Puntarenas

We rented a car and traveled up the Pacific coast to explore the narrow peninsula of Puntarenas. This narrow strip of land juts out into the ocean and is the departure point for ferries to the Nicoya Peninsula, a tourist area known for its resorts and beaches.

From San Isidro de El General we crossed the coastal range to the town of Dominical, then turned north toward Quepos. We stopped at a rustic roadside stand shaded by cut banana leaves for cold paper cups of ceviche. The two small boys who sat on the coolers that comprised their stand leaped to their feet when we stopped and served us with big smiles. They counted the change carefully -- $1 for a cup of fresh minced fish, shrimp and calamari that was icy cold, swimming in acido (a perfumed citrus that puts lemon and lime to shame) and seasoned deliciously with garlic, cilantro and a touch of habanero. A few tortillas rounded out this lovely meal. For the next two days I insisted that Pecos stop at nearly every ceviche stand that we passed.

At Matapalo, we pulled in to the broad, shaded beach. A few Tico families were picnicking under the trees, about 15 people who apparently had traveled to the beach in the back of a panel truck. The rusty vehicle’s doors were open and the interior was packed with blankets and pillows. The tide was low and Pecos gathered shells while I played in the waves.

Heading north again, we came to the town of La Parita, a small center of commerce in the heart of palm plantations. As we neared the town, a few large carts laden with palm heads were pulled by oxen toward the oil processing plant. We stopped at the city park to stretch our legs. Parrots chattered noisily overhead, apparently responsible for giving this town its name.

We passed the fishing town of Quepos and then the tourist city of Jacos, winding north to the highway that leads west from San Jose to Puntarenas. Near Orotino we walked out onto the bridge, renowned for its views of alligators in the river below. It was extremely windy and I imagined being blown over the skinny, knee-high railing to the few dozen six-foot alligators who smacked their tails around as they waited patiently on the shore directly under us.

Five hours from home, we approached Puntarenas. Ten kilometers (six miles) long and three meters (10 feet) wide at its narrowest point, this rambling fishing town of a few thousand people was a jumble of tin-shacked homes and stores thrown up against each other and sometimes braced against twisty, weathered trees. The remains of wrecked fishing boats were everywhere.

Where the peninsula narrows to just the graveled road with ocean lapping on both shoulders, whichever driver entered most fast and ferociously has the right of way. I closed my eyes as Pecos wielded his ever-improving, wild Tico-driving skills. At the far end of Puntarenas, we drove through an attractive downtown and then arrived at a busy beach edged by 1950s-era hotels. We checked into La Tioga, rather expensive at $94 per night, taxes and breakfast included, a luxurious room with a balcony overlooking the beach and a magnificent view of the mountainous Nicoya Peninsula across the wide bay. Fishing boats plied the waters and the ferries carried vehicles and passengers far out to sea. Vendors and tiny restaurants lined the street alongside the beach.

We swam at the beach and had a most relaxing two days exploring the town. A beautiful stone cathedral with stained glass windows stood at one end of the city park and a cultural center at the other. We entered the center through a side door and found ourselves in the small municipal library. The director came over and for a while in his broken English and my infantile Espanol we compared library services in our countries. In Costa Rica, too, services are dependent upon graciones – private donations and grants.

From the library we entered the maritime museum. Exhibits included ancient pottery, 19th C. musical instruments, and wooden boats and fishing equipment depicting Puntarenas’s dependence upon the sea. A rehearsal was underway in a small auditorium; the actors were glad to see us and said that in two weeks they would perform [something, something, something en espanol] “sevilla” for the community. “Ah, si, ‘The Barber of Seville!’” I shouted and they all shouted back, “Si, si, si!” as they posed dramatically for several pictures and encouraged us to stay for the full rehearsal. The final area in the cultural center was an art gallery. Richly colored paintings by a local folk artist depicted the harvests of the sea, most unfortunately not for sale.

Along the beachfront, we meandered around the vendors’ stalls – all seemingly alike with wood carvings, shell art and colorful saris – and ate at the sodas (ceviche again). Independent businesspersons of all ages plied these little restaurants with various wares. A man carried a bunch of toothbrushes in his hand and extolled the virtues of brushing at each table as diners patiently looked away. Women carried lottery tickets (how would we know if we won?); children hawked shoelaces. One boy carried a large, fresh fish by its gills, eyeballs popping, table to table. A clown mime wandered by and gave a brief performance at our table; Pecos paid him 200 colones (40-cents). He bowed expansively and called persistently to all other nearby diners to follow our example, but he was ignored.

Heading south again we stopped at Playa Estrella – Star Beach – and stayed from mid-afternoon toward sunset. This most beautiful setting with its stone mermaid statue set far out in the sea is so tranquil; nearly deserted, the only sounds were the crashing of the waves and the occasional calls of scarlet macaws in the trees bending over the sandy beach.

We stopped again in La Parit, this time after after dark. Turning the corner near the park, the chattering of parrots was so loud that we couldn’t hear each other talk. We stepped out of the car and the din was almost unbearable. Noisy parrots filled the trees. Families strolled by, seemingly oblivious to the racket above them. We drove on to Dominical for a quiet evening before heading home to our mountaintop the next day, a place where the quiet is broken sometimes by clusters of colorful parrots that burst from the trees with their chippering conversations and then fly on to other locations. 