Jaco, Costa Rica

I knew Jaco was not my type of place as soon as the bus rumbled onto smooth asphalt and I saw neon signs silhouetted against the palm trees. I had heard of this tropical gringo land before, a small sprawl of hotels, restaurants and surf shops somewhere on Costa Rica’s pacific coast. Indeed, in tranquilo I had seen wide-eyed tourists tell in exited tones that there was even a pizza hut there, to collective “ooh’s and ahh’s” from the rest of us. None of this seemed my cup of tea and, as I jumped from the bus, wrestled with my bag and strode across the street with my two companions in tow I looked awkward and slightly angry. Turning left on a palm tree sided boulevard, we carried on down a strip of gaudy souvenir shops, tourists and locals fighting pitched haggling battles in which the shopkeeper always triumphed. A little further down the dusty street and we came to our hostel, a whitewashed building who’s logo was the grotesque mural of a figure, half man, half chicken, riding a surfboard over a curling wave. Inside the rooms were large and cool, the shower the only thing cold in the whole town. As mortified as I was at paying twenty dollars for room alone, the large pile of fruit I’d bought from San Jose helped put me in better spirits as I doused it with sugar and set about making mojitos.
At that time I was traveling with two American girls. In the hostel the night before I’d seen them walk in wide eyed and open mouthed, the baggage tags on their backpack heralding their status as new arrivals to the steamy nights of San Jose. After initial introductions and a few beers we decided to travel together to Jaco where they had booked a room. Although I’d been planning to head south towards Panama and Peru I quickly changed my plans and within twelve hours we were rumbling along mountain roads and over rickety bridges that spanned alligator filled rivers. Once in Jaco, thanks to the girls I soon got over my initial misgivings. We ate gallo pinto, chatted to the locals and somewhere (on my stolen camera phone in Miami) there are pictures of us grinning and having the best of times. My favorite and the one I hope will confuse the phones new owner is of me, standing on a darkened balcony drink in one hand, wooden cane in the other, looking every inch the colonial gentleman.

A typical day in Tarrazu

Early each morning I am woken to Alian knocking noisily on my window so as to fetch me for breakfast. Leaving the confines of my bed is never a welcome prospect, especially before seven and even less when my arms are dotted by mosquito bites. After a brief struggle I throw off my woolen sheets, grab work clothes now stained with mud and dirt and walk up the dirt track to Alian’s parents house.

Living here I might as well be a character in My Family and Other Animals. Reaching the top of the little hill on whose side I live I can see the pheasant in his wire cage. He is a grand animal, as are all his kind, and with his constant strutting and grand plumage he resembles a great English Duke, imprisoned unjustly within some impregnable castle. Passing the pheasant I am greeted in no uncertain terms by the most aggressive dog I have ever seen, a small brown mongrel I have dubbed Brutus. Brutus is an evil creature who, with teeth bared, flings himself at the thick wire mesh of his cage. If his manic barks were translated to English I am certain they would read “I want to eat you, no matter how long it takes me I’m going to break out of this stupid cage and fly to Scotland to find you.”

The house in which my home-stay family lives is green. The roof is made from corrugated iron and a small garden of roses guard the front door. As I reach the mud-floored carport, the large white form of Osso runs to snap playfully at my ankles. If for some bizarre reason I was ever tempted to recruit sleigh dogs from Tazzazu I am certain that Osso would be my first choice. He is a magnificent creature, an almost husky of a dog somehow marooned in the heat of Central America. Tapping him playfully on the head I duck through the narrow door and pass into the kitchen.

My home-stay mother has adopted me. She leaps around, juggling plates, serving food and talking to me in rapid Spanish. Like all matriarchal figures she has the incredible ability to appear suddenly as soon as I enter a room, constantly offering me “cafecito” and “fresco”. Because of this I am never without sustenance and am persuaded to eat and drink my fill of rice, beans, plantains, beef, fresh orange juice and the ever present coffee. I usually eat quickly and, pulling my hat low to avoid sunburn, go outside to work.

Today there is little work to be done. Although there are always mounds of coffee to be harvested that is the job of trained pickers, a small army of whom live in the nearby woodshed. Today Alian is making some bizarre concoction out of cane sugar, a monotonous process that has taken us two days. Yesterday Alian and his friend used machetes to cut the thick canes and I helped drag them up the hill, having been cautioned against using a machete (my hand to eye coordination is not what it should be). Today the cane has been crushed and the juice drained into a giant steaming cauldron, ala Macbeth. As the mixture bubbles away our only task is to light a massive fire under the cauldron to vaporize most of the juice. I have taken the opportunity to set up my laptop on the concrete dock and am now writing my blog, my hands leaving a thick layer of soot on the keys.

In a few hours comes the part of the day I enjoy above all others. Alian drives the pick-up down the road to the coffee pickers, while I cling onto the back for dear life. Out of the think strands of coffee plants come the pickers, men and women struggling with heavy sacks over their shoulders containing the harvested beans. After Alian has recorded the amount of coffee each worker has harvested it is dumped in the rear of the pickup. Once all the sacks are empty and the truck bed is full of red and yellow beans, we set off to town.

I love going into the town in the bed of the pick-up. We surge down the asfalt, joining a crush of identical pickups, most with mounds of coffee and clumps of workers squashed into the back. There is an amazing amount of energy here in everything I see and the feeling of a good days work hangs over all of San Marcos. We go past blue shirted children leaving school, local girls pretty enough to necessitate a honk of the horn from Alian, stocky Inca workers and their tiny wives who wear bright floral dresses and always seem to be pregnant. Finally we pull into a loading dock and the coffee pours out into a massive bin. Throughout this time I grapple with Osso as he attempts to jump from the car and attack every passing farmer and mangy puppy. As we return home he finally succeeds in escaping and lopes quickly behind in the dust cloud rising from the road.

Evenings at the farm are quiet, the sun setting quickly behind the mountains. I spend a long time showering under the icy cold of the faucets pathetic drizzle and then eat early. If none of my movies catch my interest I retire before nine so as to be up and fresh for the next morning. Around me is silence, the occasional late night truck too far away to be heard, even the lights of San Marcos faint in the gloom. Before long, the sunlight invades my room again and Alian is tapping on my window, breakfast waiting at the table.


The Tarrazu Valley


Casa de familiar Roblez


Elian


Mama


Calin


Osso


Vicky the pitbull


My house


Shooting


On the way to work

San Marcos De Tarrazu

I landed in Costa Rica to the organized chaos of a Central American election. In San Jose alone there were thousands of people appearing in streets decked with party banners while flags were waved crazily from the windows of moving cars. The television, instead of showing its usual fare of car crashes and swimsuit models, was packed with terrifying mug shots of the elected as the pole results trickled in. Walking though the Moscow esc airport I was unaware of this and was focusing instead on finding my ride into the mountains. I shouldn’t have worried, for as I slung my pack over my shoulder and stumbled towards the exit I caught sight of smiling faces and a sign plastered against the window: Tom Remp “Alto Quepos.”

It is a peculiar but welcome phenomenon that foreign taxi drivers may take several friends along for company during long journeys. Such was the case here, and I soon found myself sharing a taxi with three people, one of them my new home stay brother, Alian. They seemed remarkably cheerful considering my flight was two hours late and it was now eleven and pitch black outside. Together we hoisted my gargantuan luggage into the taxi and set off, though San Jose and upwards into the darkness.

Waking up the next day in the hills above San Marcos, I could hear the cries of the Piapia birds as they darted about. Dressing, I stumbled over piles of unfolded cloths and stood silently in the doorway of my little house, looking in silence upon blue sky and dark jungle. Coffee bushes edge the rocky path, banana plants cling to the soil and a large white dog rambles though the bushes. This is not the jungle of your nightmares, not the inky black wildness of The Heart of Darkness. This is a magical world of towering
Eucalyptuses, juicy sugar canes, muddy oranges and the dark red and bright yellow of the coffee beans.