One little post every ten-or-so days will do the job I’d have thought. Highly doubt that anyone but our parents, siblings, and the odd friend planning a similar trip in the near future will actually give these accounts the time of day, but that won’t stop me.
Nothing will.
Apart from maybe potholes. There’s loads of them here.
Or actually living my life. Nearly almost favourable to writing about it.
Or if we are apprehended by a travelling band and asked to play key roles in the recording of their new atmospheric folk album. This is the most likely thing to stop me.
San Jose is alright. It’s pretty ugly and busy and the air is thick and hot so if you need not I wouldn’t necessarily bother. A train track flanks the road out the back of our hostel, and the schedule starts at 5am, so it seems, for that’s when its honks and horns boom and bleep with frenzied irregularity. Ear plugs guys. Ear plugs.
Gallo pinto is the Costa Rican staple. The mainstay. The unshakeable figurehead of breakfast, lunch and dinner, should it so tickle your pickle. On morning one, it obviously does. I had a pint of steaming black fresh coffee and gallo pinto y dos huevos (with two eggs). My Spanish remains unrivalled. George had an omelette and it was all pretty good and dandy.
So, a wee whiff about this city you shouldn’t necessarily bother with. Bustling streets with lottery ticket sellers and enough fast fashion clothing shops pumping elite western tunes to spin any eco-friendly boogie lover into a right conundrum. The Central Market comprises narrow walkways between hawker stalls, souvenir stores and tidbits. We perched at La Sorbetera de Lolo Mora for a small vaso of their signature vanilla sorbetera. Imagine there’s a party for two and the two are ice cream and sorbet. They’re dancing the flamenca, melting seamlessly into one another with every fiery glide. Now imagine that a couple of gatecrashers somehow gain entry. The gatecrashers are nutmeg and cinnamon, and they’re completely benevolent. In fact, they make the party infinitely better.
The best empanadas we’ve had thus far were on that first full day in San Jose. Crispy exterior with a sort of softer doughy layer just beneath the fried shell, and glories inside such as smoked pork, shredded chicken, and pinto beans and cheese. Like a way way better version of Greggs for much the same price. The accompanying carrot pickle serves as another prime example of a magnificent gatecrasher. We’ve been trying to source similarly saucy, sensational empanadas since, so stay tuned. For now, I remember those gems by the orange stains on the sleeve of Georgie’s white tee.
In the evening, tinged with lag of the jet variety, we worked up to the allegedly ‘hip’ area of Barrio Escalante. The train track runs directly through the neighbourhood, and there’s a slightly eerie feel, but you can see that it’s up-and-coming. Found a spot called Lolita Plaza, where different eateries and bars plied their trade to the sparse Tuesday crowd. Drank a couple of Imperials. These are the national lager beers. They are delicious. Alas, later on, all but three minutes elapsed between having my last bite of a bite to eat and brushing my teeth.
Georgie joining the dance of ice cream, sorbet, nutmeg, and cinnamon.
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Hauled ourselves to a bus terminal across town. We go down a market street that smells of potent medleys. Equal parts discarded rotting fruit and unsold meat flirt with large roaches in the openings to drains. Visceral start to proceedings, but fortunately we got the last two spots on the 8.40 to La Fortuna, so we’re outta there. Pretty sure it was supposed to be $4 each. Handed the driver $10. Job’s a good'un. Nope. Something in speedy Spanish about colones (that’s their actual currency, but dollars are accepted pretty much everywhere, including by this bus driver, seemingly, because he subsequently accepted our colones and kept the $10 and I assume got himself a lovely evening meal). So it begins. Is it possible to only learn the Spanish required to not get ripped off?
La Fortuna is north and a little west of the capital. The road slaloms through mountains of increasing grandeur, and blessings be to plenty for the window and its breeze. There’s a billboard advertising a sim card with heaps of data slap bang in the middle of the undulating plantations. Good to meet you, Planet Earth.
La Fortuna is a burgeoning portway to the great outdoors. Adrenaline and adventure and excursions, all offered by every tour company, and tour companies occupy maybe every third storefront. This clustering is rife throughout the backpackers trail of Costa Rica, and the popular spots of any country the world over, I suppose. You’re granted that slice of cunning commentary free of charge.
It’s maybe five by five blocks, the town, and works around this beautiful verdant park in the middle.
That afternoon, we walked twenty minutes down the road out of town, reaching a small dirt track next to a bridge, down from which water cascades across rocks from the volcanic highland. There’s a tarzan swing and we plunged our grateful bodies into the cool water for a while.
A small child writes his name in the history books. Tons of American tourists there too, good god.
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As of then and still so now, we’re on this flex of eating traditional food at Sodas — cheap(ish) local kitchens — and then feeling incredibly tired. Bed by 10pm, up by 7am. It’s rainy season, you see, but all that means is that the mornings are clear and blue and warm and the clouds roll over the mountains as the day progresses, bringing rains and storms and the likes around 5pm. So it pays to get up and at it.
That next day, our first full number in La Fortuna, we walked a lot in silly heat like stupid English people to a waterfall that was neither stupid nor a person. In fact, it was resplendent. That amble was only 5k, I think, but it was hilly and oppressively warm. Mad isn’t it? 150 million (!) kilometres away that big spherical furnace, but it feels so close. Got a sugarcane drink on the way up there. Necessity. If you had a single glass every day for a year you’d have no teeth, but it saved us. Hot on the heels of the sun, the falls flawlessly exhibited the glorious power of mother nature. Incessant and raucous and beautiful. We basked for a few hours round the way from the main plunge pool, chilling on rocks and riding the jets of eddies.
This day Georgie claimed that she had the best french fries of her life, which does feel mental but I’m not in the business of gaslighting so we’ll give her it.
We walked the route back to town, too. A dog chose us as its humans momentarily, so we named it Rolo and gave it love. Further down the road we had a run in with a rabid little one, and we were worried for Rolo but it’s fair to say Rolo was born and raised in the wilderness, and thus knows the code of conduct. Stay composed. Don’t nibble, don’t bark. Good Rolo.
La Fortuna hinges on its proximity to Arenal Volcano, which is a constant, stunning, imposing cone on the landscape. Several times we ruminated on whether the white wispy bits at its peak were steam or clouds. I’m sticking by the latter.
The evening meal was a spectacular display of flavour. I had a chicken casado. A casado is a classic national dish served for lunch or dinner. It’s gallo pinto with various veggies and salads. One feature was this cheesy, mashed mystery vegetable (kinda like squash but also a bit potatoey) that took our breath away. Picadillo is a regular fixture too. George had sea bass in a creamy avacado sauce. Bravo to you, Soda Viquez. If you’re ever in La Fortuna, go there. They welcomed us like family and gave us a spicy little shot as a send off.
In this small selection of photographs you can see a splendid view, a proper rancid fridge (home to vital and refreshing sugarcane juice), a serene waterbather, and our adopted dog, Rolo.
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Friday we hiked to the base of the volcano and the remnant lava fields from its last eruption in 1968. This vista takes you through sparse cattle fields and sloping green walkways, alongside a stagnant pool of algae water, and up steep ascents. We got to the farthest point you can legally go, but many still choose to visit the crater lake right at the top. Heaps of armies of ants carry little leaves to and fro their remarkable subway systems. Our guide tells us that the big bug chilling on the leaf there has the fourth most painful sting of the animal world, though who has tested that I’m not quite sure. Magic mushrooms sprout from the grass. We’re told stories of bugs that lay eggs in tarantulas and when those eggs hatch the young eat the spider from the inside out, and stories of pyroclastic flows and sulphur burning brave climbers from the inside out. Lots of turmoil from the inside out, it would seem.
Didn’t see a Sloth.
Afterwards we went to some hot springs. Allegedly they draw from the heat of the magma chamber, but it could very well be that they’re heated the same way any hot pool is and we’re none the wiser. They were a bit murky, the termalitas. One was genuinely too hot. Veins popping in the feet kinda hot. In the more temperate pool a man picked flakes from his toes so we moved swiftly on.
Cream crackered with a side of bites. Rica!
Our hike took us through the lava fields from the 1968 eruption.
Took loads of photos of the same volcano cos it was well cool. Took one of the hot springs. Toe skin.
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We had a bit of a palava booking transport from La Fortuna to Monteverde but we got by. Bus, boat, bus. These two popular settlements are 26km apart as the crow flies. It takes 4 hours.
Why?
Costa Rica is muy mountainous, so even if you’re going direct, direct isn’t direct at al — it’s rather swervy. We’re all at the mercy of these knobbly, delicious landscapes. As we sway across Lake Arenal and wobble on dirt roads to Monteverde, perfectly supple green nipples jut up from the land. Right rangey.
They’d booked us in to the buses as San-Georgina. Sounds like a sleepy but quite delightful town doesn’t it?
A girl from Cali on the bus had that classic drawn out drawl that points to wealth and açai bowls. At one point I overheard her say: ‘In Hollywood, no one needs a machete, ever’
That afternoon we explored a whole bunch of the turvy topography, putting our calves to work on a semi-aimless amble through Monteverde. We reached a specialist coffee hut where they had different roasts and strengths to taste for free. Monkeys sloped down the trees to join the party. Can you imagine them on caffeine?
It’s a gorgeous place, Monteverde. Green Mountain. No lies told. Safe and pretty and abundant with bonito flora at every turn. Some of the views over the valleys will take some beating, and it’s week one.
Pretty sure that counts as seeing a Sloth.
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On Sunday we spent almost four hours in Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve, following trails through the gnarliest moss-covered trees, which shoot in and jut out in magical clusters. Absolute abundance all around you. That’s a rainforest for ya, I suppose. At vista outcrops and after lofty ascent, clouds roll through and tickle you with their mist. It’s something else.
We didn’t see a Sloth.
It started spitting with rain just after we crossed the hanging bridge. The rainforest proved both a source of refuge and a spiteful adversary, collecting bigboy droplets in its concave leaves and opting to drop them on us as we shuffled by.
A cafe by the reserve has hummingbirds by the dozens flicking about and drinking their sweet water from hanging vestibules. We had a mocha to warm our souls.
The spitting rain didn’t ever cease, really, and built in extremity as the evening greeted us. Crazy purple forks of lightning and the most rumbling thunder circling us as we looked out in awe and mild fear from the hostel balcony.
Very verdant for sure yep.
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En route coast. Costa Rica has a pretty renowned coastal offering both on the Pacific and Caribbean sides. We’re heading to the former first, and for a while we’re on Carretera Interamericana Norte, which runs from Nicaragua down to San Jose, a main vein running through the heart of Costa Rica. I speak to our boisterous driver Richard about the merits of either coast, about what awaits us in Panama, and some of his stories from a family holiday in Medellin.
There are aguacate trees and stalls piled high with those ripening green glories by the roadside.
Caldera is our first sight of the Pacific. Plastic chairs line shanty eateries and big freights bob lazy in the bay water. We have some unreal carne con queso at the rest stop. It’s like halloumi but softer and with a slight crispy exterior. We’ve not come across it a whole lot.
And so we land in Quepos, the gateway to Manuel Antonio national park, and by gateway I mean popular budget town 20 minutes inland that isn’t exclusively luxury resorts and bougie vistas overhanging the mountainside.
I spend the afternoon writing this and swimming in the pool. Not simultaneously. Risky business that. The whole scene is absolutely doused in sunshine. Georgie basks and listens to some tunes. It’s humid, this sea level malarkey.
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Did an absolutely absurd hike on our first full day. Could be a post in and of itself, honestly, but this is already dragging on and even our parents are scrolling a little weary by now. Afford me the right to summarise:
Probably around 12/13k round the coast, the hike starts at a spot called Reto el Mae and passes five small beaches on the way to the heart of Manuel Antonio
These beaches you descend to, you see, but that means a big scramble and climb back up to the trail in order to progress to the next beach
Every 8-or-so minutes we’re granted the most spectacular views over the crisp blue water and the thick jungle headlands in both directions
We were advised to go at low tide but didn’t make the cut, which meant traversing rocks and clinging to a makeshift rope to stay on the trail at certain points. Georgie tumbled down a jagged stretch and scraped herself pretty good. It was your old fashioned, slow-motion tuck and roll, with numerous attempts to stop herself only generating further momentum. Quite an impressive dance actually. We’ve got antiseptic. She’s ok. Adrenaline junkie this one.
Georgie commentary re: fall — I slipped on a rock and thought I was a goner! Turns out there were no broken bones or a head injury, so yay!!!
Got lost in the blazing heat for about 45 minutes, during which I grew increasingly frustrated by our inability to find the pink ribbons that ushered us through
Found them
Topped up on water
Had some unreal falafel and houmous up a massive hill. Vital interval.
Re-descended down a dirt track and got chased by a very riled up large grey pitbull. This was the first time I genuinely feared for our lives. Managed to outrun him the fat little piggie.
SAW A SLOTH! Had to move hastily past said sloth because there were some displeased monkeys making displeased noises in the surrounding trees
Eventually made it to the final beach — Biesanz — both saturated with sweat and out on our feet.
Class. One of the wildest and most eventful jaunts of our fortunate lives.
C'mon that's nice.
G in bright spirits after her quite magnificent slip.
Made it.
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So we chilled on Playa Espadilla all day the next. The sea was warm and the waves suitable for surf so we rode them in and basked and ate seafood and thanked our lucky stars for the pitbull’s shocking stamina.
Now we’re headed to the Caribbean coast. That’s where we’ll pick things up next time.
Pura Vida.
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