BEACH BUMMING COSTA-RICAN-STYLE
“Want some?” Asks me the host as I enter his hillside villa. The villa is a large wooden structure overlooking the grand Pacific Ocean – and what a grand vista it is. But my host wasn’t enquiring me about his residence. Holding a small vial containing white powder in one hand, and a tiny spoon in the other, he had something else in mind. Now, I always thought one needed a credit card to align Cocaine rows and a rolled-up 100 Dollar bill to snort it. Then again, perhaps I’m just being a traditionist. In any case, I politely decline, to my host’s complete bafflement. “You’re serious?!” he asks, almost rhetorically. I guess Cocaine just isn’t my scene. Besides, the place reeks of so much weed one can get high just from breathing in the thick, cloudy air.
Out of the way
We came all the way to this remote beach community along with a couple of US-based friends who invited us to join them. Besides, my wife (and I) really needed the time away from kids and Covid. Santa Teresa seemed like a good excuse as any other, so here we are. Located on the tip of a peninsula on the very western edge of Costa Rica, Santa Teresa is not exactly a skip, hop, and jump away from my hometown in Israel. That is unless you consider a 12hrs flight to New York, a 5-hour flight to San Jose, and another 30min flight perched in a tiny, single-propellor airplane to Coban, and then another 40min of bumpy, dusty gravel road – a short hop. Yes, there was also the issue of 8-hour time differences, but all considered, we survived the commute rather nicely.
We arrive at the aptly-named Vista del Alma Boutique Hotel. The place is run by an Israeli family that had enough of the pace, stress, and cost of living in Israel and traded an overly-priced small apartment for a lush mountain-side boutique resort complete with eight specious ocean-view cabanas perched inside lush tropical vegetation. Seeing is believing. The Vista del Alma would be our home for the next eight days. I tell my wife right then and there, that if I’m destined to contract COVID and get stuck in one place, this is exactly the place to be quarantined at. Now that we settled in our bungalow and seeped in a mouthful of the gorgeous view (and the first of many Mojitos to come), the time has come to arrange a set of wheels.
Out and about
Santa Teresa is a small surfing village located about 150 kilometers west of the capital city of San Jose. Unlike other coastal villages on the Nicoya Peninsula, however, this small town has long left the remote fishing community status, in favor of a surfing Mecca. With a help of some of the world’s most nicely organized waves, Santa Teresa is about surfing and “chilling”, combined with some high-end “new-age” tourism, and low-end substance abuse.
The town’s single main road is lined with fashion boutiques, basic beach resorts, eateries of varying qualities, and surfing shops. Above the street, Santa Teresa’s hillside is lined with high-end resorts like our own, yoga retreats, pretentious restaurants, and other diversions of the more financially endowed. In other words, this place mixes the basic with the upscaled like no other. It feels both rustic and premium, utilitarian and pampered, authentic and…. Well, you get the point. No wonder Santa Teresa has become a magnet for foreign clientele. Surfers of the world unite.
I rent a basic Honda UTV, which makes a lot of sense given the very rustic nature of the roads in, and around town. In some cases, the road is a broken piece of ancient asphalt. In others, it is a euphemism for a narrow, dusty, gravel lane. What doesn’t make sense at all are the rent prices which at $170 a day, borders the obscene. “Oh, well, we didn’t come all the way to be stranded in one place” I convince myself as a shell the green notes and hand them over to the UTV proprietor. No sign of Hertz or Avis around here. We spent the rest of the days commuting between our mountain retreat and the beach below. I even try to take up surfing. I quickly regret that.
Out of depth
There’s a muffled “thud!” noise as my forehead and nose collide violently against the course bottom of the Pacific. The wave I’ve just tried taking has taken me instead, rolling my body like a towel in a tumble drier and thrusting me – head-first, into the ground. I exit the water a bit wobbly with some minor ringing in my ear. A quick check reveals that everything is still in place, so is my hand so red?
I decide there and then that after 52 years with no surfing background whatsoever, this is one hobby I am not going to add to my resume. Walking somewhat laboriously back to my company of friends, I can’t recall who was the first to tell me that I need to see a doctor, I had to the Banana Beach’s restrooms and look at the mirror, a large red mark sits smack in the middle of my face where my nose used to be, spreading from one eyebrow to the other and head up my temple. The whole thing looks a bit scary at first glance.
Out of the water
Washing my face with water and soap and gently drying it with some clean paper towel, reveals the injury for what it really is. No more than a light scratch and an ugly Bruise. I think I can handle this, no need to call the medical cavalry just yet.
A week later, with dry blood still on my nose and face, I get asked by the US immigration officer what has happened. “Surfing accident,” I tell him. Uncharacteristically amused he tells me that – on rotation – he was stationed on the US-Mexican border, and had to question a passenger returning with his entire neck slashed. I realize my appearance reminds some of a drug deal gone horribly wrong. Lucky for me I wasn’t coming back from a wild weekend party in Tijuana. Speaking of Party…
Out of place
Avram Tal is a well-known Israeli Musician and performer with a very large rooster of local hits and a bit of an eccentric “new age” personality to boost. I saw him last time a few years back at a concert hall of about 3,000. Now, he is in town, surfing, and plans to hold a single show “one-night-only” at one of the Israeli-owned beaches. We shell out the $50 entrance fee plus an additional $50 commitment for food and drinks, and sit down on a small poof, next to one of the short dining tables.
Late, like all self-assuming artists, Avram makes a quiet entrance and begins playing the guitar in front of about a hundred ecstatic fans. The intimate show soon gathers its own momentum as the amp systems struggle to cope with the basic beach setting. “This is the worst amp system I have ever had to cope with”, says Mr. Tal, “But it’s the best show I had in years”. I have to agree with both proclamations. And as the night folds on, he starts rhythmically singing a single line:
“Santa, Santa Teresa, who am I at all, and what are you for me?”
The crowd, now substantially drunk (and high) joins him.
I sing along, although I have no idea what this sentence means.
I guess Avram Tal, doesn’t too. But who cares.
It’s a surfing village in the middle of nowhere.
And the Rum is good.
