La Costa Costa Ricense

Friday February 26. Left Boquete for David where we looked for a transmission shop with the usual difficulties getting good information and directions and navigating. The Panamanian-American owner of Transmissions Panama lived in Miami for 30 years where he ran a transmission shop until competition by Cuban immigrants made it too hard to pay good wages and benefits and guarantee the work and still make a living. He said our transmission is fine. Then we drove all over the steaming, congested downtown looking for the hat shop that Axel told us about. Mike wants to buy a Panama hat: a hand woven straw hat really made in Panama, not a Chinese knock-off of the classic style. We didn’t find one to his liking until we went to another small town the woman in the transmission shop told us about. Mike liked the one in the locked, glass case: it cost $65—more than twice the price of the others that he thought were too expensive for inferior quality. The shop owner sold it to him for $60. Panama uses US dollars. We retreated to the van, parked in a shady spot, to eat a good lunch of sockeye salmon salad on rustic French bread bought at the Boquete bakery.

We headed for the border about 1pm. Miracle of miracles, it took less than 30 minutes to cross! And it was free! Except for a small tip to the adjudante and the inspector. Peñas Blancas is the same station we went through on our way south, so we knew where everything was, and there were no lines. Leaving Panama was straight forward, just the exit paper for immigration and turn in the customs paperwork for the car at customs. On the Costa Rica side the aduana had suspended our previous paperwork so all we had to do was fill in a form to reinstate it--our auto insurance was still good--and fill in the entry papers for immigration. And drive through the fumigation “car wash.” We haven’t seen a stink bug for a week, so we are hopeful all this border crossing has resolved the infestation.

Watching the sun go down on Playa Hermosa

We headed up the coast highway. It follows the coast but not closely enough to see much, just a few glimpses here and there. We stopped for the night at a Hermosa Beach restaurant where we drank mediocre local beer—my Imperial was better than Mike’s Pilsner—ate mediocre ceviche and over cooked red snapper. But location location location! The open air dining overlooked a gorgeous, sandy beach, and we watched the sun slipping straight down into a clear horizon, and we were allowed to camp on the beachfront, plus use their bathroom and beach shower. We took an evening walk in the surf.

Camping on the beach

Saturday February 27. I begged an egg from the cook at the restaurant and made French toast with the French bread from the bakery in Boquete. Yum!

Puntarenas, an hour north, was our next destination: a long spit of sand out into the Gulf of Nicoya. We drove through the one-street town to the point. It is developed with a waterfront promenade, which of course lured us to walk in the wind and sun along the

The point at Puntarenas, Costa Rica

perimeter. We were planning to check out the marina, but discovered the ferry landing, with two vessels loading up to cross the Gulf to the Nicoya Peninsula. We made an impulse decision to go, ran back to get the car, bought tickets, and were the last vehicle on board to Playa Naranja. It was wonderful being out on the water, in the wind, watching the seagulls and terns play in the updraft from the boat, and watching the changing terrain.  It was a two-hour crossing—probably slower than usual due to the strong winds. It took the captain three tries and an extra 45 minutes to land the ferry at the dock, due to the wind. I thought we might have to go back…

We looked at the map and chose a road north to the beaches on the outer coast. The road went up over the spine of the peninsula and down the other side. When it turned to gravel driver Mike got discouraged and retreated a few kilometers back to a town to ask directions for a better route. The Red Cross guy assured us that this road was the most direct, it was only 15 minutes’ worth of gravel and then we would get pavement again. So we persevered, and arrived at the most beautiful,

The most beautiful beach of all

palm-lined beach ever, with no development other than a few park benches and tables. The neighbors—a couple from Canada who had been here for three months—visited with us and told us where to find our beer and ceviche up the road at Playa Samara. Back in the van—but it wouldn’t start. So we waited ten minutes, and I took a bathroom break. It still wouldn’t start. So I put on my swim suit and went out through the surf for a salty swim while landlubber Mike walked the beach. If the car didn’t start, that was fine by me: it would be a beautiful place to camp. But the engine had cooled off enough and did start this time, so we went in to town for our beer and ceviche. We found a beachfront restaurant run by young Italians. The people watching was good, but the Oro ceviche was tough and not very piquant.

After soliciting route advice from the local police and briefly trying to find and consult a local mechanic, we returned to the first beach to eat a light supper and camp. We laid out on a sarong on the warm sand and watched the stars. The sky was very clear and dark, as the half-moon had not yet risen. I could see all the stars on Orion’s sword and the Milky Way was in full splendor.