Rincon de la Veja

Getting up really early and hiking is one the best things I can think to do.  Granted, I am usually a lounge around in my robe waiting for the coffee to kick in sort of gal, but being someplace nature-full always inspires me to get up and get out.  Having the trail to myself is also a good motivator.  

Which was great- not only did we have a tight schedule, but this part of the Park was actually pretty crowded and well-hiked compared to the sector we had hiked the day before.  Even though they two park entrances were only 7 km apart, they offered completely different, yet equally crazy landscapes.   

So the trail we had really wanted to do was a peak hike to the cone of the volcano.  That was closed when we were there- a couple people have died and the volcano is unpredictably active and spewing lava and ash from time to time.  We settled for the more traveled loop trail that took you past some eerie and weird sights.

There was some really lovely tropical rainforest to hike through.  We saw groups of howler monkeys in the treetops.  The forest here is so dense, you could walk around all day without seeing much of anything, but if you pause and you are quiet, the forest will come alive around you.

We reached a spot where hot sulfiric steam was wafting out of the ground.  It turned the forest into a misty, enchanted place.  While it took a lot of effort to keep my camera lens from fogging up constantly, I think I captured the other-worldliness of the place.  When the breeze kicked up and blew the clouds of steam in your direction, you could barely see your hand in front of you.  When the breeze died down, the light filters through in a magical sort of way.

A dead tarantula was spotted, along with a giant predatory wasp nearby.  The wasp lays its eggs in a live tarantula, which then use the spider as sustenance.  They literally eat their way out of the host.  Nature is horrifying sometimes.    

There were fumeroles and  boiling mud pots and sulfuric ooze seeping from cracks in the ground.  All around this turmoil and inhospitable land wast beautiful and resilient flora.  

The trail turns  out of the rainforest and into what they are calling a dry forest.  This is what years of re-growth looks like after the land has been clear cut:

Dry scrubland.  Once you cut down a rainforest, is is loathe to grow back.  This was once pastureland that they are letting revert back to a natural space.  

There were boiling mud pots though.  Too hot to sit in.  Maybe close to 200 degrees F.

It was nice to have one last swim (really, it was my bath for the day) in a waterfall pool.  Sigh, Costa Rica.  You are a lovely and strange and beautiful place.  I spent a lot of time rescuing (catch and release!) large moths out of my cabinia when I would have normally killed them, and brushing away large beetles when I certainly would squash them, and becoming oddly fascinated with grasshoppers half the size of my arm.  It makes you feel a bit more part of the food chain when there are leopards running about.

I guess the only thing I continued to swat at with no mercy were mosquitoes and other biting blackflies.  They are truly terrible creatures, and my skin looked like a relief map of the Alps with all the bug bites that I was trying really hard not to scratch.  

 I did enjoy that swim muchly, as the next couple weeks would be spent in the charmless Land of the Polar Vortex.

Rodeo

The town of Paradiso...paradise!...

Like every rural center in this part of Costa Rica, they get their own rodeo.  The local talent comes out and rides the local bulls, the bull owners get to show off and claim that their bull is more bull than everyone elses' bull.  When you drive around the countryside this time of year, you can see workers setting up and tearing down the bullrings.  Tiny rickety carnival rides get hauled in, bands and loud music blares from multiple corners of the soccer pitch, and people completely enjoy themselves while eating the same crappy fried food that you get at events in the US.  Fried dough!  Churros!  Greasy fried things that are unrecognizable as food!  Oh, and yes, beer.  Lots.  Of.  Beer.  It's really just a lovely time.  

The way the setup works is that spectators can join in on the spectacle, and teenagers and men jump in the ring and attempt to distract the bull and keep it from goring the fallen bullrider.  Generally, they all scramble to safety once the bull is released, but as the night wears on and more alcohol is consumed, the ring gets more crowded with tourist and locals.

After much booing and hold-ups, the bull is released, the rider, who may or may not stay on for 8 seconds, is thrown.  The locals attempt to distract the bull and annoy it into chasing after them to prove their manliness, and generally the bull just stares or occasionally charges, and everyone runs and jumps out of the corriador.

The bull will then attempt to go back out the gate he came and to the safety of his other bull-friends, but the wranglers will chase him away, because then the cowboys would be left with nothing to do.

So then they come out and display their rope skills, lasso the bull and then widget the bull (quite willingly!) back into the chute.

It's all rather hilarious.

The amateur-hour hi-jinks adds to the charm.  

Another curious wonder:  the district only has two ambulances.  They are both parked outside a chute with a red cross on it.  If a rider gets hurt, they just pick him up and throw him in the chute.  If more than two people get hurt, the rest of the evening's activities are called off.  Since, you know.  They've exhausted their medical resources.

If the men act too cowardly or just not boldly enough, the crowd boos and throws empty beer bottles into the ring.

The bulls were huge and beautiful.  They were not nearly as aggressive and quick as the bulls we saw in Arles last spring.  They were acting more out of surprise and fear and instinct than aggression- they just wanted the predator off their back, as any good herbivore might.  

The cowboys had real cowhorses- animals bred to work around cattle.  Useful and nimble and lovely.

Surf is Always Up

There's something so poetic about surfing.  

It's such a perfect sport.  Ugh, I can't even really call it a sport with a straight face.  Professional surfers are amazing athletes, but it's so far away from a competitive activity as most people can get from.  It's a zen activity, right up there with yoga.  It's meditative and quiet and rhythmic and  really quite spiritual.  It's also incredibly hard.  I suck at it, but I love doing it.  I'll get out there and get spanked by waves for two hours before hobbling in looking like a prune with my sinuses as clear as they could get and some nice abrasion from the multiple sweeps of the ocean floor that I've felt necessary.   

I know of no other sport that requires so little:  a board.  Some wax.  A rash guard.  Sigh, if you must insist on cold-water surfing, then yes, you need a thick wetsuit and boots and gloves and a hood, but, ugh, who would want to do that.

And also....you need a perfect wave.  Which, the beaches in Costa Rica are full of.

Nosara, where all the lovely yoga retreats are, has some great beaches.  We went from Nosara to Playa Negra and never saw a bad break.  The roads were amusingly poor to get from one beach to the other...they are more like trails and impassible during the rainy season.  Still, we had to cross three or four streams that crossed the road.  As much as I hate the idea of an SUV, it's a good idea to have something with 4 wheel drive and probably one of the very few places on earth where an SUV is actually useful.  

Nosara is a little crowded, but mostly with ultra-wealthy people there for a yoga retreat and a cleanse.  We found places to do walk-in classes and spent an afternoon breathing and stretching in the sea breeze.    

Oddly...I ran up to a beach vendor at Nosara thinking he would have ices or Popsicles or something in his cooler.  Nope.   Ceviche.  As much as I love raw seafood, I just am not craving it while sitting in the hot sun.

The most consistently amazing breaks are at Tamarindo, aka Tamagringo.  While most of the beaches here are secluded with rustic, washed-out roads, the streets were paved over here, leading to a huge influx of tourism and condos and dance clubs and pizza joints, and a nice man on a bicycle offered to sell me pot while he was cruising the beach.  Surf school and adventure camps line the strip, and the crowds that flock there have taken inspiration from the sloth.   Ahem, included lovelies like these:

Ignore the trash on the beach.  Or better yet, throw it out.  Walk down to the far end of the beach where the estuary is, and the thumping bass of the DJ starts to fade and you once again get a perfectly surfable beach.   

It's truly a gorgeous place, but one of the few spots where you will have to fight for a wave.

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Oh~  I almost forgot.  I found the most perfect beach bar in the world, I swear- Lola's at tiny Playa Avellanas.  It was perfect- comfy solid wooden chairs, hammocks and loungers all angled to take in the sunset while sipping your margarita and eating your ceviche (which is pretty much sashimi!) under the shade of mangrove trees and giant umbrellas.  Aas soon as the first mosquito bites, the bar closes down for the night.  It's one of the most blissful spots I've found.