had a quiet dinner at a nearby restaurant, and collapsed into our beds at the first opportunity.

In the morning, we left our little refuge for the airport. I hardly noticed the drive through San Jose's crazy streets. We made our way back up the highway, returned our fine little car, and caught a shuttle to the airport. The day blurred into sleep, travel, and customs lines. At 10:30pm, our pilot announced that the Flames had won, putting them into the Stanley Cup final. At 11:30, we landed in Calgary. By 12:30, we were home. We slept in our own bed for the first time in 19 days.

We had reached our final traveller's refuge.

We're home now, so this blog is likely finished. It will eventually make its way to pintday.org, as most of my ramblings do, but in the meantime, here are some final, and highly random thoughts.

The Welcome Home.

• We used the Moon Handbooks "Costa Rica" guidebook throughout our trip. Though I had never heard of this series of books before my pre-travel research, it turned out to be about the best guide we could have purchased. (It even had a map of Nosara! Nosara doesn't even have a (non-hand-drawn) map of Nosara!). If you are thinking of travelling to Costa Rica, I highly, highly recommend this book.
• The old adage is true: when travelling, take half the clothes, and twice the money. US Traveller's cheques work just about everywhere, and US cash works absolutely everywhere. Everywhere you go, you'll see a little grey calculator, and all of your bills will be tabulated on these calculators—first in colones, and then again in US dollars if you ask. The exchange rate was almost universally 430 colones to 1 US dollar.
• The Daihatsu Terios was a fine little car for us. Small enough to fit past trucks on little gravel roads, or through gaps in traffic in San Jose, but 4WD and sturdy enough to survive the gravel roads and ford the occasional river. I doubt it will last much more than 100,000kms, (it was at 50,000 when we got it) given the abuse it was taking, and it doesn't seem too comfortable over 80km/h. I would definitely hesitate to pick something much bigger, though. In short, it makes a great little beater for getting around.
• Once again, 400 pictures is not enough. Bring way, way too much film (or digital equivalent) when travelling (and a charger with those way-freakin-cool 15 minute rechargables, if you shoot digital).
• When you get to someplace new, take a guided tour first, then explore on your own. It's amazing how much more rewarding your own explorations will be as a result.
• Finally, never sit around waiting for your bill when you eat in Costa Rica. It will never come. The phrase La cuenta, por favor (bring the bill please) is the one you will need. It's kind of funny. As we sat in the Houston airport, enjoying our nachos and waiting for our flight to board, we actively had to fight the urge to ask our waitress that question. It's like the meal didn't feel complete without it. How things can change in 3 weeks...