Manuel Antonio "reserve", and their pay phone
Imagine a ski resort that needs money due to the lack of snow on their slopes. They decide to invest in some dynamite to break a couple of hillsides on top of the mountain. But before they know it they have caused an avalanche, covering all the way to the top of their pristine resort. That’s what I feel has happened here in Manuel Antonio.
5:00am, Jenny, Judith’s neighbor, is sweet enough to drop me off at the bus stop a few miles away, I tell her she is crazy and drop a few dollars on her seat without her noticing. Manuel Antonio is 130 miles (as the crow flies) from the house in Potrero, so it couldn’t take that long to get there, right? Well my first bus ride of the day takes me in the completely opposite direction, heading north to Liberia. The roads here go in all directions except in straight, causing me to go out of the way to go anywhere. What is said to take a hour and a hour usually takes a little over two hours, but this time it took four and a half.. The first delay came as the bus driver stopped at what I have to assume was his house, for about 25 minutes he is in and out, picking up some groceries and some other stuff I couldn’t make out, so I lean back and close my eyes. I get shaken by the bus coming to a stop. Everyone stands up and the bus driver says some really fast Spanish that I take as, “everyone off the bus!”
So there I am at 6:45am, almost two hours down already, standing in who knows where, Costa Rica, with a bakery behind me and about fifty Ticos under a bus shelter waiting for the next one to come for Liberia. Half an hour goes by and everyone stands for the incoming bus, crowding onto the road itself. My eyes widen, but not as much as the bus drivers as I see the bus is almost overflowing with people. About twenty get off and the line to get on is a pushing, flowing mess. About ¾ of us get on and I am not one, as I was not going to cut a family to get a place to stand. So obviously I head to the bakery and get a treat. I have to say there is no place I have been with more bakeries than Costa Rica, making my sweet tooth very satisfied with the selections in nearly every town. But soon my pastry is gone and so is another half an hour. The next bus comes nearly full but room to grab a rail. Within 5 minutes there are close to a hundred people on this bus; forcing me to take off my backpack so someone can squeeze behind me.
I look at my watch, 9:30. I am boarding the bus for Puntarenas, three and a half hours to the south via a giant green school bus. I take a seat by the window and start doing some math. So 75km in 4 ½ hours….
After fading in and out of sleep, experiencing a bus twilight-zone, I decide to take in some of the scenery. On my trip to San Jose I saw the landscape transform from tourist spots on the coast to cow country to the urban sprawl of San Jose. On my way north I saw the land being used to its fullest; sugar, mangoes, livestock, and ungodly amounts of coffee beans. But on my way south along the Nicoya Peninsula, the land is not fertile enough for coffee or major crops. I do not see many pastures full of cows or chicken coops. I have not seen a house with insulation in over two hours as I approach Puntarenas. But the poverty has beauty; shanty town villages huddle around the brown rivers, patching their roofs with a multitude of different shades and textures of sheet metal and whatever extraneous parts that can cover a hole. Old men smile under fruit trees and peel some apples. The kids run with sliced up shirts and ragged shoes, but with smiles and joy on their faces, and of course, there are tons of friendly honks.
Puntarenas has not been blessed by the past century. Once a booming port city and former capital of the Guanacaste area, Putarenas was crushed as barges and ships headed to new ports to the south, leaving the city to fend for itself. Its location is prime; a small inlet on the Nicoya Peninsula with water on both sides. But it has the feel of a beat down and dirty city, it is obvious to see there have been problems of late. A neon sign reads 41 degrees Celsius (105 F) as I wipe sweat off my brow. I am broiling and lost, once again no street signs can be found. So I ask a taxi driver where I can get a bus to Manuel Antonio, “It’s Saturday” he starts “the office is closed, let me call my boss, I can drive you there real cheap, a good price just for you” yeah, I’m sure it will be a steal. “Alright amigo, 90,000 colones for you , what ya say?” he says excitedly. I literally laugh “That’s almost $200! Can you see me, I may be American, but I’m a student, no tengo mucho dinero.” I respond. “Alright, alright 70,000 colones, just for you. What ya say”
As I board the bus, I look at the time, 1:15pm. 70,000 colones, I’ve already been hustled once this trip, not happening again, I’ll pay $2 and wait a little longer. But there is no place to sit, so I sneak behind some standing people and sit on the back stairwell and pull out my book. Three hours is a breeze at this point and after some music and a snack I’m in Quepos, only a twenty minute bus ride left! But something doesn’t seem right, all I see is tourism. This place is so hard to get to, how is this possible?? To my dismay, Manuel Antonio seems worse, so I check into my hostel and try to figure out what I will do, it’s now 4:30pm, 11 ½ hour day.
I meet a group of Americans teaching English who invited me out with them. I am reminded of the small world we inhabit as one girl is from the Tri Cities area of Eastern Washington and another is a stundent at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma and knows my “brother” Bernie who goes there as well. Unfortunately we had all been up for 18 hours so we decided to hit the sack after burritos. The next day we head out for the reason I came: Manuel Antonio national park. The town of Manuel Antonio is a long strip right on the public beach filled with Ticos and tourists alike. Every shop is filled with little toys and Imperial (national beer) shirts, every restaurant is in English and snorkels, jet skis and beach chairs read “rent me”. We walk down a narrow dirt corridor that leads to the park entrance, again filled with shops and Tico’s saying “good day, special price for you”, I walk a little faster. At the entrance the people I am with decide to leave “It is $10 and we just want to lie on the beach, come meet us later?”, “sounds good!” I can’t pass up the beauty I have been hearing about, although $10 seems steep. The woman selling tickets tells me there are no maps of the park and the trails are easy to find. So I ask one of the employees, “where is the hardest hike you have?” “Hardest? Well they are all the pretty much the same, but go to the end of this road and head left, it’s a nice and easy path that should take about an hour to the top of a hill.” Nice and easy is the hardest, what kind of national park is this?
A half an hour later I am on top of the ‘hill’, which is mostly paved and barely has me in a sweat even though it is over 80 F out, hiking for Disney Land adventurers. The view is nice so I appreciate this park for what it is and head to one of its beach. I see a small peninsula of rocks and head out for it. In and out of a couple more of the same and I am alone with a beautiful view of the surrounding hills and rocks that scatter the sea. This is what I’m talking about I think as I take in the views and crashing surf. But coming in is a familiar sight for me; rain, and lots of it. So I start to turn back and I am assaulted by a downpour, once again soaking me to the bone, good thing I brought my rain jacket.
Walking around the town more I am just not getting the Tico vibe from this town. I feel like I am part of a sponge that is squeezing out all of the local culture that is here in this beautiful place. This does feel like Disney Land with everything being advertised as magical and overpriced food. “With all the tourism here, are the locals still happy?” I ask the hostel employee, a friendly Tico named Carlos “Oh yeah, no problem. It is something you get used to, and if you want to be with people you know, there are always places that the tourists don’t know about.” Well I certainly can understand that, if my town was run by tourism I would want some local hang out spots as well, but he is not going to tell me where that is. The rain continues to come down; I am ready to move on to the other side of the peninsula and Montezuma.
I decide to head back into Quepos and get a good walk around to see what there is to see. But it is Sunday, and everything is closed except bars and restaurants. Seeing a light hue come over to roofs around me I head to the waterfront; a paved walkway that is full of Tico’s riding bikes, walking with their families, and enjoy the fading sun. A sand bar provides a perfect picnic spot for a few families and hopeful fishermen. The beauty is immense, and smiles are around. Maybe this is how they are happy with the tourists; appreciating what they have. On my way back to the bus stop I run into a soccer field and filled bleachers. High school age kids don bright NIKE cleats and spiked haircuts, strutting their stuff before the game starts. Once the game starts, yelling from the crowd follows shortly after as the players sprint across the dirt with scattered grass field. The goals have no net and there is only one ref trying his best to keep up. They quarrel like it’s the Premier League, yelling and arguing over nearly every play. I glance over and see the subs place an order in a Soda that is on the opposite end of the field, Costa Rican futbol.
When I get back to the hostel I am struck by a beautiful sunset. Instead of running for my camera, I take a seat to appreciate all the nuances. There is no way my camera could catch the light mist on the valley across from me, at the foot a cliff covered by cloud and flanked by rolling hills. No way, not the array of lights scattered across the horizon by the sun, I count 8 shades of white, yellow and blue. Maybe this is how happiness is found here; the beauty can never be taken away.
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