9-8-06: Here I am, sitting in a bar at the Sea-Tac airport with my girlfriend Jessica, holding a beer and thinking of where the next 93 days will take me. It had been just over a year since I first traveled to the shores and forests of Costa Rica. A 3-week journey, it had totally changed the way I saw myself as a student, explorer, and as a person in general. Now, as I sit waiting for my flight back, my imagination is racing and my mind is full. I silently recite broken Spanish phrases, try to recall local customs, consult my travel guides, and think of items I forgot to pack – this beer is probably keeping me sane.

We arrive in Alajuela after 12 hours of airport navigation, check though Customs, and proceed out into the streets. 400 colones buys a bus ticket to San Jose Central and from there it is a short urban hike to the Coca Cola Bus Terminal, San Jose’s main terminal to the country. We had originally planned on heading to the cloud forests of Monteverde, though, arriving at the terminal late, we choose to make alternate plans.

A couple of girls I recognize from the plane are looking the various buses over and I ask them where they are going.

“I think we want to go to Jaco, but, Montezuma would be nice too” one of them says.

[More:]

The bus to Montezuma is about to leave and, on a whim, we all throw our bags under the carriage, pay our fare, and hop on.

After getting situated, and watching the driver lock the storage areas which contain our bags, we introduce ourselves. Leah and Laura are travelers from Milwaukee, and are planning to make the journey down to Panama City before it is over. I can tell right away that they are positive people and will make great travel companions.

It is not long after our brief introduction that all four of our heads are bouncing back and forth as we try to catch a few winks on a very jarring road. By this point Jess and I had slept only a few hours within 36. The bus does not cater to much sleep, but I am grateful for the bit I get.

After waking I pull out my Lonely Planet guide and look up some info on Montezuma. A coastal town, it sits on the Eastern edge of the Peninsula de Nicoya. The book says it is popular with younger crowds because of its “laid back atmosphere”. This sounds like just the spot to be.

The bus stops in Puntarenas, on the coast of the Golfo de Nicoya and we are told to purchase a ferry ticket to Paquera on the peninsula. We stand in line with locals and travelers and watch the last few rays of the sun sink in to the golf in front of us. The colors in the sky are brilliant and I take a few pictures.

The boat is old, and the salty air has corroded much of the deck. A cantina inside sells me an Imperial – the official beer of Costa Rica. I stand on the deck, drink my cervesa, and look into the sea. We pass a fishing boat that is winding in a huge net and I wonder if I will be eating one of those fish tomorrow night.

In Paquera we get back on the bus. I drift off one more time and then, suddenly, I am hearing the bus driver shouting, “Montezuma! Montezuma!”

The four of us pile off and grab our gear. The bus drives off and we walk into a bar and ask where the hostel is we are looking for. A woman tells us that we are Cobano, not Montezuma, and we all gasp. She tells us that she is a tourist guide and not to worry. She arranges for a taxi to take us the rest of the way to Montezuma and we buy a round of beers.

The taxi arrives with the last sip, we all pitch in two dollars and are off. The car is in no way equipped to handle the heavily potholed road but manages to get us there without getting stuck. We are dropped off at our chosen hostel, but as the red lights on the back of the taxi fade into the dark we realize that it is late, and the front desks of all the hostels are closed. We walk up and down the streets for about half an hour looking for anyone awake with no luck. It is looking like we may have to pull the sleeping bags out and stash up under some covering when a beat up Land Rover pulls up and the guy inside says, “Are you Gringos?” We tell him that we are and he offers to let us stay the night with him. We put our bags in the back of his SUV and take off for his house.

He tells us the house is about five minutes away. It is a beautiful property with fruit trees in the yard and the sound of the surf in the distance. We are all thrilled to be able to take a shower and to change our clothes.

Feeling rejuvenated, the four of us meet back out on the porch with our host. He tells us that his name is Misha and that he is from Israel.

This property had been his for a few years and he planned to set up an organic garden in the yard. He gives us some food and beer and we stay up for hours talking about the area and planning where to go while on the peninsula.

The next morning I pick some star fruit and coconut from the yard and eat breakfast. Then I spend some time photographing the property. Misha offers to let us stay another night. However, since he has to drive to San Jose we would have no way into town. So, instead he suggests a good hostel and drives us back to Montezuma.

We find the Hostel de Lucy and for 4,000 colones a night have a beach side view that would rival any four star resort. The rest of the day is reserved for the beach.

We make arrangements with a local tour guide to have a taxi ride us up the coast of the Nicoya - a route very few travelers take due to bad roads, high rivers, and not much tourism. The advantages of this path, however, include beautiful, isolated beaches, friendly locals, and adventure.

The SUV-style taxi greets us at Lucy’s early in the morning and we say farewell the Montezuma. An hour into our ride we come to the first of many roads which have been washed out by the rainy season’s floods. “This is easy” says our driver, who shifts the gear and barrels through. We pass two more, each rougher than the last. The fourth crossing we come to, however, has a current that is too strong to attempt, so we turn around. He finds a small store up the road and we all get out. A few words are exchanged and we get back in and head back to the crossing. Two Ticos meet us there with a large tractor. They hook the back up to the SUV with a chain and slowly begin to tow us across the tributary with great force. The water is inches below my rolled down window when Jess yells, “Look at the floor!” The river is pouring in and I lift my feet out of the water. The tractor pulls us up the other side and we open all the doors, which drains the water faster than one might think. We tell our helpers thank you and give them some colones for their troubles.

From here it is a relatively smooth ride along a beautiful beach to our destination in Samara. The day ends with great food and drink and recounts of the last few days’ events. I fall asleep calm and peaceful. Tomorrow I’m going to learn to surf.