Advertisement
Published: June 26th 2006
Edit Blog Post
Surfing in Tamarindo
I looked a bit like this (although I was invariably on the underside of the board). I had a rather inconvenient 8 hour layover in Miami airport on my way from Brazil, and had to fight the urge to escape to the comforting cleanliness and heart-busting burgers of the USA. I satisfied myself with a sullen sausage-and-egg-McMuffin at the airport, but have been travelling for a long time now, and am looking forward to the bland and decadent comforts of the western world.
Costa Rica, though, lifted my spirits quickly. A return to Spanish speaking had me conversing with the locals once again (topics of conversation as usual: women, beer, football), and the huge number of septics in country meant that I no longer felt isolated and unable to communicate. Indeed, I found San Jose remarkably developed, while others from my plane were wandering around aghast that they had chosen to holiday in such a dive.
San Jose had little to offer, so I made my way to Santa Elena, a tourist trap surrounded by cloud forest and filled with adventure tours and cheesy pizza joints. I stayed in a small hut in the woods, spending my evenings pondering conspiracy theories and sharpening a hunting knife. In the day I trekked in the forest, seeing
all manner of interesting, spectacularly rare and instantly forgettable birds. A stumbled across a rasher of feral pigs who sprinted away from me, no doubt mistaking my hands for strings of sausages. I undertook another horseride (disappointingly, I wasn't furnished with a whip with which to thrash the beast) and sampled the local 'El Canopy'. Indeed, this part of CR is the birthplace of the fad that is sweeping the lower Americas, and the zip-lines were extremely long and occasionally fast. Halfway through the canopy tour, our group stopped to enjoy a bungee swing - like a bungee jump only without elastic and with the other end of the rope attached somewhere out in front of you. Slightly scary, but all the same a rather long wait for a short thrill.
A guided night tour provided more encounters with tarantulas and sightings of a couple of three-toed sloths. Lazy, and covered in parasites, these creatures have bowel control that would have been very useful for me in Bolivia. They come down from their trees once a week to poo before returning to the branches for a rest (and probably a cup of coffee and a cigarette). From time to
Curious coati
Thinner than it's Iguazu counterparts (carrot cake vs cheeseburger diet). time they fall from their perches - our guide's dad had one crash down on the hood of his car once ('It's raining sloths! Hallelujah, it's raining sloths!' etc). I made myself useful on the night walk by explaing to a frightened Canadian girl that tarantulas like to jump at people's faces as a form of defense. Generally good fun in Santa Elena, but fairly similar to other things I'd done on my travels.
Continuing with the gringo trail around Costa Rica, I moved on to Tamarindo. Initial impressions were of an overdeveloped hole filled with dope smoking locals and US frat boys being relieved of their cash. Had I not gone surfing myself, I would have left with the same impression. The place isn't too nice, but the sea is great for learning to catch a wave.
I booked a lesson with a cheerful American Uruguayan lady, and was in the water in minutes - I even managed to 'pop up' on my first wave. For those not conversant with surfing terminology, 'popping up' refers to the act of standing up on a surfboard and whooping loudly. This is not to be confused with 'popping out' which
is what occasionally happens to one's meat and/or veg when wearing ill-fitting undergarments or swimwear (a distressing phenomenon that anyone I've shared a flat with and has seen me tiredly eating breakfast in front of the TV will be all too familar with). Surfing is wonderful and wonderfully addictive - every wave promises a better thrill. It's also spectacularly tiring. Two hours left me begging for mercy and contemplating inhaling a lungful of water just to avoid getting smacked by another wave. The only downside of my surfing schooling was a remarkably painful rib injury that I cannot remember acquiring and yet still prevents me from doing many of the things I enjoy most (eg blowing my nose, sitting up in bed etc). Hopefully just bruising.
A handful of days passed with yours truly trying to fit in with the surfer dudes - difficult for a pale european with man-boobs and receding hair, but my utter relaxation and travelling stories, wildly embellished, always broke the ice. I headed back to San Jose for my flight to Belize clutching my throbbing ribs, but feeling remarkably healthy. I could have done with a bit longer at the beach to perfect my
technique. Maybe I should move to Oz, after all...
Advertisement
Tot: 0.13s; Tpl: 0.015s; cc: 9; qc: 61; dbt: 0.0664s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb