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.