Panama Real Estate Investment Travel Information


Costa Rica Weekend: Manuel Antonio Beach Part II

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Written by Matt Landau

Saturday, May 27 2006

Here are some things that have been annoying me lately: the impenetrable plastic wrapping that comes on DVD's, SPAM emails from someone named Sashi, cereal bags that unravel as soon as you fold the flaps of the box, and the way leather sandals stain your feet when it's raining out...

From only the past few days of rain, the soles of my feet are practically dyed yellow for life. The heart of the rainy season in Costa Rica brings new meaning to the phrase when it rains it pours. The rain was coming down pretty steady as it had been for the previous 72 hours as our bus dodged through curvy streets and chugged up the steep mountains. It waded through 3-foot deep puddles and swam over class-4 rafting rapids. Around us, orange plastic tricycles and chewed-up pineapple carcasses bobbed in our wake. Cars had flipped over, street signs struggled to stay upright and people stood on higher ground. It was the kind of situation where you laugh and giggle at something until you realize it is actually threatening your life—at which point you become completely humorless and scared. The water was so heavy and the current so strong, that when we made it out safely I checked my cat-meter to see how many lives I had left. 8.

Dinner that night was at Issimo Suites, a posh new, glass-enclosed hotel in the mountains. We dined with fellow agents who work out of San Jose. One friendly realtor on the trip was Bismark, an excited, scatterbrained, guy whose passions were grilled meats, women, and psychedelic trance music. He reminded me of the kid in middle-school with the Hershey's-stained shirt, who was always last in gym class running the mile because he was busy eating lollypops. He constantly did things that a man should never do past 30: he ate Oreos in stages, he carried a Velcro wallet, he jokingly flashed gang symbols in photos, and at one point he asked a policeman “hey, you ever shoot anybody with that thing?”

Nonetheless, he was looking to have a good weekend and so were we! Among the other funny people on our trip were Sylvie, the lightly-bearded French girl, Leonardo, a sporty little guy, and Kirsten, a blonde sorority girl turned travel consultant. Our group for the trip was certainly not lacking in the quirk department. The meal started with giant prawns in a homemade coctail sauce. That was followed locally-picked grilled peppers, wasabi-studded tuna sashimi, and whatever fish the guy happened to catch that day.

The hills of this area in the Central Pacific are really dense with hotels, restaurants and just about any establishment that enjoys preying on tourists. Where there was once nothing, there is all of a sudden a thousand different choices for the persnickety traveler. In a region where everyone is trying to sell you something, our hotel sold itself. Buena Vista Villas (modestly named for its good views) was made up of 7 separate luxury villas tucked neatly away into the side of a heavily-forested mountain. Its shiny floors, plush furniture, chef-approved kitchen, and ironic “rain forest shower head” were dazzling. The villas go for $590/night in the high season and $3,325/night during Easter week—we were living large.

Saturday morning we were collected at 6 AM and driven to Damas Island—a small village most commonly known for the destruction it saw during the earthquake of 1991. The village is like a shanty town community with children running in the streets chasing coconut soccer balls, old people sitting on porches in broken patio chairs, and dogs roaming around to gather up whatever scraps they can. We eventually reached the water and loaded into our kayaks for a leisure tour of the island. Now, for me kayaking is one of those things that is never quite as good as it sounds—right along with tandem bicycles, flavored toothpicks, hidden tracks on CDs, and tug of war. The tour was B+ at best, but we did see several monkeys, lots of crabs, and a few wild raccoons. I also somehow got my finger stuck in my kayak.

Dinner that night was at the Hotel Parador which plays posh host to whichever people make it there. It's decorated in a style that I can only describe as Spanish colonial meets The Jetsons: lots of old relics and artwork alongside high-tech gadgets and gizmos. The food was great: perfectly grilled meats, crazy-fresh salad bar, and sashimi so fresh that it looked to be still squirming. Eager service, beautiful ambiance, good company. The experience was amazing.

After dinner that night, we were escorted to a bar called The Lounge where we attacked an open bar with open mouths. One hour later we were feeling pretty good—with a little bounce in our step and that little buzzy smirk on our faces. Suddenly, almost frighteningly, appeared a drum line of Caribbean dancers and musicians. The thumping drums and screaming whistles were invigorating and in no time we were dancing along with the beat.

Later, a shuttle took us over to a beachfront disco which reminded me of a lodge party, only with impatient prostitutes, funny latinos, and no puffy-chested guy at the door to stamp your hand. We hung out mostly with Karpazi (or some name close to that), a guy who was either fat or really muscular: also the guy who was to be our whitewater rafting guide the next day. Roaming around our partying territory was a 76 year-old grandma who talked more trash than my little brother. She drank like a frat boy, had the mouth of a sailor, and the agility of a puma—just kidding with the puma part. She said she was there with her granddaughters wedding party, but no one believed her. The night was a great time.

The cancellation of rafting in the morning due to weather was probably a blessing in disguise. Instead, we went horseback riding with Guillermo, a native Costa Rican and a self-proclaimed ‘horse whisperer'. Horseback riding: another thing that is better in theory. Luckily, my horse was as hung-over as I was and gave me a smooth, shock-absorbent ride through rivers, over stone bridges and under droopy tree leaves. The trip's climax was the waterfall—this huge wonder hidden away in the depths of the forest. A quick dip in icy springs and a hydraulic massage—the perfect remedy for a dodgy stomach.

The ride back home to San Jose was quiet. I mapped out the chapter you are reading right now, snacked on a meat sandwich then snoozed with a timeless smile on my face. It was such a good weekend that the tours, people, and hotels infiltrated my dreams—when I awoke, I did the cliché pinch to make sure I wasn't still dreaming. I've always wanted to do that.