Tag Archives: Costa Rica

A Thoroughly Thought Through Plan


D: So what did you tell them?

L: Well it’s tricky leaving your job without having any sort of plan about what to do next. I didn’t want people to think I was mad. Or having a nervous breakdown. And I thought it might be rude to say that being all managerial and responsible for everyone wasn’t really much fun. So I had to make something up.

D: Which was…?

L: I said we were going travelling.

D: OK….

L: But that was a mistake, because instead of shutting them up, they then all asked where we were going.

D: And you said?

L: Well I had to think fast.

D: And you came up with…?

L: Costa Rica.

D: Right. Do you know anything about Costa Rica?

L: Umm…it’s sunny, and Spanish speaking. And there are parrots. And I remember picking up a leaflet years ago and reading that their tourism slogan was “Tan your soul”. I liked that.

D: So did that put an end to the questions?

L: No. Some people thought it was an island in the Caribbean, so I had to explain that actually they were thinking of Puerto Rico which is entirely different, and that Costa Rica is the bit of Central America wedged between Nicaragua and Panama. Once we’d sorted that out, then they all asked when we were going and how long for.

D: Ah. Really quite a deep hole you were digging yourself then. What did you say?

L: January. For three months.

D: Three months? What on earth did you imagine we’d be doing there for so long?

L: I said you’d be working. That you can do your translating anywhere in the world that has an internet connection.

D: Great. Thanks a lot. What about you?

L: I haven’t thought of an answer to that one yet. Maybe I’d do something nice and stress free like working in a cake shop. Do you think they have cake shops in Costa Rica?

D: Sigh.

An hour later…

D: Maybe we should go.

L: To Sainsburys?

D: To Costa Rica.

L: Hurrah! Now? Let me just find my flip-flops.

D: No, stupid. In January, like you said.

L: Oh alright then.   Wait a minute, are you SERIOUS?

D: Why not?

At regular intervals over the next few months….

L: I’ve found a guide book. It’s 15 years old but it’ll do fine.   Did you know that Costa Rica is one of the world’s most peaceful countries? They don’t even have an army – they abolished it in 1949 and made everyone teachers instead. Now their literacy rate is the highest in Latin America.

D: Excellent. I’m working.


L: It’s the safest country in Central America. And everyone’s really friendly.

D: Great. I’m busy.


L: It says here that it was voted the greenest country in the world. Over 27% of the land is protected. And it has the greatest density of species on the planet.

D: Good. Go away.


L: They’ve dropped the “tan your soul” slogan. Now everyone says “Pura Vida” instead. It sort of means “pure life” or “live well” or something.

D: Lovely. Leave me alone.


L: Wikipedia says that it’s the happiest place in the world and that everyone lives to over 100.

D: That’s a pity.

L: Are you listening?

D: No, I’m trying to finish this document for a deadline this afternoon.


L: Costa Rica seems to have millions of monkeys and toucans and trees and things, but nothing historical whatsoever. I think we’d better go to Nicaragua too.

D: Turn off the light. I’m asleep.

But eventually…..

L: Right, I’ve got a plan.

D: Great. Now shush – I’m watching You’ve Been Framed.

L: But aren’t you interested in where we’re going?

D: I will be when we get there.

L: Shall I just tell you about the volcanoes and the rain forests and the animals?

D: Ha ha! Did you see that cat? Genius!

L: And the flights and the buses and the accommodation?

D: Ouch! I could tell that was going to happen. What an idiot.

L: And the lakes and the islands and the revolutionary graffiti?

D: Faked! Definitely a set up.

L: Don’t you at least want to know where you’ll be living for two months after we’ve done some exploring?

D: What? Has it got internet access?

L: Yes.

D: I’m sure it’ll be fine then. How did you choose it?

L: It looked nice on Google Earth.

D: Sounds perfect.   Look – a skateboarding dog.





Volcan Arenal National Park

Arenal - volcano 1

D: I refuse.

L: (patiently) You refuse to go to Arenal National Park. Why?

D: Because everybody else goes there.

L: There might be a reason for that. Maybe it’s really worthwhile.

D: So, what is there to do?

L: There’s the volcano.

D: But the volcano’s broken.

L: Umm….yes. Yes it is.

D: It sounded excellent in our old guidebook. You could see it exploding and glowing red every night, and my brother Tom said it spewed so much ash and cinders all over them while they were on a walk, that their guide got really worried. I want all of that.

L: Well, I’m afraid it’s stopped. Hardly a puff or a grumble since 2010. It could start again at any moment though. Today even. It was perfectly calm for nearly 500 years until suddenly in 1968, it woke up, and produced several huge explosions and a gigantic lava flow which wiped out two villages, killing 80 people and 45,000 cows.

D: Blimey. How awful. I don’t want all of that.

L: No. You certainly don’t.

D: But if it’s now dormant again, why hasn’t that stopped the tourism? Why do people still go there?

L: Well….firstly, the volcano itself is an enormous perfect cone rising out of a gorgeous landscape, so it looks really iconic. Secondly, there’s lots to do. We could go for a walk at the foot of the volcano, or on some hanging bridges through the forest canopy, or wallow in some hot springs, or go to a waterfall, or ride a horse or an ATV. And thirdly, the Laguna de Arenal is the biggest lake in Costa Rica, and is one of the best places in the world for windsurfing.

D: I hate horses – they bite. I’m rubbish at windsurfing. And there are hanging bridges at Monteverde.

L: (tactfully) Gosh, is it that time already? I had no idea it was so late. Let’s have a big drink. And some peanuts.

D drinks a glass of beer, and urgently eats peanuts, in intense silence, for a few minutes, and then grins.

D: Thank you. Better now. It seems I was a bit thirsty. And hungry. What were we talking about?

L: Your enthusiasm for Arenal.

D: That’s right. It all sounds splendid. When shall we go?

Three days later….

They drive to Arenal. The journey takes four hours. Although at only a couple of hundred metres above sea-level, and therefore hot, the surrounding landscape is green and lush, with crops and rich pasture land sprinkled with cattle ranches. They are now on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica’s central mountain ridge, which gets plenty of rain. Ahead of them, a rugged range of lowish mountains rises from the plain, with Arenal standing impressively at one end.

L: Lovely. I didn’t realise that the volcano was part of a range of hills. It always looks as though it’s on its own in the photos. Pity that the top is in the cloud.

D: Not to worry – it’ll clear in a bit.

L: Rather than stay in town, I’ve booked the most basic room in a posh hotel near the lake. It won’t have a volcano view. We’ll probably have a view of a wall. Or the bins. But there’s a pool, and nice gardens. And it’s close to the things we might want to do.

They drive through the little town of La Fortuna and out the other side, towards the volcano. And on past other hotels. And on past the National Park entrance. And on, until they begin to worry that they are leaving the area altogether.

L: There! On the right. There’s a sign. And a barrier. And a man with a clipboard.

They are scrutinised with some suspicion. L wishes that the back seats weren’t draped with drying underwear. The security guard shakes his head, but then reluctantly lifts the barrier and they are through.

D: Crikey – this is one of the worst roads I’ve ever come across!

He changes into 4WD and carefully picks his way up the impossibly steep drive, paved and yet riven with potholes and erosion channels and loose rocks. Two kilometres further on, they are greeted by a cheerful hand painted sign: “You’ve Made It!”

They park, brush biscuit crumbs off their fronts, and walk into reception, where they are greeted effusively.

Reception guy: Welcome! Long journey? First time here? You are from where? England! I just love the English accent! It’s so fancy.

D: (seriously) Ah yes. The way I speak certainly is rather fancy.

L snorts.

Reception guy: One night? Let me just check. Oh. Oh dear. I’m so sorry. Your room isn’t ready yet.

L: Never mind. Maybe we could just leave our luggage and come back later?

Reception guy: Hold on. Just a moment. Let me speak to my manager. Yes? OK. Follow me please. We do have a different room, which just might be suitable. It’s an upgrade. Come and see if you would find it acceptable.

He leads them past a sign saying “Matrimonial Suite” onto a private terrace, and through a door into a wood-panelled sitting room. Beyond is a king-size bed next to a huge picture window looking directly across the gardens to the volcano, which is still wearing a little hat of cloud. To the other side, a door leads to a cavernous bathroom and dressing room.Arenal - room with a view

Reception guy: What do you think? Will it do?

L: Really? Can we really have this one? Are you sure? There’s no mistake? Oh, yes please!

D: (holding L back) No, you don’t need to kiss him. He’s just doing his job. Really well.

Having emptied the car, they head out again reluctantly, as though if they take their eyes off the room it will disappear. They negotiate the drive once more, which is even more adventurous downhill.

L: Stop, stop!

D: What? Rock? Pothole?Arenal - coati

L: There’s a fluffy bottom on the bank with a really long tail.

The bottom turns and a pointy nose and pair of beady eyes assess the car curiously.   The coati decides that they are no threat, and potters on along the bank, paralleling the drive, in full view. Car and coati continue on companionably side by side for a while, until he spots something interesting in the undergrowth and scampers off.

They cross the dam at the foot of Lake Arenal, which sparkles enticingly in the sun. Small boats are tied up to a quay.

D: (knowledgeably) Rainbow trout.

L: What?

D: (spotting a fishing trips sign saying exactly that) The boats take people out fishing for rainbow trout.

L: (surprised, thinking D knows nothing whatsoever about fish) If you catch one, d’you get to keep it?

D: No idea. I know nothing whatsoever about fish.

They follow a dusty, pot-holed dirt road until they arrive at the Parque Nacional Volcan Arenal.

The walk they have chosen takes them along a sandy path through tall groves of sugar cane and then low growing dry forest.

L: What’s that rustling?

D: Quite a big animal, I think. Hang on, I can see it. It’s a sort of giant pheasant.

L: Where? Gosh, it looks like two different birds stuck together. Its body is a lovely chestnut brown, but its long tail feathers and fabulous head crest have black and white stripes. How curious!

(They later identify her as a female Great Curassow.)

On they go.

D: Stand still – you’re about to do it again.

L: What?

D: Stand on a snake.Arenal - snake

L: Yikes! Oh, he’s pretty.

They take a step back to admire a small brown and cream snake, beautifully striped.

(Note – we have failed to identify it. Does anyone know what it is?)

On they go, passing an elderly tour group watching a family of capuchin monkeys feeding in the canopy.

L: Here we are. At the foot of the volcano. Standing on volcanic rock.

They look up. The summit is still in the cloud.Arenal - volcano danger zone

D waits for a few minutes, hopefully, on the wrong side of a wooden sign promising “Danger – Area of High Volcanic Activity”, but nothing happens.

D: Now what?

L: To the end. I think there’s a viewpoint just along here.

They climb a flight of wooden steps to re-meet the tour group, who are resting, perched on rocks thrown down by the volcano. From here, there are spectacular views across the Laguna de Arenal, ringed by blue hills.

L: Imagine, there are a couple of little towns under there. They were flooded when the dam was built, in the 70s. I can’t see anyone windsurfing.

D: I think it all happens at the other end, where it’s windier.

American lady: Would you like us to take your picture?

D: No, that’s OK. Oh, well, yes, alright.

He climbs onto a volcanic boulder, and pulls L up to stand beside him.

American lady: Oh my – will you look at you nimble young things!

D overbalances, staggers backwards off the rock, and falls into a bush.

L: Congratulations. Neatly done.

D: Thank you.

The Americans are all watching politely. Nobody laughs. Except L.

D climbs back onto the rock.

American lady: Ready? There you go. Say “rice and beans!”

They thank her, and reclaim the camera. They check the photo. They both look like chumps.

On the return walk, L suggests they seek out some thermal springs.

D: Why would I want to pay to sit in a thermal spring with a bunch of strangers when our hotel has an outdoor hot tub? And piña coladas.

They head on back. The hot tub is on and has views straight across to the volcano. Which is still in cloud.

L: Do you think we’ve come all this way, to not quite see the iconic Volcan Arenal after all?

D: It’ll be clear in the morning.

The following morning….

L opens one eye.

L: How was your run? Yuck, you’re impressively sweaty – you are actually dripping onto the floor.

D: It’s raining.

L: (shooting up in bed and turning to look out of the window) It’s what?

Beyond the garden there is nothing. Just grey sky. Not a hint of a volcano.

L: That’s that then.

D: We’ve still got a beautiful drive along the lake shore this morning.Arenal - Lake

Two hours later…

L: D’you think it’s going to pour all day?

D: It’ll clear up in a minute.

L: Funny how much it looks exactly like England. We could be in the Lake District.

Arenal - Laguna



Spanish Immersion in Samara

Samara - palm trees and beach

Chapter 1

L: Oh my goodness. What HAVE we done? It’s so hot!

D: (getting out of the car with a grimace) And sandy. I hate sand.   Why didn’t you tell me that there would be sand?

L: We’ve been planning to base ourselves here in Samara all along. On the Pacific coast. I told you. The idea of the heat seemed blissful when sitting in a cold English winter in the rain. I’m sure we’ll get used to it.

D: (doubtfully) It all looked less itchy on Google Earth.

L: Just look how gorgeous it is! The blue sea, the palm trees. It’s like a postcard. We’re going to love it. You can learn to surf.

D: I suppose….

L: And I can see rocks at the far end of the bay.

D: (perking up) I like rocks. Rocks means no sand.

L: We are incredibly lucky to be able to do this.

D: Yes, we are very lucky. (He mutters) And sandy….

L: So. D’you think you might be able to bear it here in paradise?   As we’ve paid for two months’ rent in advance. And for a week of Spanish classes to start us off.

D: I can try….

L: That’s very brave of you. Here’s the school. Shall we go in?

The Intercultura Language School campus in Samara has an enviable waterfront location, only separated from the beach by a triple row of tall palm trees. In reception they are greeted with a smile, in Spanish, and hesitantly respond, managing to introduce themselves and confirm that they have signed up for one week. The school’s approach is total immersion, and it is taken seriously. There are pledges to be chanted and signed promising to speak only Spanish within the grounds, and notices up around the place sternly reminding people that they could be expelled for not complying.  Samara - Intercultura Language School

L: (in Spanish) Err…there is very heat today?

Reception: Today? It’s what? 37C (100F) degrees? No, that’s about normal. It’s like this every day. Except in the rainy season when it’s humid too. Today, we’re lucky – there’s a breeze to cool things down a bit.

L: Oh.

Like most of the students, they have opted to enhance their immersion experience by taking homestay accommodation with a local Spanish-only speaking family. The receptionist makes a phone call, and before long two young women arrive on a moped, bouncing down the dirt track with a toddler balanced between them. They disembark and introduce themselves.

Woman: (in Spanish) Hola! We’re your hermana-ticas (tica-sisters), and this is my niece. Are you ready to go? You have a car? Follow us.

They all get back on the scooter. D gets busy reversing the car in order to turn around. L looks towards the beach, from where appears a goddess walking towards them: a deeply bronzed, impossibly long-limbed dudette with a surfboard under one arm, wet hair streaming down her back. She passes the car, which swerves suddenly and very nearly hits a wall.

L: What the….? We have to give the car back in an hour. Don’t crash it now!

D: Sorry, got distracted. Lost concentration.

L: Sigh. Why don’t I look like that?

D: You do. You’re just a bit paler. And quite a lot shorter. And of course you’re much older than her. But otherwise you look just like that.

L: Thanks.

Chapter 2

A kilometre west of town, Samara’s tarmac ends and they unwillingly throw up a cloud of dust as they approach. The house is squeezed between its neighbours on both sides, but stretches a long way back. It has a tin roof, which doesn’t seem to always meet the top of the walls. The enclosed front yard leads to a comfortable open-sided living area with sofas and TV, dining table, and kitchen. Whilst providing shelter from the seasonal rains, the design efficiently takes advantage of any breezes, and allows the heat of the day, and of cooking, to escape quickly. Beyond, they are led through a warren of dim rooms, to their base for the week at the back of the house. It is furnished with a double bed, a single bed, and a large fan. Unlike many homestays, it also has the luxury of a private bathroom. They look around.Samara - homestay

L: It’s lovely and clean. I’m going to unpack our clothes into piles on the smaller bed.

D: There are nails around the wall that we can hang things on too.

L: Open the curtains. What’s our view?

D: Ummm….it looks into another bedroom.

L: Oh – better keep them closed then. Never mind – we’ll only be in it when it’s dark anyway.

D: Without an outside window, the bugs and mozzies won’t get in.

L: Good point. And the room’s well lit.

They glance at the bulb hanging from the ceiling which is swinging gently in the breeze from the fan.

L tests the shower.

D: Remember we were warned that houses here don’t tend to have hot water.

L: In this heat, I can’t even imagine needing hot water. The pressure’s good. The water comes straight out of a pipe which is far better for washing my hair than all the half-blocked shower-heads that we’ve come across recently.

That evening, they are given an orientation tour of the school and the village of Samara, and warned of the frequency with which to expect to be fed gallo pinto (rice and black beans) by their host families. Once daily, at the very least. The school itself is well equipped, with small air-conditioned classrooms (maximum class size is 6 students), a large garden with plenty of shady seating, lockers, and outdoor showers for those coming to lessons straight from the beach. There is WIFI throughout the grounds, and one small designated outdoor area where students are allowed to speak in their mother-tongue to make a phone call or skype.   There are free daily activities, in Spanish: yoga, Latin dance, Zumba, cooking, jewellery making. On a tour of the village they are shown where to find the bank, the cheapest supermarket, the doctor, the police, the tastiest tapas, and the best value surfboard hire.Samara - main street

They walk back in the dark. The road is teeming with unlit cyclists, pedestrians, free-range dogs and the occasional grazing horse, in addition to vehicle traffic tearing past with alarming urgency. Miraculously, it seems, there are no incidents.

Back at the house, they meet their mama-tica who has been attending a local council meeting about litter. She speaks quick-fire Spanish at them. Their hermana-tica gently interjects, slowly and clearly, whilst entertaining her tiny niece who is tapping away at a tablet with dazzling proficiency.

Mama-Tica: The weekenders are the worst. They come down from the city, spend one or two nights, leave rubbish all over the beach and then leave again. The kids are educated in school about litter nowadays, but the parents are a real problem. Fines don’t work. Nobody cares enough. But they should. The beach is our livelihood. If it’s covered in litter, what will the tourists think?

She produces freshly squeezed fruit juice, large bowls of spaghetti, and garlic bread. Not a black bean in sight. D eats hungrily. She sits at the table and watches him with evident satisfaction. The family dine separately, later.

Chapter 3

The hermana-ticas find bicycles for them to use, to shorten the commute to and from the language school. D’s is new-looking, black and shiny. L’s is pink and child-sized with a little white basket on the front. They have no gears, and no brakes.

L: How do you stop?

D: Back-pedal. Like this.

He skids.

D: It might take some getting used to.

L: Do I look ridiculous?

D: Of course not.

L: Are you ashamed of me?

D: No, I am proud of you.

L: Tell me the truth.

D: I am proud. And you look ridiculous.

On their first morning at the school, their Spanish skills are assessed separately, and they are pleased to be put into the same group. They are directed into a classroom. As they enter, D trips over a chair leg, knocks a side table and overturns a plastic tub of coloured pencils which cascade onto the floor.

L: What the…..?

D: Sorry, got distracted. Lost concentration.

There, at the whiteboard, welcoming her class for the week with a broad smile, is their profesora, the surf-goddess.

Chapter 4

The profesora proves to be as engaging as she is beautiful. Everybody loves her, and they work hard. The classes are fun, interesting and varied – nevertheless, the week is intense. Four hours of lessons each day with two 15-minute breaks. Only Spanish is spoken in class. And during breaks. Samara - Intercultura GardenThey have lunch in the school gardens and sit in the shade of the palms doing homework, speaking Spanish laboriously to each other and their fellow students throughout. It works – they learn, they practice, they remember. They progress. Their heads are stuffed so full of Spanish that there is no room for anything else.

One morning, for an exercise, they collect images from magazines. They are working together, but D has a problem.

D: Oh.

L: (in Spanish) What’s up?

D: (in Spanish) Give me a minute. No. It’s gone. How is that possible? Oh, I’m so embarrassed.

Profesora-Goddess: (smiling supportively) “Embarazado” means pregnant. What are you trying to say?

D looks understandably startled. The class laugh gently.

D: (in Spanish) Sorry, wrong word. Look, I can’t remember their names.

L: (in Spanish) Who? Those two? That’s easy. Oh. Hang on. Errr….

They stare earnestly at their cut out pictures of two of the best known faces on the planet. Spanish whirls through their heads. No names come. They stare. They think. They open their mouths as though the words will come out. They don’t. They dig deep, and eventually excavate one, and then the other. They write them down: Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama.

Chapter 5

Mama-Tica feeds them delicious and healthy meals throughout the week. Quantities of fresh fruit for breakfast, and a continued – almost disappointing – absence of the Tico staple of rice and beans. She returns from another council meeting, peppering them with sharp and rapid Spanish.   They are getting better at grasping her words as they fly past, concentration running at full pelt to keep up with her.

Mama-Tica: The water supply is a real problem. There’s enough for now, but it hasn’t rained for two years.

They gape. Two years without rain is inconceivable to the English.

L: But the rainy season…..

Mama-Tica: Hardly any rain. Not like it’s supposed to be.

D: So where does Samara’s water come from?

Mama-Tica: Wells. There are wells. But they won’t last forever. We need to be careful, plan, conserve water, stop watering lawns and dirt roads to keep the dust down.

This they are familiar with, as in the UK, despite around 150 days of rain per year, there are regular hose-pipe bans. Mama-Tica’s attention is drawn away to her grand-daughter.

Mama-Tica: Come here, mi princesa. Come to your grandma, you beautiful treasure.

She scoops the child onto her lap.

They turn the Spanish conversation to their hermana-tica, who tells them that her sister returned to work eight weeks after giving birth. And that it was tricky – for the next three months, they had to take the baby to her restaurant for hourly breast-feeds. There is a pause. Breast-feeding is not their area of expertise. She changes the subject, and asks how they slept.

L: Very well, thank you. The bed is very comfortable.

L wants to say how unexpectedly bug-free their room is, but stays silent in case the comment would be impolite. She considers, and decides against, saying that the school had warned them to expect scorpions, but there have been none. Or relating a rather horrifying tale overheard today, of a student who woke in the night because she felt she might be being tickled by an insect. Or possibly more than one. So she turned on the light, to find her room swarming with thousands of termites who had broken through from a nest in the roof.

D: But there was a dog.Raccoon

Mama-Tica: Oh yes, barking at the mapache. There was a mapache, on the roof.

They are puzzled by the word, ask for clues, make some guesses, and then look it up. In the process, D notes with dismay that their dictionary is gritty with sand from the beach.

L: Oh, right! A raccoon!

Mama-Tica nods, rocking in her chair, crooning her grand-daughter to sleep.

Mama-Tica: (softly) Mapache viene por bebé. Mapache viene por bebé.

The baby nods off happily to the murmured threats of a raccoon coming to take her away, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of D, in the yard, fastidiously brushing sand from between the pages of his book.

Samara - boats on beach

A day in the life of Playa Samara

playa first


Before dawn, the howler monkeys start to roar ferociously, like lions, or dinosaurs – huge terrible sounds to burst from such small herbivores. Great-tailed grackles fly to and fro, warming up their orchestra of whistles and rattles.

On Playa Samara, hermit-crab trails criss-cross the dry sand, looking like tracks from a team of unicyclists, while the wet sand is strewn with the swirls and doodles of a thousand unseen snails.

The Joggers are out, heading east towards the pinkening sky, nodding to each other as they pass. There are some who are serious, their sneaker-shod feet staying well above the tide line, sweat shining on toned muscles as they push themselves on. And others who splash barefoot through the shallows, tiptoe over scattered coral, and stop to pick up shells.playa - romantics

The Romantics are out to catch the sunrise, sitting side by side on driftwood logs, waiting patiently with cameras poised, for the brief flare of orange to rise from behind the palms, before swiftly strengthening and paling to yellow.

The Walkers with Purpose are out, ladies sporting visors or large floppy sunhats, pastel-coloured sports shoes, marching in pairs across a mirror lake of sky reflected in wet sand.

The Dogwalkers are out, both owners and animals relishing their social mingling, the early morning breeze cooling warm skin and carrying messages to wet noses of excitements to explore.

A pair of whimbrels are at work on the shoreline, their long curved beaks tweaking tiny crabs from the sand. Eleven brown pelicans are fishing in the shallows, diving into water no deeper than their beaks.playa - boats (2)

A lone fisherman reels in a big flat fish, line-caught from the shore. Two black vultures stand expectantly close by. A dozen small fishing boats are pulled high up the beach, another dozen bob at anchor in the bay, and beyond them, two yachts. Skippers come out to check their vessels, to prepare them for the day.

An egret and a small blue heron stand side by side watching the ocean, where a single line of swell rises to a clean green wall before tumbling into white confusion and roaring shorewards, fading to a soft ripple sliding gently up the beach to lap their ankles, and then retreating.

The Early Swimmers head out, first wading, then ducking, then striking out beyond the break, to where the sea becomes smooth.

playa - ternsA flock of black-capped terns takes off suddenly, startled by a mother chasing her arm-banded child, dashing full pelt towards the water, out to enjoy the beach before the sun’s strength sets in.

The Commuters are out – the beach as their highway – a bicycle flying by with the wind behind it, a motorbike briefly ripping the sounds of the morning in two. A high-gaited horse with cowboy-hatted rider, snapping dogs in hot pursuit. Children in dazzling white shirts, heading for school.

On the great length and breadth of Playa Samara each of them has the beach to themselves.


playa - hammocksThe Shade Loungers arrive, slinging brightly striped hammocks in between trees, spreading towels on soft sand and settling down for the day, breezes rattling through the palm fronds above their heads.

The Sunbathers arrive, lying determinedly in the dazzling light or walking the length of the two-mile beach to top up their tans.

In the ocean-facing camping grounds, iguanas bask on hot tin roofs, and cicadas whirr unseen.

The heat builds as the sun beats down from the cloudless blue and the beach empties of all but the hardiest – most seeking shelter in the shade. From time to time, a wild howling dash is made, barefoot across burning sand, to cool off in the sea.

The temperature peaks, settles and eventually begins to fall.


playa - surfersAs high tide approaches, the Surf Dudes are out, learners and experts, bobbing and ducking out through the breakers, waiting and waiting, turning and paddling, standing and carving, for the brief addictive thrill of catching the right wave just right.

The cooling afternoon beckons all to the ocean, but still on the great length and breadth of Playa Samara each of them has the beach to themselves.

Locals and holiday-makers take to the water, standing shoulder-deep in groups, wallowing lengthily, chatting. The Sunbathers and Shade Loungers venture back out to soak up the sun in its fading ferocity.   playa - volleyballThe Ticos play football with much fancy footwork, shouting and laughing, and at the volleyball nets the Golden Kids pat a ball to and fro, jumping and diving and whooping.

The howler monkeys return, munching leaves from low branches, and once more staking their territory with bloodcurdling roars. Frigate birds wheel overhead, sweeping through the sky like aerial dancers. Shadows lengthen, and colours soften and blur as sunset approaches.

The Dogwalkers return, the bicycle and motorbike heading for home, and the high-gaited horse trots back up the beach, haughtily ignoring the insolent hounds once more at its heels.

playa - barDaytime activities mingle with evening ones, late sun-seekers share space with early cocktail-drinkers, on cushioned loungers.   Four free-range horses stroll through the palms and trample across unguarded towels. They pause at the loungers, roll exultantly, thoroughly, spraying the occupants with sand before standing, shaking, and trotting away. The dogs spot new prey and set off after them, shouting with delight.

The bars fill with people-watchers, observing fitness fanatics perform sand-sticky sit-ups and stretches, over-tired kids coaxed out of the sea, and Smart-phone selfies and sunsets. Then without ceremony, the sun slips quietly behind the headland, and is gone.


After dark the restaurants turn lively, wooing diners with music and fairy lights. Reggae and dance beats bounce from buildings to beach, jostling each other for attention. Geckos gather round decorative lighting, chirruping cheerfully as they hunt, and a band of raccoons scuttles by, snuffing.

Strains of a mariachi band drift along the beach front, and as they move between venues, joyous bursts of trumpet solo – just for the love of making music. In the village quadbikes thunder back and forth on limited stretches of tarmac, and later, revellers shout out to each other as they make their way home, wishing each other goodnight.

The beach is now dark and empty, the sand underfoot almost refreshingly chilly, and out in the black the surf still roars rhythmically, heard but not seen. Overhead the cloudless night displays a spectacular spread of stars on an inky dome stretching all the way down to where sky meets the sea.

playa - last

The Neighbour – Samara, Costa Rica



D: There’s something in our hammock.

L: Like what?

L is in the bathroom, rinsing sand and salt and tangles from her hair. D is looking apprehensively out of the living room window.

D: Not sure. It’s wriggling.

L: Is it an animal? Or a bird?

D: No, more of a small human.

L: Like a child?

D: Yes, there’s a child in our hammock.

L: Well I didn’t put it there. What sort of child?

D: A short one. With yellow hair. And no clothes on.

L: Oh. I expect that’s alright. It’s hardly going to catch cold. What’s it doing?

D: Swinging.

L:   Does it look lost? Or miserable?

D: No. It’s singing. In French.

L: Well in that case, you’ll have to deal with it. I don’t speak French.

D reluctantly heads outdoors to investigate.

They have been in the house for five weeks.   They took a risk – booking it, and paying the rent in advance, before seeing the place, but it suits them well. They had been looking for somewhere to live and work for a couple of months, in the sun, away from the gloomy British winter. And on Google Earth, the village of Samara, on Costa Rica’s Pacific coast, looked just right. Not too big and not too small, with a huge safe swimming beach.

And so it has proved. They run along the beach in the early mornings. It is only a short walk back from the supermarket, laden with pineapples, melons and beer. The five minute stroll to the sea takes them past the bakery, a concrete footbridge guarded by four sunbathing iguanas, and the best steakhouse in town.

The house itself is hidden from the road by a thick hibiscus hedge, at which a hummingbird feeds at breakfast. The single storey building, red roofed and yellow painted, is divided into two small apartments, sharing a tiled front terrace and a gravelled back yard. Tall slender trees growing on the steeply rising slope behind the house provide afternoon shade in the yard, and are a popular meeting place for howler monkeys at four in the morning.   It’s not perfect – the bank and the trees and the hedge also shelter the house from any breezes. It is very hot. Right after moving in, they shared the outdoor space for a few days with a Canadian couple, who couldn’t take the heat and fled to Spain. Since then, they have had the place to themselves.   Until now.

D returns and reports his findings through the bathroom door.

D: It belongs next door.

L: Good.

D: But it’s bored.

L: Right.

D: And hot.

L: Yes. Where is it now?

D: In our fridge.

L: What d’you mean, in our fridge?

D: It likes the cool air. I haven’t shut the door or anything. It just sort of climbed in.

L: Oh.

D: It’s fine. Except for the dirty footprints. And I think it stood on the ham.


It is morning. D chats with the neighbours while L chops melon, banana and pineapple into two bowls. She brings them out onto the terrace. D joins her and they eat their breakfast. The neighbours are also having breakfast. The child leaves its family and wanders over, sitting contentedly on the floor at their feet, eating bread and chocolate spread. There is chocolate on its cheek. And on its elbow.

D: It wants to go to the beach.

L: With us?

D: Its mother suggested it.

L: But we could be anybody.

D: But we’re not. We’re us.

L: Yes, but how does she know?

D: She can tell. She’s that sort of person.

L: OK. But what if we break it?

D: She says it’s good in the sea. It likes diving through waves.

L: That’s alright then. Can it swim?

D: I assume so.

L: Let’s check.

D: It looks like a swimmer.

L: Let’s check.

D: I bet it swims like a fish.

L: Let’s check.

D goes next door to ask, and returns.

L: All OK? It can swim?

D: Um, no. No, it can’t.

L:   Right. We’d better remember that.


It is evening. They are preparing to sit out on the terrace, with beer and peanuts. Appetising cooking smells are coming from next door. The child runs between the two terraces, waving a stainless steel pole.

Child: Shlack!

L: What’s that pole?

D: It’s not a pole. It’s a light sabre.

Child: Shlack!

D: Could you bring me a drink?

Child: Shlack, shlack!

D: I would get it myself, but it’s chopped off my legs.

L: I see.


It is morning. They are sitting on the terrace with their bowls of fruit and mugs of coffee. The child spots them. Today it is clutching a slice of cheese on toast.

Child: Salut.

D: Hello.

Child: Qu’est ce que tu fais?

D: Eating my breakfast.

Child: Et après?

D: Then I’m going to drink my coffee.

Child: Et après?

D: Brush my teeth.

Child: Et après?

D: Do some work.

Child: Et après?

D: Have lunch.

Child: Et après?

D: Do some more work.

Child: Et après?

D: Go to the beach.

Child: Can I come to the beach?


It is evening. They are on the terrace with beer and peanuts. The neighbours are playing a guitar rather beautifully, but the child is unappreciative and trots over to join them.

Child: Salut.

D: Hello.

Child: How do you say hello in Arabic?

D: I don’t know.

Child: But maman says you’re a translator.

D: I am, but not in Arabic.

Child: Oh. How do you say hello in Japanese?

D: I don’t know.

Child: Oh. How do you say hello in Chinese?

D: I don’t know.

Child: Oh. How do you say hello in Russian?

D: I don’t know. I don’t translate ALL languages.

Child: Oh. Why not?


It is morning. L is chopping the fruit, D is on the terrace drinking coffee.   The child is running laps of the building and timing itself on an ipad. It dashes past and stops, panting.

Child: Salut.

D: Hello.

Maman: Breakfast!

Child: Oh. I’m just going to have my breakfast.

D: Right.

Child: I’ll be back.

D: Right.

Child: En 1 heure.

D: OK.

Child: Actually, en 1 seconde.

D: Fine.

Child: No, en 5 minutes.

D: Good.

Child: En 30 secondes.

D: OK.

Child: En 10 secondes.

D: OK.

Child: En 20 minutes.

D: OK.

Child: En 5 secondes.

D: OK.

Child: En 20 secondes.

D: See you later.


Child: Salut. I’m back, can we go to the beach?


It is evening. On the terrace. There is beer and peanuts. There is no sign of the child.

D: They’re leaving tomorrow.

L: Oh. I’m going to miss our little friend.

D: Yes. Except for the light sabre.

L:   Careful with your big feet kicking the table – you’re spilling our drinks.

D: It’s not me. It’s our little friend. It’s under the table.

L: Oh. What’s it doing?

D: I think it’s stuck.

L: Should we do something?

D: I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem to mind.

Child: Shlack!

P1030165-2 (2)

Into Nicaragua

Granada - first pic

L: What if I need the loo?

D: Then go. There’s one at the back of the bus.

L: But lots of men have already used it while we’ve been swerving round corners. It’ll be vile by now.

D: Do you actually need to go?

L:   No. But what if I do? Would you go and clean it for me first?

D: I most certainly would not.

L: Oh. But what if I need it?

D: But you don’t. Anyway, we’re nearly at the border.Granada - Ticabus

The bus they are on is travelling from Panama through Costa Rica, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala to eventually arrive in Mexico three days later.   Their journey, however, is only a small segment of this, a mere 8 hours from Costa Rica’s capital, San José, to Granada, on the shores of Lake Nicaragua.

The bus stops at dusk. An announcement is made over the tannoy.

L:   Did you get that? What did they say?

D: No idea. We’d better copy everyone else.

They disembark at Peñas Blancas, on the Costa Rican border, clutching passports, completed immigration forms, and receipts for exit taxes collected from all passengers – the tariffs many times higher for tourists than residents. An orderly queue forms, stretching in through the door of a new glass and concrete building.

L: Blimey – how long is this going to take? Some people seem to have been here for days!

Next to the building is a cluster of tents, people dozing on benches, children milling about, and women hanging out laundry on washing lines.

D: That’s the Cubans.

L: What Cubans?

D: Cubans trying to get into the US.

L: So what are they doing here?

D: Nicaragua won’t let them through. They’re stuck.

L: But Cuba’s next door to the US.   About 1000 miles north of here. Why on earth are they all the way down here?Cuban-map-route_21

D:   Lots of Cubans fly to Ecuador and then travel 5000 miles overland back up through South and Central America, rather than risk the incredibly dangerous 90 mile crossing of the shark infested Florida Straits on an overloaded homemade raft.

L: Right.

D:  And there’s the wet foot-dry foot policy.

L: The what?

D: The US have an extraordinary policy – if a Cuban can get into the country, they can stay. But only if they have dry feet – if they arrive overland. If they come by boat, the US can still turn them away in US waters, before they get ashore.

L: OK……. But why go all the way down to Ecuador?

D: Direct flights from Havana and no visas needed. It’s hellishly difficult though. First most of them get robbed of their life savings in Colombia. Then they pay through the nose to get into Panama in one piece – seeing as most of the land on the border is full of impenetrable jungles and swamps and gangs with machine guns that are best avoided. And now they’re stuck here.

L: Why won’t Nicaragua let them through?

D: It’s political. They’re generally a bit touchy about their borders with Costa Rica, and Nicaragua also has a lot of Communist history with Cuba. I found an interesting article about it. You should read it. Here.


L: Thanks. I will. What makes them leave Cuba in the first place? To make all this worthwhile?

D: Poverty. Lack of opportunity. Temptation of all things golden just across the water in Miami. Following family.   Read the article.

L: I will.  So what’s going to happen to these people? They’re not even half way.

D: All the countries between here and the US, except Nicaragua, are rallying round to get them moving again. They won’t be here for ever, but it’ll take some time. There’s 8,000 of them waiting. Read the article!

L: I will! But not now – look, our turn next.

The queue moves, they reach the front and, unlike the beleaguered Cubans, have their passports swiftly stamped, and get back on the bus.

The bus drives on. For 500 metres. And then stops again. An announcement is made over the tannoy.

L:   Did you get that? What did they say?

D: No idea. Just copy everyone else. This must be the Nicaraguan border.

They hand over entry taxes to their bus driver, along with their passports. He disappears. This time everyone removes all their hand luggage from the bus, and their suitcases from the hold. They stand around in a hot dusty car park. It gets properly dark. A man tries to sell them a hammock. They stand some more. Money-changers circulate, fanning 4-inch thick wads of cash.

L: Are you excited?

D: About getting back on the bus?

L: About being in Nicaragua.Granada - lake and volcano

D: What’s everyone waiting for?

L: It’s got 28 volcanoes.

D: Good. I might ask someone.

L: And the largest lake in Central America.

D: Great. I can’t see anyone to ask.

Eventually a couple of officials are spotted wearing blue T-shirts and carrying clipboards. The crowd drifts towards the officials, dragging their bags until they are all standing on a large raised platform, as though waiting for a train. Lollipop sellers weave through the melee, men with baskets on their heads brimming with cigarettes, women selling leather goods: belts and wallets. There are no counters, no instructions, no clues.   They stand around. The T-shirts with clipboards are passing randomly from one traveller to the next.Granada - architecture

L: And there’s wonderful Spanish architecture, dating back to the 16th century.

D: I want to join a queue.

L:   There isn’t one. And they had a revolution.

D: What, in the 16th century?

L: No, in the 1970s. Which ended a 40 year dictatorship but left the country massively in debt.

D: I’m miserable. Don’t they understand the British are only happy when queuing?

L: It’s the poorest country in the Americas.

D: Right. Shall I start a queue? Stand behind me.

L: But they’re on the up. They reckon they’re about half way through a 50 year economic recovery. You’re not actually listening, are you?

They spot a Clipboard riffling through a suitcase on a wooden workbench, and shuffle towards him. Another Clipboard approaches from behind. He gives D’s rucksack a brief squeeze.

Clipboard: Clothes?

D: Yes.

Clipboard: OK.

He inclines his head, suggesting that they are now free to leave the platform. They haul their luggage back to the bus, which is locked. They stand around. They buy lollipops.   They wait. The bus driver opens the hold and the passengers surge forward. He is impatient.

Driver: Managuamanaguamanagua!

Some passengers are waved forward, others have their luggage rejected. They wait.

Driver: Granadagranadagranada!

D: Granada – that’s us. He’s shouting the destinations and grouping the bags together.

They hand over their backpacks. At the bus door, the crowd regroups, and a uniformed female calls out names. People push through, take the proffered passport and board the bus. They wait. D’s name is called. He claims his passport and returns to L. They wait. The woman is cross. She waves a passport.

Woman: Honey. Honey?

No-one steps forward.

Woman: Honey?

L: Maybe that’s me.

D: That sounds nothing whatsoever like you. Why would she call you honey?

L: Maybe she’s saying “Jane”. In Spanish. My middle name.

D: That’s really quite a big stretch. But we can go and check.

L steps forward and reclaims her passport. The woman gives her a long, weary look, for being stupid, and foreign.

Two hours after disembarking, they get back on the bus.

D: Well, that was all fairly straightforward, wasn’t it?

They see nothing of Nicaragua beyond the windows of the bus, until they pass through the small town of Rivas. An important baseball game has just been won. Everyone is out in the streets, thronging both sides of the main road. Hundreds of vuvuzelas are crowing triumphantly and scooters and motorbikes buzz to and fro, carrying pairs of youths or whole families, bare-legged children wedged between parents. Bicycles weave through the crowd, with passengers perched on crossbars or handlebars, some with toddlers tucked under one arm.

In Granada they are left in a dark scruffy side street. No other tourists get off.

L: We need a taxi. A proper licensed one. The fare should be two dollars, but they’ll ask for five. Let me do the talking.

They approach a battered looking vehicle. It’s the only taxi in sight.

L: How much to the city centre?

Driver: Ten dollars.

L: Oh. How about five?

Driver: (looking resigned): OK.

D:   Neatly done.   I am impressed. You really told him.

L: Shut up.

They are driven through a grid of deserted streets. The buildings are low, just one or two storeys, colonial in style, all peeling ochre paint and wrought iron window grills.

L: We’re staying right in the centre so that we can walk everywhere easily. Accommodation in Nicaragua’s a lot cheaper than Costa Rica.

D: Great – so we’re saving some money.

L: Err…no. I just spent the same amount as I would in Costa Rica, but got a much nicer hotel.Granada - hotel courtyard

They are dropped outside a large and pretty colonial building on a pedestrian street.   Inside, beyond the reception desk, terracotta roofs enclose a beautiful central courtyard, with porticos, greenery and a fountain. They walk up creaking highly polished wooden stairs to a wide open balcony overlooking the courtyard, off which open several pairs of immense double doors.

L: Here we are.Granada - hotel

Their room is high ceilinged with parquet flooring, and a large bathroom. At the far end of the room is another set of double doors.

L: I booked one with a balcony. Apparently it’s got a volcano view.

She throws open the doors and steps out, leaning over the stone balustrade. D comes out of the bathroom, looking alarmed.

D: What the hell is going on?

A great wave of noise washes into the room. Below them is the pedestrian street. It is lively.   A dozen restaurants have outdoor seating, crowded with diners, all talking and laughing. A cacophony of music drifts out from the interiors, mixing not altogether harmoniously in the street. Directly opposite their window is the proud green sign of an “Irish Pub”, music and drinkers overflowing out of the door. Street vendors sell jewellery, drinks and snacks, lottery tickets, and song-stones of painted birds, all shouting out their wares. A pair of traditional dancers performs to the beat of a drum, whirling and clapping, before moving on. Pedestrians and cyclists amble up and down, chatting and eating ice creams. Children run shrieking, chasing a puppy. A group of acrobatic breakdancing kids set up, beatbox booming, spinning on their heads and contorting impressively. A mariachi band pass by, a trumpet solo soaring up to their balcony.Granada - street 1

L: I’m afraid I might have booked the noisiest room in town.

D: You think?

L: But it’s fantastic for people watching. It’s all happening, right here, under our balcony.

D: Yes. It certainly is.


L: Are you awake?

D: No.

L: I wonder how soon it’ll quieten down?

D: Go to sleep.

Much later…..

D: Why don’t you shut the windows?

L: They are shut.

D: I hate mariachi. Go and tell them to leave me alone.

L: You do it.

D: I can’t. I’m asleep.

Much, much later….

D: That bloody trumpet! What time is it?

L: 4.17am.

Granada - last