First Day at Vista Verde

Maybe it's Thursday - about 2pm.

TREMENDOUS Day So Far.
Coffee with Clyde by SKYPE at 8am.


9am. Taxi cab (friend of Manolo's of course) to my "hostel" summer camp room with barn door windows and great wads of bananas in the front yard (by a Magic Noni Tree.)


By 9:45am,  sprayed with SPF & natural eucalyptus oil bug repel (which I also spritzed around my bed and mosquito net for good measure) I hurry down the road to rent a $5 bike for the day so I can make my 10am first RENTAL HOUSE appointment with "Sondra". I'm nervous. (That's standard for me.)


Horribly red-faced from the heat and the hurry, soaking from perspiring under all that greasy Sporty Spray: what if she doesn't like the look of me?! I'm dirty and rumpled and probably look untrustworthy. (And dehydrated from losing weight to that slippery chicken dinner.)


+ Cross 2d bridge over river, Rio Negro (amazing views down into the slow, dark rio water, deep shade of tall trees in both directions - up to the mountain and down toward the beach.)


+Look for the road on the left by the garbage (wow. no lie. Can't miss the huge pile of black bags, some torn open by dogs amassing flies.  Collection is on strike.) okay.


+House is directly behind the trash. (Really, these are the directions you want to give? okay.)    Oops. SO directly behind in fact that I didn't see the little gate on my first pass ... but the next gate is not "red picket". Go back, clumsily maneuvering the bike in a tight U-turn on this little dirt road, like a middle-aged woman who hasn't been on a bike since age 10.   (Oh, Wait ...)


I'm anxious about approaching, possibly the wrong house, calling out to a stranger (in Spanish?) (but she's from Houston originally-?)


"Hola!" I try brightly.


She's gorgeous.


She's a massage therapist; nothing like the Yoga & Massage gals I've met already who live casually in a hostel-gone-commune.    This woman is glamorous; in dorky gym shorts and '80s knee socks she would stop traffic.   She'd stop your conversation.


But then we get talking, about why the house will be empty so long (5 wks) and her plans: Italy, Spain, a little France to see a friend's new baby. She speaks at least 3, working on 4 languages. So far.


After she gets back from that she's only have a few months before moving completely to Brazil.


I mean: Glamorous.


She leads me by bike over to her friend, Denise's house who is also renting out a plac; a little open air house, 2 bedrooms, jungle, garden, river going by: perfection at the end of a gravel road. Available now, before she goes home to the US for a long visit (425/mo).


They're both lovely and amiable and Denise has a daughter that hangs on her legs then yells for assistance from the toilet then hurries off to find a tree to hang on. There is, unexpectedly a Giant Fountain (really, like from a mall atrium, if your mall is Mayan.)  It's very tall - taller than the house by a few inches - with a cement base pool deep enough to get well past your knees. If only it was filled with water, I'd leap in and sit down, it's so hot I'm melting from every pore and desperate. I'm beginning to weigh my decision on which house solely on which might get more breezes.


Sondra's little cabina with it's wall-less living room and barn door windows in between the rooms (all with locks which are required Every Time you leave the house around here) is on a little garbage road but it ends AT a BEACH.    She warns me that, because the rio breaks out immediately next to the swimming area, it creates a swirling, dangerous current when it joins the Caribbean. "Walk down the beach ten minutes south for good swimming." That's a good landlord.


Denise's jungle house, up on the hill, has stairs (cinder blocks) that begin just under the bedroom window and go 30 steps down to the shady, dark water of a neighboring river, chilly as it comes out of the mountain. (Rio Cocles) It's fine to have a swim, she says, and shows me around her garden: basil, spinach, melon and papayas will come later...

After this, Sondra takes me to the  PURE Jungle Spa  where they work and it turns out: all the products  are hand-made, balms and tinctures, flower spritz, natural chocolate soaps; some are made by Denise in her kitchen I think.  I'm totally impressed.  Again.     It may be love.

Didn't we just learn to make balms & tinctures in Honduras? Is this a coincidence? Is this normal in Central America or have I stumbled into some Divine Enclave of creative, kind, amazing, world-traveling women? They seem to think it's all normal life.


Sondra and I sit and talk, sipping Agua de Sapo (this home-made ginger/lime cooling drink) for 2 straight hours. We talk about life and she gives me local advice and general advice and I soak it all in; "don't be afraid" (including using Spanish in public)  and " you have to be grateful right now for what you have, not always afraid to lose things, not 'what if?' Even if it will go, this or that, my job or my boyfriend = Right now you're blessed, enjoy it."

Sometimes she's speaking my thoughts, sometimes she sounds like Clyde's stack of books. It's spooky and wonderful. She tells me a private story of pain & illness and how her friends cured her with natural medicine and Complete Love. (She doesn't phrase it at all like that, she describes what they did and the truth is pretty clear to me. These people are wonderful. Unflinching, unhesitating, no-questions asked, stick beside you in Kosovo -- I even brought my toothbrush, kind of generous, fearless women friendship based in a "well, of course" kind of LOVE.)


We talk about Energy Healing and all the local healers she knows, praticing different forms. I tell her about Healing Touch and cancer. She tells me not to be alone, "there's no reason to feel alone, you can always come here to the spa, hang out, practice your Spanish, call me, we drink wine around here."


3pm - Back at Vista Verde Hostel, waiting for the heat to break so I can bike up to the supermercado and still make it for a late day swim: after 4.30 the sun eases off but sunset is 5.45 so you don't have a lot of time.


(what have I eaten today? still paying for that dinner.)


Super Old Harbour Mercado: coffee, milk in a box, cheap bread (Bimbo, like Wonder), jam and a papaya= $15.10 ouch. Many things in Costa Rica may be cheaper, food is not one of them.


4.30 The husband of Katty (who has yet to say hello) is just outside my window, playing some coin-throwing game with a German friend. They're not drinking beer. This confuses me. I wouldn't play a drinking game in 100 degree heat without drinking. Adding to my confusion at seeing them in action is that for 20 minutes before, I was sure they were playing quarters from the sounds.
 "Quarters? Naw. Too silly for such grown men but it must be - sometimes a coin hits glass. Well, it is steaming hot and after 4pm -- makes sense."


But no. Smoking yes. Iced beverages (?) but no beer.


So I change and walk up to find a beach I've been told is quiet enough for swimming -- horribly self-conscious about this process. Just Wearing a bathing suit is painful, being seen in one is a test of inner strength. But I force myself & go & unwrap & creep past sharp rocks at the water's edge, getting through to smooth sand and into a tide pool so warm it's like bathwater in shallow spots. There is one other woman in the water - a local girl, who it turns out when she stands up, is quite pregnant. There's also one couple nearby on towels, gringos who are not thinner than me so I should feel Normal and Fine and not a Circus Freak. But, sadly,  it's not that simple.


After a long day of moving, unpacking, biking, meeting people, biking, a lot of heat, a little swim -- I'm too spent to go find the shower room  and carry a bunch of gear. I love that every place, every house and business and some beaches, have outside showers. Cold water which is just what you want anyway.


Later, sitting on the porch railing of the upstairs lounge I try to get a WIFI signal.
Fail. Try again.
Fail. Fail. Fail.
Hey! one little bar, hanging on for dear life ... gmail?mmmmaybe.
Keep trying. Skype? go fish, sister, but it did dial Clyde's number at least before it failed again. Even Google chat didn't work. ahh well.
Welcome to Vista Verde.

More Day One

Coco Loco Lodge - same day. (It just goes On and On.)


After rest and decompressing, I walked down to the dirty beach for a test swim. "Really, it's called Playa Negra beacuse of the volcanic soil." This sounds more exotic and glamorous than the reality. Ma'am I have been to volcanic beaches. They look slightly cleaner.
This is the heel end of a bay (where that rusting hulk of barge has been left for decades? you get different stories from different people.) There's debris, decayed wood, rust, and charred bits floating in the water. At one point I looked up to check my bag and saw a rubbish fire burning maybe 100 ft. away, up by the road.

I shared my swim (technicallly a wade as I had to crouch down to be in the water even to my shoulders) with a four year old named Azan. He's knowledgeable about which are the most fun beaches and Very Funny. He gave me strict instructions for tomorrow: the double pools at Rocking J's. (R.J's doesn't have pools ... right?)
I had decided, between meditating over frozen coffee and reading EAT, PRAY, LOVE, that if being frantic about check-outs and phone calls and disappointing Katty is damaging my brain: Just Forget it for today.

Tomorrow I go to the hostel, back to Plan A, and see where we are with appointments.

On the way back, in a wet bathing suit and pareo wrap, looking for something basic to get as take out for dinner. I found Soda Miss Sam's, which may be in the guide book. (If it's not, it should be / or it shouldn't be depending on your feelings about sharing.)

They do this thing here with rice & beans. They add just enough coconut milk to suggest a taste but not so much to be obnoxious (which it really can be, let's be honest and I say that as a great lover of the coconut.)

So, I order the combo: chicken, rice&bean&  salad ( "salad" is a local enthusiastic description) to go because the lady (Miss Sam?) has been mopping and her floor is clean and wet and I am sandy and wet (with dirt and char stuck to me and inside my bikini.)

But when I get back to the bungalow, shower gratefully & into clean pajamas and finally sit down to open my dinner: facing me is a pile of spaghetti.  Oh no.
How did this happen? I was the only customer, no mix up. Did she misunderstand me?
But No, No = the spaghetti is ON TOP of my dinner order -- in case you believed yourself in danger of losing weight in some tropical paradise; like  Barbaloots in the Lorax, fresh fruit off the trees, swimming, biking, yoga every day... La La~~       NO.   Carbs for Everyone!
I have done things in Puerto Viejo that I wouldn't do in Vegas. All dietary. I don't even EAT white rice! I'm politically opposed on the theory that God gave it to us Brown, we should probably trust His judgement. Apparently, in P.V. -- all bets are off. Yesterday I ate a Chocolate Croissant. (?!) For some reason there are bakeries on every street selling croissants. What?    Nutella?    This is Central America!

And I, who have been known to be quite disciplined, sometimes for months on end in a "Salem Witch Trials" kind of fanatical dietary Puritanism that would make Dr.Oz look like John Candy -- for some reason, far from embracing the healthy: I have gone the other way.
(Okay. We were exposed a couple of times to second-hand dope smoke in bakeries ... could that be it? Or have I thrown in the towel since NONE of my summer clothes from even one year ago fit. Very sad.)


2 a.m. Awake for two hours ... strange dreams and stomach pain from over-eating (let's hope that's it.)

Now it's dogs dogs dogs barking at each other across the yards. WHY? What is the purpose for them? It doesn't sound like enjoyment. And now they've woken the local rooster who stimulates a distant rooster to challenge him and there's some kind of poultry one-upsmanship going on out there. And, maybe, beneath it all is the dull roar of the waves. They must be very big to sound like blowing winds all this way from the beach. I'd love to walk down there at night, alone on the beach -- finally quiet in town but it's impossible.
There's the night guard here at CocoLoco, the iron security gate,  and of course NO ONE would do such a thing in Puerto Viejo!   So I just lie here, listening to dogs and roosters and possible thunder moving in.

Day One: Solo

8:15am Coco Loco Lodge -- checking out, ready to go, bags packed by the door...

but oops = Clyde left an hour ago with the list of all possible rental houses I have gathered all over town off posters and bulletin boards. They were scribbled on the back of his travelocity returns policy (which, of course was 4 pages of useless scratch paper until he needed them back to change his flight due to mudslide road-closures.) (Who saw THAT coming?)

Until late yesterday, I had NO CLUE where to go when he left (can't stay here by myself) but we stumbled into this nice hostel down a nondescript (unpromising, possibly sketchy) dirt road off the "main" "highway" (both Highly Inappropriate word choices.) It's on the way out of town, heading south toward beaches and on down to little towns and then to Panama...

There are four different hotels/hostels at the end of the little dirt road so we each took two. My first one was dead empty, if you don't count numerous dogs lounging in the sun. Second was similarly quiet, similar sleeping dog and lethargic cats on every surface. I was going to give up after creeping around the garden path and through a lounge with no walls but plenty of tables and hammocks, peering over the breakfast bar into a wee galley kitchen-- say! two happy moka coffee pots look promising.
Clyde caught up with me just then, also having no luck at his two, and saw a bicycle bell nailed to a wooden post "RECEPTION" painted jauntily down it. "For service you think?" I shrugged, okay = go.

Well!
The lazing dog sprang to life, showing real dedication to his guard duties, a mom-looking woman (if your mom is possibly Dutch and wears dresses from beach vendors), came down the stairs with a dish towel in one hand from the upstairs open lounge-- books, more hammocks and a little WIFI if you stand where the railings meet (and face another hotel through the trees.)
(No, seriously. That was her answer when asked if they have internet.)

There are no other guests (!) so "shared bath" isn't so grievous really. And if I end up staying a full week (I told her my whole- Inability to Rent a House By Phone B/c I'm Afraid to Attempt Spanish- plight) the rate will drop from $15/night (really) to $13.
She is Katty and very nice and maybe German not Dutch but how would I know?


It must be after 9am because here comes Manolo from the front desk, following the concrete path system (like the canals of Venice) up to my bungalow door. He is the nicest person, friendly, generous, soft-spoken from Brazil I think but lived here for years.
Am I checking out? Do I wish to see the little apartment "#3" ?

The owner (originally from Vienna, lovely even at 6am, waiting for the school bus with her daughter where we spoke this morning while watching Clyde's van take him away from the front gate) had offered it to me for $300mo. A good deal. Kitchen and bedroom/bath, on the grounds so - safe at night with gate and guard, beautifully kept gardens and lawn, a little secret haven at the end of a rough corner of town.
I'm grateful, it seems like they don't make it public or offer it always but I tell Manolo that, maybe south of the town proper where it's quieter, might be more for me. (I'm no back-packer and no late-night club goer. There's a standard 7-night scene and everyone knows the schedule. Some bars pick up at midnight after the crowd leaves somewhere else. That may be fun once or twice but not as part of my daily life.)


I tell Manolo about going to yoga in Cocles and good things I've heard about Playa Chiquita... Well, dontcha know: He lives there. (of course you do)
And he knows people with rental houses. He'll make some calls.

>These are rentals that aren't advertised but known by your neighbors and friends and only found by word of mouth - in my experience they are Much cheaper than anything found on craigslist, obviously but also much simpler, more true to "Tico" = Costa Rican style. Not frilly, not the steam-cleaned ClubMed version of "Gosh Beautiful Jungle without Annoyances of Real Jungle!" No, these are little casitas, cottages tucked away between banana trees, no hot water, no paper in the toilets, no phone, no internet.
You live within 3 inches of FULL SCALE NATURE at all times. And that can be cool, if a little daunting in a land of things that bite, large and small (I mean the things and the bites.)

He is so kind to do this, I'm really grateful and a little humbled by such instant warmth from a man I've only spoken to - barely, shyly- maybe once about the various plants on the property, pointing at nearby trees with fat green fruits hanging off them, asking which is which and if he takes the noni juice and if natural remedies were standard in his family growing up (which is when he told me he's actually from Brazil) but did give noni to his 2 boys when they were young.

Perdon? He has two grown boys living in the city of San Jose??
It seems impossible looking at this man that he could be much out of his 20's.
Is it his clean living? Calm demeanor? Warm heart?

He is making calls for me - since I have lost my own list (but think of re-tracing my steps with a pen & paper to find them again).

It's a Great Promising Start to the Day!

oh -but- fret/worry: am I leaving here then or not?
is it rude to check out while he does favors for me?
should I stay on one more night @ double the price, out of obligation?
and disappoint Katty whom I told to expect me today at Vista Verde?

I'm Awful at this.
Decisions without data fill me with worry and guilt.
Either way it's rude to someone, isn't it?

And now Manolo has called people, he's got the run-down.... my first choice was from a bright pink photocopy stuck on walls in several locations but she was hard to reach and we need to set an appointment, because of her work.
(I'm already nervous at the word "appointment". It sounds officious.)
And there's another place they're expecting me.
And near him, up a dirt road on the "mountain" above the beach, there's a tiny cabina for only $200 but it has no kitchen, no frig. He can draw me a map.
(and apparently, around here, if someone is not "on the phone line" you just show up at their home)

So. Find a bike, go out of town a couple of miles, find houses in a land with no street names, and introduce myself to total strangers. Guess I didn't think this part through.
Suddenly I'm over-whelmed by the "Right Thing to Do" hotel part and the sudden appointments and the renting a bike and meeting so many strangers
...look, I can't commit to anything right this moment while he's standing there, looking at me.
I can't even THINK clearly.


Manolo tells me with sincerity in his slow gently Brazilian accented english,

"You'd better relaaax, these is the Caree-bbean."
Brother, you have no idea.

But I take the advice = time out, calm down, no more thinking for a bit.

One: agree to stay another night. That's settled.
Tomorrow I will show up and make apologies to Katty.
Next: go back to CariBeans : organic, fair-trade Coffee & Chocolate. (Right? Do I even need to expand on such a name? properly done cappuccino, super dark local chocolates and ice-cream in ridiculous "I am now in the Tropics" flavors. If they just called the cafe: Heaven, it wouldn't be an exaggeration.)
11am. phew. sit. sip. think. regroup.

Manolo has been amazing* making lots of phone calls, offering local advice.
The room #3 is fine: clean, new construction, little house at the very back of the property.
I followed him out there across a warren of intersecting concrete raised paths, past more noni trees and prickly pear cactus (ooh, for trying out recipes). Really nice but it IS a hotel room.

Will I feel stuck at the ugly side of town if I really want a more open, natural neighborhood?
is it too far from 1. yoga down in cocles, 2. beaches down in cocles and chiquita, 3. wifi turns off at 9pm when the office closes (Clyde & I learned one night.)

The locals I've talked to all seem to live down in Cocles and beyond.
There's a place in a hostel for 250, shared kitchen but it's north of town, on Playa Negra (where no one seems to swim.) And maybe sketchy: Hotel LeBlanc. It may be fine but it's associated with a craiglist ad poster that is annoying in the extreme: Dominic.
(3 or 4 rental ads a day for MONTHS. Yes, I have been reading rental ads for months, learning just such patterns, prices, who's who, which houses are often empty, and questioning: Why the heavy turnover? RESEARCH, baby.)

CariBeans is on Playa Negra too and has tables across the street, between palm trees at the top of the beach. There's a great rusting barge run aground right in the middle of the view, just a few feet into the water. I think it's rather famous for Puerto Viejo, post-cards and travel books have its photo. It has been there long enough to collect greenery on it's surface, full-scale growth is going on up there: grasses and small trees... it's cool looking. There is a pole running down from the end near the beach into the water so you can walk up and use the barge for fishing, which people do all day long.

Okay, I should call those rentals back and set times.
Rent a bike and/or price a used bike.
Is Chiquita far enough to take the MEPE (public) bus?
should I go look at LeBlanc at least?
I should swim at Playa Negra today and see if I could live up here before ruling it out.

>I don't want to cave to fear of being homeless, take the first thing just
for stability -- AGAIN-- and end up in another mediocre rental situation,
just like every other miss-step I've taken and settled for. I'm tired of
gloomy, inappropriate rentals that you'd never call "home"; a person should feel good to get home, should feel relaxed there, comfortable, at ease. Not in any luxurious, spoiled way. I just want to be free from fear & dread when I'm on my own sofa (alcohol-fueled domestic drama from landlords and roommates, police visits, bank forclosures, eviction notices) and that is such a small request, isn't it? It always struck me as sad, to have such a tiny, basic ambition and knowing there are people, whole communities that live like that their whole lives - having only the most humble wishes and STILL being unfulfilled.

So, ask yourself: in a perfect world, what would I want?
a simple little house alone, near to swimming and yoga, a bike, fresh fruit every day, and a good program of Spanish study.
(Seriously, no mansion, no bijoux, no Laboutins. Just sweet, calm quiet.)

It's not quite noon and all I want to do is sleeep.
No more thinking and weighing and fretting. Just leave it.
(can I do that? would a nap be shockingly indulgent? it is the Caribbean after all, not DC.)

I was wide awake at 3 a.m. and it is costing me now but it was worth it at the time.

Our bungalow has a tiny porch with a thick weave hammock where I crept out and got in, pulling up the sides around me, it was so chilly & damp. Not long after, raccoon-like critters came out of the tree line behind our row of bungalows... toward the ditch (that doesn't do it justice= stream?) where the steep dirt sides are covered with holes of all sizes, dug out by blue land crabs. The stream runs all through the property and the top edges are lined with flowering trees.

So, these two guys stroll out in the moonlight and catch crabs (amazing, given how speedy they are.) One raccoon sat down right in front of my hiding place and, using his little black hands, ate that blue crab like a Baltimore native. I just stared. It was excellent.

From 3am to 5am,  I stayed out there and watched the garden change.