Puerto Viejo

After our perfect day paddling through jungle rivers we boarded a motorboat for a 3 hour journey along a river leading to Limon, where we glimpsed many crocodiles, big and small, lounging in the water or along the water´s edge.  From Limon we took a "shuttle bus" (a small passenger car) to Puerto Viejo.  Just before arriving at our hotel of choice, our taxi driver backed into another vehicle then left us at the side of the road to walk the last few blocks on our own as he drove off into the distance.

Puerto Viejo is an interesting place.  It could be a dodgy and seedy town if it´s slow-paced Carribean vibe didn´t mellow it down.  It consists of a blend of dreadlocked rastafarians who live to surf and chill out, and foreigners who became so relaxed that they forgot to leave.  The quirkiness of the town kept us quite entertained and people watching became our favorite past-time.  The town is made up of so many random charachters from rastafarian surfers, cracked-out-foreigners, dorky hotel owners, and in general, individuals who have lost their way and found comfort in the familiar dysfunction.  It is more-or-less a mix of soap opera meets reality TV meets "That 70´s show".  Hotel Puerto Viejo felt a lot like hanging out in Dad´s workshop where young, local surfers, middle-aged men (apprently involved in renovations though they never seem to get any work done) nursing beers and joints all day, Costa Rican and foreign mother´s nursing brand new babies belonging to some young rastafarian, and travellers alike, attempt awkward  and often uninterpretable conversation, or hazily stare at some discovery channel special on the tube as one lazy hotel employee stares off into space.  Little boys run around the hostel spraying unsuspecting guests with water guns while local surfers begin a ping-pong chapionship.  Dogs covered in tics and fleas run around chasing each other or the resident cat, then beg incesantly for treats.

A few doors down in the coffee shop around the corner sits a long, white haired hippy alternating between chain-smoking cigarettes and joints makes it his purpose to spread enlightenment about the conspiracy surrounding 9/11, global warming, chem. trails, drinking water, tele-tubies, as well as preaching about the curative powers of colloidal silver and natural remedies through DVD´s and long, drawn-out rants and lectures.  He provides little proof or evidence, but leaves no room for alternate opinions or explanations.

In the meantime, Bob Marley or some other Reggae album fills the air.  On the street corner sits an old, wearied man, inevitably the illegitimate father or grandfather of some young rastafarian hooligan, selling tropical fruit and coconuts fresh for drinking.  Behind him, near the place where the waves lap the shore grunt two gigantic wild pigs eating scraps of garbage, coconut husks, and compost which lies decomposing in a pile beneath the palms.

A peaceful 20-30 minute stroll along the pot-hole infested road or the shore lies an expanse of pale sand and crashing surf called Cocles beach.  Here the locals and tourists share the waves or struggle to wade without being dranw too far parallel the beach by the strong cross current.  Those tourists that are too lazy or broke to paddle out on a surf board soak up the sun´s rays

while enjoying some rastafarian-surfer-boy-eye-candy and cheer on those few surfers good enough to ride a wave and attempt a jump or spin, or laugh at the gringos body surfing.

Back in the hostel after an exhausting day of absorbing the sunlight and dawdling at a snails pace along the shore and forest path, or rather, before any such adventure has managed to take place, drowsy travellers sit reclined and slouching at a log table.  Having forgotten about their plans for the day, likely distracted by a snack, the local dogs chasing each other up the stairs, or the soap-opera-locals going about their daily activities, they have missed their bus out of town yet again.