Before the dawn arrives there is a restless limbo in one's dreams. Perhaps it has slid into consciousness by the clacking call of a gecko somewhere on the blackness that is the ceiling. You know it is still the time of night before the dawn. The stars and moon are about to cede their hold in the firmament and fade stage center. So begins my favorite hour. The real show is about to begin. It only lasts about 45 minutes but in that time all time measures itself forward in a delicious, excruciating slow dance. It is now semi dark as the sky takes on a faint lightness like the thinest celestial gauze seen only at the edges of your vision. Just enough light exists to shuffle your way to the coffee maachine with care so as to not stub your toes on the furniture formless below your knees. That done you slide outdoors to the deep, teak, adirondack chairs and listen with ears awakened by the quiet. For you are here above the the beach, the Playa, of Camaronel in Costa Rica and where between your perch and the beach there extends more than a mile of valley floor.
Still in darkness all you first pick up are the sounds of night, the ever present distant roar of ocean waves exhausting themselves on the sands as they have since the beginning of time. Then you feel the warmth of the breezes wash over you to the clicking sounds of fronds of the date palm just off the terrace. Holding motionless and quieting your breathing to sharpen all your senses, the other harbingers of dawn space themselves out as if waiting their turn to speak.
The sky is a silver gray now and the first tints of peach hint at upper strata of denser air, clouds. Then across the valley, anchoring the far end of the beach, the headland and its outflowing spine like ridge begin to loom as a muscled mass of shadow. Skies turning silver white outline the bristled fuzz of treeline on the ridge's razor and all vestiges of the night and its stars though unmoved are now unseen. And just above the headland's hogback lie a bilious strata of cloud that will pre-announce the sun and the coming of its warming gifts. Is it any wonder that past civilizations were sun worshipers? It keeps all life alive within such a narrow range of temperature between freezing or boiling to death. Yet here it arrives as it has since the beginning to let us try again to make the best of its warmth.
Now the birds begin their songs, the howler monkeys tentatively clear their throats, even a far off rooster claims his share of the air. And the clouds above the mountain tell us the sun is coming by glowing their undersides with the reflected colors of radioactive oranges and pinks from the orb still unseen. All color intensely reaching their climax as the flaming fire breaks the ridge. It rises slowly and inevitably but you cannot watch it continuously as its power almost lazily climbs. You know you will sooner or later avert your eyes to such blinding force lest you sear your sight forever. Such is the magnitude of the sunrises' messenger. And with it's nuclear flare fully round the clouds now bleach themselves white and the valley floor gives up all its shadows and reveals their thousand shades of green.
You sigh at the wonder of this beginning, this gift of an awakening, of a fresh start and begin to breath more deeply and ponder what does this newness hold in store for us. Let us get busy living. But first that second cup of coffee.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Keeping Lethargy at bay
When one finally stumbles out of bed here and the sun has already been up for half an hour and you pull the sliding doors apart and step outside to the whooosh of escaping air conditioned coolness slipping out past you from behind, your frontal half is enveloped by heat and humidity. For a moment you think, "Jeeze, perhaps I'll just go back inside, shut the doors to save some of that cool air inside and just stay there!" So you stagger back inside telling yourself, "But wait, I can't just go back to sleep, at least not until high noon when the idea of siesta begins to make sense." So to avoid the spectre of lethargic numbness I'll draw and blog. Saved for the next few hours!
The day before yesterday we were up by 5:30 AM to get ready to head into Samara to meet with Corey up at his subdivision project, to check on the window installation in the model home and to show him another sketch of a condominium tower for lots 5 & 6 combined. The windows were of a high quality buy the false wood grain finish looked false. During the installation into the metal jambs the contractor used impact drills or hammers for the screws and the stucco was spalled in many areas. Corey was not happy. On a brighter note he was very pleased with my building and site concepts even though I had no topo to work with save my recollections of what the grades were doing during my previous two visits. Consequently I could have sited the subterranean garage in a couple of other places. Also I need to work on possible compensation proposals before I do too much more work. Corey has a couple of his supervisors coming over from San Jose next week and would like us to all get together for some wine and possibilities.
After review of the site plan Corey drove us over the hills to another teak farm site that is earmarked for future development and is looking for ideas there as well. We could also look down into the huge valley on the way to Los Vegas (4 buildings). They also want to develop that valley for the local market. Smaller lots at lower prices. That could be trickier to keep it from becoming a blight with pit bulls and fighting cocks. Perhaps a large choice of pre designed modest homes, like a dozen designs might be enough to keep it from looking too shabby.
Reminds of days with the Betsill Brothers on Maui when at one point we had the largest construction budget of all the outer islands with 4-5 subdivisions building 6-8 houses at a time in more than one subdivision at a time. Maui was peaking then. The development crew and permanent work force was 60-80 plus specialty subs. Too much work.
After the hillside visit JoAnn and I stopped in town for a few staples, but by then the heat drove us back to our pad in the hills of Camaronel and AC.
Yesterday began liesurely enough with a plan to head back to Carillo and the deserted beach cove below Villa Playa El Robles up beyond the mango farms. We had it to ourselves the entire morning. It is not a large cove, perhaps only 200' wide and enclosed on two sides by rocky outcrops with a short forest drop from landward. The pleasure was in the very rocky waters that took the full force of the non reef impeeded wave sets sending crashing walls of white skyward. To our surprise we saw our first flights of Pelicans in "V" or straight formations using this bay as part of their fly over pattern. In flight there is no bulbous bill sack hanging down only the long streamlined beak pointing them forward. The wave crash and turbulence, though beautiful to watch in transluscent jades and white, left no swimming places between the rocks. So after an hour and a half of reading, basking, walking, photographing and hydrating (very important here) we pulled up stakes and crept further down the road to look at another private cove but with a swimming spot or two.
Back at the main road, since we were so close to Carrillo Beach we headed there for a swim.
JoAnn is such a confident swimmer,always heading out for the deep water where its cooler and cleaner; Me you will find in the sandy froth and in front of the breaking wave fronts trying to keep my trunks from coming off with each crashing wave! After almost a month here we are beginning to recognise some of the local regulars, always a good feeling.
On the way home we stopped in at the Suenos Tropical for a recommended scratch pizza. It was good but the Canadian bacon in a Hawaiian pizza here is, 1/2" wide, thin and curled, otherwise? There's one more pizza place in Samara we've yet to try but time is running out, only 8 more days in Costa Rica, then its off to Roatan where I expect things to really slow down? Found one little market still open during 1/2 day saturdays, siesta time anyway, for a stick of butter then guick home before it melts. Note to self: Permanent vehicle here should include a small electric cooler for bopping around. I hear VW makes a small twin turbo diesel pick up truck but not available for the US. Back in the US we get almost none of the good diesel stuff.
Gas guage is down to 1/4 so I think we will stay close to home tomorrow and head in for gas on Monday. There is only one station here and it is over $5.00/gal.
As I said at the beginning, tomorrow, Sunday, will be a day of rest: sketching, blogging, eating, pooling, showering, sucking AC and maybe a late afternoon walk down a grassy 4 wheel trail to the beach?
Vaya con Dios, hasta la vista, Oh Cisco, Oh Pancho, Oh Leo G.Carrillo !!
Antonio e Josepha Anna
The day before yesterday we were up by 5:30 AM to get ready to head into Samara to meet with Corey up at his subdivision project, to check on the window installation in the model home and to show him another sketch of a condominium tower for lots 5 & 6 combined. The windows were of a high quality buy the false wood grain finish looked false. During the installation into the metal jambs the contractor used impact drills or hammers for the screws and the stucco was spalled in many areas. Corey was not happy. On a brighter note he was very pleased with my building and site concepts even though I had no topo to work with save my recollections of what the grades were doing during my previous two visits. Consequently I could have sited the subterranean garage in a couple of other places. Also I need to work on possible compensation proposals before I do too much more work. Corey has a couple of his supervisors coming over from San Jose next week and would like us to all get together for some wine and possibilities.
After review of the site plan Corey drove us over the hills to another teak farm site that is earmarked for future development and is looking for ideas there as well. We could also look down into the huge valley on the way to Los Vegas (4 buildings). They also want to develop that valley for the local market. Smaller lots at lower prices. That could be trickier to keep it from becoming a blight with pit bulls and fighting cocks. Perhaps a large choice of pre designed modest homes, like a dozen designs might be enough to keep it from looking too shabby.
Reminds of days with the Betsill Brothers on Maui when at one point we had the largest construction budget of all the outer islands with 4-5 subdivisions building 6-8 houses at a time in more than one subdivision at a time. Maui was peaking then. The development crew and permanent work force was 60-80 plus specialty subs. Too much work.
After the hillside visit JoAnn and I stopped in town for a few staples, but by then the heat drove us back to our pad in the hills of Camaronel and AC.
Yesterday began liesurely enough with a plan to head back to Carillo and the deserted beach cove below Villa Playa El Robles up beyond the mango farms. We had it to ourselves the entire morning. It is not a large cove, perhaps only 200' wide and enclosed on two sides by rocky outcrops with a short forest drop from landward. The pleasure was in the very rocky waters that took the full force of the non reef impeeded wave sets sending crashing walls of white skyward. To our surprise we saw our first flights of Pelicans in "V" or straight formations using this bay as part of their fly over pattern. In flight there is no bulbous bill sack hanging down only the long streamlined beak pointing them forward. The wave crash and turbulence, though beautiful to watch in transluscent jades and white, left no swimming places between the rocks. So after an hour and a half of reading, basking, walking, photographing and hydrating (very important here) we pulled up stakes and crept further down the road to look at another private cove but with a swimming spot or two.
Back at the main road, since we were so close to Carrillo Beach we headed there for a swim.
JoAnn is such a confident swimmer,always heading out for the deep water where its cooler and cleaner; Me you will find in the sandy froth and in front of the breaking wave fronts trying to keep my trunks from coming off with each crashing wave! After almost a month here we are beginning to recognise some of the local regulars, always a good feeling.
On the way home we stopped in at the Suenos Tropical for a recommended scratch pizza. It was good but the Canadian bacon in a Hawaiian pizza here is, 1/2" wide, thin and curled, otherwise? There's one more pizza place in Samara we've yet to try but time is running out, only 8 more days in Costa Rica, then its off to Roatan where I expect things to really slow down? Found one little market still open during 1/2 day saturdays, siesta time anyway, for a stick of butter then guick home before it melts. Note to self: Permanent vehicle here should include a small electric cooler for bopping around. I hear VW makes a small twin turbo diesel pick up truck but not available for the US. Back in the US we get almost none of the good diesel stuff.
Gas guage is down to 1/4 so I think we will stay close to home tomorrow and head in for gas on Monday. There is only one station here and it is over $5.00/gal.
As I said at the beginning, tomorrow, Sunday, will be a day of rest: sketching, blogging, eating, pooling, showering, sucking AC and maybe a late afternoon walk down a grassy 4 wheel trail to the beach?
Vaya con Dios, hasta la vista, Oh Cisco, Oh Pancho, Oh Leo G.Carrillo !!
Antonio e Josepha Anna
Friday, February 17, 2012
Crescent Moon Rocking
It's another perfect morning. Last night I watched the new crescent moon climb upwards on its sickle back. The stars down here in this southern sky seem so foreign or out of place to me telling me I need to learn why. It's not even a warm breeze this morning, more like air moving around and about you that you can feel but yet are not sure as its temperature matches your skin.
Yesterday JoAnn and I woke before dawn to make the 15 minute drive north to Playa Carrillo to watch the sun rise and that I might take some photos of the dense coconut lined shore in the morning rays. There were already a few people walking the beach in the dim light. I think people here in Costa Rica tend to be more naturally health conscious. As a country newly rising from third world status they benefit from the lack of fast food saturation.
After JoAnn walked the 2.5 kilometer beach from the south end and I photographed the north end
we met up and declared if we lived on a beach like this on mornings such as these then perhaps we could live longer in Costa Rica. We will never be able to leave for long our Pacific Northwest with its spring and summer. We enjoy JoAnn's flowering gardens too much as well as the natural wonders of the region. Yet this weather, this beach ......
After a morning of skipping away from the advancing surf's froth we headed up some back roads, dirt of course, up into the hills above Carrillo's own headland to look for the immense mango
orchards as seen on Google! We found them. Massive dense green trees on rolling hillocks. We also came across an isolated architectural delight above the waterfront's rocky coves. Villas Playa el Roble. Behind a trim yet substantial layered granite half wall topped with fine and delicate wrought iron fencing sat a pristine white structure in the Colonial style with all the right detailing. From the real clay tile roof (much of CR now affects plastic tile roofing) to the profiled window and door trims sharply expressed and the delicate railinged balcony above the front door and the short eaves with supporting volutes every three feet all in a cohesive, tropical/colonial design with glazed stone fore court and side yard trellised private areas. Once in awhile each trip we come accross architectural work where someone's vision and craftsmanship stand out and it does my heart good.
After the morning's exploration we went for breakfast at Leylande's hotel and restaurant along the road back home. Quality was very good and fresh hot coffee individually brewed per customer. On the way out through the grounds JoAnn discovered a palapa with a pool table so why not. Then it was back home early enough for a swim and a nap. Good day. Tomorrow its up again at 6:AM to drive back in town for a meeting with Corey at 7:30 to show him my site plan and to look at more hilltop properties. It should be another interesting day.
Hasta la vista
Yesterday JoAnn and I woke before dawn to make the 15 minute drive north to Playa Carrillo to watch the sun rise and that I might take some photos of the dense coconut lined shore in the morning rays. There were already a few people walking the beach in the dim light. I think people here in Costa Rica tend to be more naturally health conscious. As a country newly rising from third world status they benefit from the lack of fast food saturation.
After JoAnn walked the 2.5 kilometer beach from the south end and I photographed the north end
we met up and declared if we lived on a beach like this on mornings such as these then perhaps we could live longer in Costa Rica. We will never be able to leave for long our Pacific Northwest with its spring and summer. We enjoy JoAnn's flowering gardens too much as well as the natural wonders of the region. Yet this weather, this beach ......
After a morning of skipping away from the advancing surf's froth we headed up some back roads, dirt of course, up into the hills above Carrillo's own headland to look for the immense mango
orchards as seen on Google! We found them. Massive dense green trees on rolling hillocks. We also came across an isolated architectural delight above the waterfront's rocky coves. Villas Playa el Roble. Behind a trim yet substantial layered granite half wall topped with fine and delicate wrought iron fencing sat a pristine white structure in the Colonial style with all the right detailing. From the real clay tile roof (much of CR now affects plastic tile roofing) to the profiled window and door trims sharply expressed and the delicate railinged balcony above the front door and the short eaves with supporting volutes every three feet all in a cohesive, tropical/colonial design with glazed stone fore court and side yard trellised private areas. Once in awhile each trip we come accross architectural work where someone's vision and craftsmanship stand out and it does my heart good.
After the morning's exploration we went for breakfast at Leylande's hotel and restaurant along the road back home. Quality was very good and fresh hot coffee individually brewed per customer. On the way out through the grounds JoAnn discovered a palapa with a pool table so why not. Then it was back home early enough for a swim and a nap. Good day. Tomorrow its up again at 6:AM to drive back in town for a meeting with Corey at 7:30 to show him my site plan and to look at more hilltop properties. It should be another interesting day.
Hasta la vista
The Valley of Camoronel
I've been up since 1:AM this morning, after only 3 hours of sleep, reading and waiting for the dawn. Morning has always been my favorite time and the sunrises here in Playa Camoronal are exquisite. I feel no fatigue. It is almost as if the awakening valley floor seeps all the nourishment into ones body and soul needed to chase away the tired post mid night impatience.
So I spent the pre dawn hours designing a multi unit complex site plan on a hillside way above the beach town of Samara. It was good to stretch my sensibilities in the quietness. All I had was a sheet of tracing paper, a 50cent plastic ruler and a fistfull of #2 Faber Castell pencils. I think I enjoy site design most of all. Must be from my years working in Bill Talley's Landscape Architecture firm. It's the complete inseparability of potential structure with landform, movement, rest, the ecology of biology and botany.
After a few hours of design I took a break to watch the sun rise from behind the mounded hills to the east. As the light suffused into all the shadows the valley floor molded itself into a dense savannah like tableaux. One end of the bay sticks out a forested headland bluff, two maybe three miles away, 400 feet high shaped like a Dorado's head pointed back out to sea anchoring one end of the distant beach with its three advancing white surf fronts to die into the sands. I can watch and listen to this for hours and not feel any loss of time. It is a glorious yet soothing window of infinity.
My restfull platform rolls down and away to the valley floor. On the distance, no larger than specks in my eyes moves a line of cattle beneath the palm and dried acacia like trees. The stock is too far away to discern any form or even legs. They are just white micro spots gracefully moving about the tan colored fields.
The cicadas are slowly and in the sonic distance beginning to warm up. The ocean's hiss rolls up toward me in rhythmic doppler. Unknown birds with small and large voices call out. Howler monkees tentatively clear their throats. Palm fronds rustle and clack like soft castanets. The warm breezes up from the valley are more noticeable now, unscented but strangely clean and washing.
Today we will practice the acceptance of doing nothing.
So I spent the pre dawn hours designing a multi unit complex site plan on a hillside way above the beach town of Samara. It was good to stretch my sensibilities in the quietness. All I had was a sheet of tracing paper, a 50cent plastic ruler and a fistfull of #2 Faber Castell pencils. I think I enjoy site design most of all. Must be from my years working in Bill Talley's Landscape Architecture firm. It's the complete inseparability of potential structure with landform, movement, rest, the ecology of biology and botany.
After a few hours of design I took a break to watch the sun rise from behind the mounded hills to the east. As the light suffused into all the shadows the valley floor molded itself into a dense savannah like tableaux. One end of the bay sticks out a forested headland bluff, two maybe three miles away, 400 feet high shaped like a Dorado's head pointed back out to sea anchoring one end of the distant beach with its three advancing white surf fronts to die into the sands. I can watch and listen to this for hours and not feel any loss of time. It is a glorious yet soothing window of infinity.
My restfull platform rolls down and away to the valley floor. On the distance, no larger than specks in my eyes moves a line of cattle beneath the palm and dried acacia like trees. The stock is too far away to discern any form or even legs. They are just white micro spots gracefully moving about the tan colored fields.
The cicadas are slowly and in the sonic distance beginning to warm up. The ocean's hiss rolls up toward me in rhythmic doppler. Unknown birds with small and large voices call out. Howler monkees tentatively clear their throats. Palm fronds rustle and clack like soft castanets. The warm breezes up from the valley are more noticeable now, unscented but strangely clean and washing.
Today we will practice the acceptance of doing nothing.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
How to do nothing
How to do nothing? It is harder than it sounds. After taking care of your morning absolutions, perhaps a little coffee and breakfast, maybe a dip in the pool, a quiet contemplation of the incredible view, watching the two banking graceful black buzzards that claim this valley, taking a pass on another paperback, you look at a clock and its only 7:30 AM, according to the sun and the temperature, it should be the middle of the day!
After about 4-5 of days that begin like this you ask yourself, "Is this boredom?" How will we fill out the day in this country? I can start with what I do not want to do. I do not want to ride a zip line, or horseback on the beach, or hike through the jungle to a mediocre waterfall while spraining my ankle on roots that look alive. I do not want to go shopping for groceries in town, I don't mind looking at the hippy ladies but not too closely, I don't want to look at the hippy guys even from far, far away. There is only so much ocean swimming that will serve as an alternative to a real washing. There is only so much Euro tongues one can listen to especially guttural German, sorry Marie Ann, and the old hairy and over weight Euro males in Speedo trunks with their hairy guts hanging over their "goods!" What are they thinking, I don't really want to know !
I am a dud. I want to do nothing and I have tried my best on several occasions to accomplish just that. Then in the deep limbic furrows of my brain the nagging creeps outward and begins to manifest itself first in a lethargic disquiet, past general malaise and then into an antsyness that more often than not ends up in pacing the floors. Now I've got it bad and I must do something, anything. Its jump into the 4x4 and off into town or a restaurant sending a rooster tail of dust along the dirt roads. Try to mellow out. This is a vacation afterall. We are pleased to be going anywhere in spite of the broken AC in the car.
The day before we drove to Playa Garza north of Samara and reaquainted myself with an 18 mile stretch of road that JoAnn reminded me I had said on our last trip that I would never drive again less I suffer kidney failure. Ah yes, it all comes back to me now in jolts. Too late
we are on it now.
Garza beach still was as beautiful and unspoiled as I remembered, but the town such as it is of mostly abandoned courtyards and shacks, is worse than I remember. Still it was nice to take a nap in the car on the beach with all four doors opened.
We decided to proceed another 7 clicks north to the euro surfing town of Guiones and treat ourselves to pastry and ice cream. The heat just about did JoAnn in so we anxiously headed back just to keep moving.
The day before yesterday we tried the highly vaunted El Colibri Argentinian Grill House for some T-bone.
Don't bother.
Through the local realtor we met a local developer who showed us some beautifull hill top sites with views of the bays and beaches. The road up into these hills was the worst so far requiring 4wheel low. It was up in a teak farm. As it turns out the developer with PanAmerican Woods is looking for an architect for general and conceptual design. I prepared him a few sketches on notebook paper and he liked it all so we may be doing something for all the condominium developments planned for their thousands of acres available. He has one ridgetop he wants to show us Thursday from which you can see 7 separate bays. I don't know if we or I can handle the commute but there may be at least some property trade in kind for my services. JoAnn really wants to speck a house down here and maybe get a small condo. We shall see.
Right now its back to the beautiful guest house to fend off boredom once again. I will succeed, perhaps now that I have some sketching to do!
Vaya con Dios muchachos
Antonio
After about 4-5 of days that begin like this you ask yourself, "Is this boredom?" How will we fill out the day in this country? I can start with what I do not want to do. I do not want to ride a zip line, or horseback on the beach, or hike through the jungle to a mediocre waterfall while spraining my ankle on roots that look alive. I do not want to go shopping for groceries in town, I don't mind looking at the hippy ladies but not too closely, I don't want to look at the hippy guys even from far, far away. There is only so much ocean swimming that will serve as an alternative to a real washing. There is only so much Euro tongues one can listen to especially guttural German, sorry Marie Ann, and the old hairy and over weight Euro males in Speedo trunks with their hairy guts hanging over their "goods!" What are they thinking, I don't really want to know !
I am a dud. I want to do nothing and I have tried my best on several occasions to accomplish just that. Then in the deep limbic furrows of my brain the nagging creeps outward and begins to manifest itself first in a lethargic disquiet, past general malaise and then into an antsyness that more often than not ends up in pacing the floors. Now I've got it bad and I must do something, anything. Its jump into the 4x4 and off into town or a restaurant sending a rooster tail of dust along the dirt roads. Try to mellow out. This is a vacation afterall. We are pleased to be going anywhere in spite of the broken AC in the car.
The day before we drove to Playa Garza north of Samara and reaquainted myself with an 18 mile stretch of road that JoAnn reminded me I had said on our last trip that I would never drive again less I suffer kidney failure. Ah yes, it all comes back to me now in jolts. Too late
we are on it now.
Garza beach still was as beautiful and unspoiled as I remembered, but the town such as it is of mostly abandoned courtyards and shacks, is worse than I remember. Still it was nice to take a nap in the car on the beach with all four doors opened.
We decided to proceed another 7 clicks north to the euro surfing town of Guiones and treat ourselves to pastry and ice cream. The heat just about did JoAnn in so we anxiously headed back just to keep moving.
The day before yesterday we tried the highly vaunted El Colibri Argentinian Grill House for some T-bone.
Don't bother.
Through the local realtor we met a local developer who showed us some beautifull hill top sites with views of the bays and beaches. The road up into these hills was the worst so far requiring 4wheel low. It was up in a teak farm. As it turns out the developer with PanAmerican Woods is looking for an architect for general and conceptual design. I prepared him a few sketches on notebook paper and he liked it all so we may be doing something for all the condominium developments planned for their thousands of acres available. He has one ridgetop he wants to show us Thursday from which you can see 7 separate bays. I don't know if we or I can handle the commute but there may be at least some property trade in kind for my services. JoAnn really wants to speck a house down here and maybe get a small condo. We shall see.
Right now its back to the beautiful guest house to fend off boredom once again. I will succeed, perhaps now that I have some sketching to do!
Vaya con Dios muchachos
Antonio
Friday, February 10, 2012
The hills above Playa Camaronel
Settled in for the next 4 weeks. Having met the rental owner, Jerry, in Samara we drove to his home above Camaronel Bay. We thought it was going to be close to town a mile or two at the most. It was instead more than 7 miles back south with the final 2 miles back on dirt roads and across one stream. Typical. The last pitch of dirt was coccyx busting. We were greeted by two howling dogs and a staff of housekeeper and gardener that live on site. It was quite the place with the guest unit downstairs with its own private lanai teak Adirondac type chairs, local wood beams, bamboo ceiling treatment and teak floors. Very tastefully done. Very upscale forest safari like but without the animal skins. Lots of granite, slate like tiles and vessel sinks. Oh also a long pool overlooking the vally and the beach of Camaronal close enough to see and hear the breakers. Very few other homes here in this large valley and bay and they are well hidden. A few lights in the hills at night is all that gives them away.
This will be a very pleasant place to stay in spite of the distance to Samara. All in all very contemporary indeed.
10 days later we are still here. Done this and that, a lot of grocery shopping, looking at property, a lot of pool time and finally a little ocean time. These beaches here, though plentiful and long, have no public amenities. There are no restrooms or showers. Consequently a day at the beach usually involves a lot of salty sticky skin and swimming with that organic seaweedy smell we all love but cannot wash off. It does not help that this week is a week of temperatures in the high 80's with little breeze. It is before 8AM and already in the 80s. The heat is intense, the air unmoving and the cicadas send a ringing into your brain that seems to only amplify the slow burn.
Our rent a car's air conditioning does not work and we are thinking of driving 27 miles, one way, to a quaint beach, Playa Garza, we came accross many years before. There is nothing there save a single grass hut stocked with coolers beneath a few palm trees serving beer. The last time we were there a half dozen laborers and drivers were lying in the shade on logs sleeping. That was it save for a boat or two bobbing inside the reef line difficult to focus on due to the brightness and reflectance of the sunlight. It might be worth the drive anyway. Beats sitting around here with even the howler monkeys too hot to howl.
The pool needs a netting but since the owner headed back to the mainland Santos the gardener seems to have slipped back into Rican time. I would do it myself if I knew where the equipment was as a dip sounds good. Ah life can be so hard eh?
Speaking of "eh" we met a Canadian developer who is interested in some architectural design for his residence and condo projects. I'll meet with him again come this Monday but I'm not too sure about coming out of retirement just yet. We shall see.
Hasta la vista
This will be a very pleasant place to stay in spite of the distance to Samara. All in all very contemporary indeed.
10 days later we are still here. Done this and that, a lot of grocery shopping, looking at property, a lot of pool time and finally a little ocean time. These beaches here, though plentiful and long, have no public amenities. There are no restrooms or showers. Consequently a day at the beach usually involves a lot of salty sticky skin and swimming with that organic seaweedy smell we all love but cannot wash off. It does not help that this week is a week of temperatures in the high 80's with little breeze. It is before 8AM and already in the 80s. The heat is intense, the air unmoving and the cicadas send a ringing into your brain that seems to only amplify the slow burn.
Our rent a car's air conditioning does not work and we are thinking of driving 27 miles, one way, to a quaint beach, Playa Garza, we came accross many years before. There is nothing there save a single grass hut stocked with coolers beneath a few palm trees serving beer. The last time we were there a half dozen laborers and drivers were lying in the shade on logs sleeping. That was it save for a boat or two bobbing inside the reef line difficult to focus on due to the brightness and reflectance of the sunlight. It might be worth the drive anyway. Beats sitting around here with even the howler monkeys too hot to howl.
The pool needs a netting but since the owner headed back to the mainland Santos the gardener seems to have slipped back into Rican time. I would do it myself if I knew where the equipment was as a dip sounds good. Ah life can be so hard eh?
Speaking of "eh" we met a Canadian developer who is interested in some architectural design for his residence and condo projects. I'll meet with him again come this Monday but I'm not too sure about coming out of retirement just yet. We shall see.
Hasta la vista
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Montezuma, CostaRica
A blog without photos? With this new ipad bought to save weight in my packing, it appears there are issues with incorporating photos not only in blogs but e mails as well. I can only keep trying but the routes are circuitous and fraught with formatting peculiarities. So much of Central America is viscerally visual with riotous color that it seems tragic not to include images. But the trip goes on.
Montezuma. A frozen snapshot in time. It's a tiny village really, only a short "L" shape main street with the usual vendors squeezed and jammed atop one another in a claustrophobic melange.
The street is a two way but with space enough for only one direction. This is a real fishing village crowded with shuffling hippies lost in time along with the dreadlocks, yoga parlors, beans and rice and with the preferred way of travel being the ubiquitous quads. Ah, Tico, Tico, Tico.
We check into our hotel and trudge up a narrow flight of stairs that use to be an exterior set based on sections of the original roofing glimpsed at dead end sections of halls and wells and faded corrugated plastic panels over the stairwell. The rooms are tiny an garreted with windows that do not open. There are however air handling ac units that will chill you out placed 4' above your sleeping heads. The second night I alternated between freezing and sweating. The paperback I read had its upper edges wrinkle saturated with condensation! I'm positive it all caused me to catch a cold.
The next morning We took a walk up the beach road to find the trail to the local waterfall. After a few minutes we felt it was probably too rough, slippery, and root strewn for our flip flops. As we were debating a turnabout, along happened a local guide, Carlos, that talked us into continuing. After 15 minutes we began to question the efforts with the return slog on mind. Aroung the last bend down trails one had to sit and slide down, we came to the falls. About 80 feet of refreshment.
The signs were dire, "No climbing, No jumping, There have been deaths here!" And what were the tourists beefs doing? I guess since the signs were in Spanish they didn't apply. We lucked out, no split skulls today. There was one local that dove from 65'. That pretty much put a stop to the boisterous Haoles leaping from 10 feet. Loved it. JoAnn did go for a cooling dip. She's always game when it comes to water.
Later that day we walked 15 minutes down the beach in the other direction to one classy resort where the Eurodollars were spent at a yoga retreat. Great coffee milk shakes and a sweet little waterfall swimming pool.
Back to our little windowless cubicle with stucco walls with grit that could scour your flesh if not careful.
Tomorrow its northward along the dirt roads with streams to ford to Samara to meet Jerry who will guide us to his rental unit in the hills above Playa Camoronal. It is an undeveloped bay with only 3 or 4 homes spaced about the surrounding hills inspite of the fact that it is one the best surfing beaches in Costa Rica with 2 1/2 miles of empty beachfront. Perhaps because it is also a prime turtle nesting reserve accounts for its protection from overdevelopment. Ah but we can always get around that can't we? Just prefix our words with "eco," such as eco-lodge, eco-eats or eco-fuel station!
An Eco-adios
Montezuma. A frozen snapshot in time. It's a tiny village really, only a short "L" shape main street with the usual vendors squeezed and jammed atop one another in a claustrophobic melange.
The street is a two way but with space enough for only one direction. This is a real fishing village crowded with shuffling hippies lost in time along with the dreadlocks, yoga parlors, beans and rice and with the preferred way of travel being the ubiquitous quads. Ah, Tico, Tico, Tico.
We check into our hotel and trudge up a narrow flight of stairs that use to be an exterior set based on sections of the original roofing glimpsed at dead end sections of halls and wells and faded corrugated plastic panels over the stairwell. The rooms are tiny an garreted with windows that do not open. There are however air handling ac units that will chill you out placed 4' above your sleeping heads. The second night I alternated between freezing and sweating. The paperback I read had its upper edges wrinkle saturated with condensation! I'm positive it all caused me to catch a cold.
The next morning We took a walk up the beach road to find the trail to the local waterfall. After a few minutes we felt it was probably too rough, slippery, and root strewn for our flip flops. As we were debating a turnabout, along happened a local guide, Carlos, that talked us into continuing. After 15 minutes we began to question the efforts with the return slog on mind. Aroung the last bend down trails one had to sit and slide down, we came to the falls. About 80 feet of refreshment.
The signs were dire, "No climbing, No jumping, There have been deaths here!" And what were the tourists beefs doing? I guess since the signs were in Spanish they didn't apply. We lucked out, no split skulls today. There was one local that dove from 65'. That pretty much put a stop to the boisterous Haoles leaping from 10 feet. Loved it. JoAnn did go for a cooling dip. She's always game when it comes to water.
Later that day we walked 15 minutes down the beach in the other direction to one classy resort where the Eurodollars were spent at a yoga retreat. Great coffee milk shakes and a sweet little waterfall swimming pool.
Back to our little windowless cubicle with stucco walls with grit that could scour your flesh if not careful.
Tomorrow its northward along the dirt roads with streams to ford to Samara to meet Jerry who will guide us to his rental unit in the hills above Playa Camoronal. It is an undeveloped bay with only 3 or 4 homes spaced about the surrounding hills inspite of the fact that it is one the best surfing beaches in Costa Rica with 2 1/2 miles of empty beachfront. Perhaps because it is also a prime turtle nesting reserve accounts for its protection from overdevelopment. Ah but we can always get around that can't we? Just prefix our words with "eco," such as eco-lodge, eco-eats or eco-fuel station!
An Eco-adios
Early Starts
Southward Sojourn
Costa Rica to Roatan
February 2012
Beginning, always the hardest thing to do, especially when preceded by a healthy portion of procrastination.
Yet, here we are again. On the road to Central America and wondering why. All the usual reasons; flight from the rains and snows of the Pacific North West winter.
With this our third time to Central America all pre departure preparations were on time or ahead of schedule. Shots and meds taken care of. The usual packing and editing and lists of just in case while we are gone; things like generators ready for our tenants in case of power outages for the remainder of the winter months, Mail, banking, bills, phones and electronic gear etc., etc. It seems like the beginning does't start until the final landing at your next pause.
The trials of airplane travel and airports I have spoken of often enough that suffice it to say, here my opinion has not changed in that other than the five minutes of take off and landing, it's still a bore. I think back to Paine Field in Everette WA. where at the age of twenty I took my flying lessons from Willard's Flying Service. Darryl Williard was a slight bespectacled and shambling man with a tuft of thinning blond bangs always hanging over one top edge of his glasses. Behind those glasses his eyes held you directly but not invasively. I have had several flight instructors since but something more than his talent made him my favorite. His demeanor in the seat behind me was calming from the start. And his taps on the shoulder to point out another plane or bird in some distant quadrant made me sit more attentive to know the skys were not an infinite and empty ocean and to look everywhere even though, more than not, other denizens will turn out to be no larger than a reflective speck. But its the knowing that sharpens the edge.
How glorious were those first solos. The Kent Valley was farmland back then and the Green River below lazily wound like a silver thread undisturbed by present day industrial warehouses of mega block upon mega block. Memories untrampeled by civilization stubbornly fade away in all of us except when we take the time to sit still.
I had talked my girlfriend into taking lessons with me and we both soloed only 50 feet apart side by side smiles a mile wide and eye to eye in a pair of Willard's Aeronca Chieftans, those tail dragging high wingers one had to taxi along snaking side to side in order to be able to see forward first to the left then to right, back and forth like a slow drunken weave.
And those grassy airfields of Arlington planted seeds deep.
I had a friend in college one David MacNeil, tall, gangly, an irrepressible Scotchman who could call up a Scottish brogue that could rattle your ears. Such was his enthusiasm and zest for life that he could practically talk me into anything. Even taking out a student loan to buy an old 1958 British Morgan open sports car. It had a long tubular bonnet with a double row of louvers down its entire length ending in a low and graceful rounded grill. And the whole front end sandwiched between a pair of swooping fenders proud at the front with headlights sculpted forward and fairing downward to the rear and along the sides and below the doors to join up with similar rear fenders. A swooping and continuous curve.
After an accident I decided to rebuild it from the ground up. As a destitute student I had no choice. In my tiny garage on 40th Street there in Seattle I scraped the dollars together doing part time work as a janitor or a cook in the dorms at the UW campus. The day came to reinstall the engine. It actually stormed and thundered as I slid the hoist suspended motor into the bay. Shades of Frankenstein! It lives !! Eventually, with the help of my Dad, which I treasure, on the upholstery, we finished. The paint scheme was suggested by another good lady friend, deep chocolate body and glossy black wings (fenders.) It corkscrewed my head every time I saw it. It flew over the roads of Washington.
"Tony! Lets go up to Arlington and go flying!?" I bent over my drafting board for Cedar Homes in Bellevue working late one afternoon with MacNeil. "MacNeil, what are you talking about? I can't fly and neither can you." Ah but Dave among his inexhaustible store of friends had one who did. A young pilot who flew for Rheem airlines in Alaska who had his own low wing open cockpit hangered at Arlington. Northward we roared in Dave's Morgan a white one with red leather interior which when I saw for the first time dramatically unveiled from beneath a cover, sealed my deal and said student loan. Arlington had a grass airstrip in the 60s. You could smell it just after cutting. There in the waning light was the Ryan trainer just taxiing in from a flight as Dave ran up to his friend yelling above the engine to "Take Tony up, Take him up and give it to him". Give it to him? "Sure climb on up and put this leather helmet and goggles and scarf on." Scarf and goggles...really? Buckled into the front open cockpit with the silver mono wing beneath me and only endless sky above I stayed in front of the "Is this really happening" question. The next thing I noticed was the huge radial engine with it's massive black cylinder "jugs" not more than 5 feet away from my nose! As we taxied to the end of the aromatic grass and reved up, I felt an unstoppable smile begin to crease my face. "Is this really happening?" Slowly forward movement was jerked by each blast of a cylinder. The explosions came faster and faster and with bang my body was pulled forward against the safety harness. I was literally being jerked into the sky! The balloon tires rumbled over the tufts of grass sending up newly crushed smells of sun warmed clover and the freedom of climbing air. I settled in to the ackety pop of the big radial in its circular firing and tried to relieve my facial muscles of its stretched and frozen smile. Over the ear phones I hear, "Are you ready Tony?" I nod. And we dive and the force presses me back as the earth covers all my fields of vision. Then more pressure as the horizon rolls back down from above only to disappear under the nose. Pressure now moves to my shoulders as I realize I am upside down and look above me t see the earth! Slowly and gracefully terra firma rolls from behind my head, down my forehead and back underneath me as the horizon again takes its rightful place in front. God that was a loop 5000 feet in suspension. So began my first experience with aerobatics in an open cockpit. We moved on to stalls, spins, hammer heads, rolls until the grass fields below began to dim in the dusk and it was time to settle down with the waning light. Returning to the airfield we flared down to a three point landing to the smell of grass and pasture. After the engine shut down and the only sound was the ticks of mettalic cooling. I could only sit wordlessly until MacNeil came running up wanting to know, wanting to hear all about it. Later that night we sat outside an empty hanger with a half dozen other elderly pilots talking hanger stories drinking beer and eating clams and oil from tin cans. The next week I went down to Willard's Flying Service to sign up.
Flying has never been the same. Commercial flying is not even close. Perhaps it was for a little while during the age of the Flying China Clippers but now its your basic bus ride with screaming babies, fighting for that elbow rest between the seats and re breathing that recirculated air full of hacks, coughs and sneezes and ankle swollen feet. One prays for the flight to be over sooner than later. There is no jaw aching smile about being in this air. Don't we all pray that this pilot was not so bored that he is alert enough to land? So finally we have landed in San Jose Costa Rica and we trudge from one line to another; baggage, customs, security, immigration, taxi hawkers and car rentals. Our car rental guy meets us at the airport and takes us into the dark garage to show us the car. It is 10 years old, scratched, dented, bondo falling off and a re paint job that tried to cover crusts and rust. Five minutes down the road to our airport hotel, LaAdventura Inn, we discover the right side windows, front and rear do not work. Try that in the tropical heat. We e-mail Diego and demand another rental that works. Surprisingly he brings us another one in the morning. Somewhat soothed we next drive off to the town of Puntarenas and the ferry across the Nicoya Peninsula to the West Pacific coast and our eventual destination, a private home near Samara we have rented for the month of February.
The unpaved beach roads are as bad as we remember but at least it is the dry season so the three streams we ford are low and slow.
Before reaching Samarra we need to spend two nights in a little fishing town called Montezuma.
Costa Rica to Roatan
February 2012
Beginning, always the hardest thing to do, especially when preceded by a healthy portion of procrastination.
Yet, here we are again. On the road to Central America and wondering why. All the usual reasons; flight from the rains and snows of the Pacific North West winter.
With this our third time to Central America all pre departure preparations were on time or ahead of schedule. Shots and meds taken care of. The usual packing and editing and lists of just in case while we are gone; things like generators ready for our tenants in case of power outages for the remainder of the winter months, Mail, banking, bills, phones and electronic gear etc., etc. It seems like the beginning does't start until the final landing at your next pause.
The trials of airplane travel and airports I have spoken of often enough that suffice it to say, here my opinion has not changed in that other than the five minutes of take off and landing, it's still a bore. I think back to Paine Field in Everette WA. where at the age of twenty I took my flying lessons from Willard's Flying Service. Darryl Williard was a slight bespectacled and shambling man with a tuft of thinning blond bangs always hanging over one top edge of his glasses. Behind those glasses his eyes held you directly but not invasively. I have had several flight instructors since but something more than his talent made him my favorite. His demeanor in the seat behind me was calming from the start. And his taps on the shoulder to point out another plane or bird in some distant quadrant made me sit more attentive to know the skys were not an infinite and empty ocean and to look everywhere even though, more than not, other denizens will turn out to be no larger than a reflective speck. But its the knowing that sharpens the edge.
How glorious were those first solos. The Kent Valley was farmland back then and the Green River below lazily wound like a silver thread undisturbed by present day industrial warehouses of mega block upon mega block. Memories untrampeled by civilization stubbornly fade away in all of us except when we take the time to sit still.
I had talked my girlfriend into taking lessons with me and we both soloed only 50 feet apart side by side smiles a mile wide and eye to eye in a pair of Willard's Aeronca Chieftans, those tail dragging high wingers one had to taxi along snaking side to side in order to be able to see forward first to the left then to right, back and forth like a slow drunken weave.
And those grassy airfields of Arlington planted seeds deep.
I had a friend in college one David MacNeil, tall, gangly, an irrepressible Scotchman who could call up a Scottish brogue that could rattle your ears. Such was his enthusiasm and zest for life that he could practically talk me into anything. Even taking out a student loan to buy an old 1958 British Morgan open sports car. It had a long tubular bonnet with a double row of louvers down its entire length ending in a low and graceful rounded grill. And the whole front end sandwiched between a pair of swooping fenders proud at the front with headlights sculpted forward and fairing downward to the rear and along the sides and below the doors to join up with similar rear fenders. A swooping and continuous curve.
After an accident I decided to rebuild it from the ground up. As a destitute student I had no choice. In my tiny garage on 40th Street there in Seattle I scraped the dollars together doing part time work as a janitor or a cook in the dorms at the UW campus. The day came to reinstall the engine. It actually stormed and thundered as I slid the hoist suspended motor into the bay. Shades of Frankenstein! It lives !! Eventually, with the help of my Dad, which I treasure, on the upholstery, we finished. The paint scheme was suggested by another good lady friend, deep chocolate body and glossy black wings (fenders.) It corkscrewed my head every time I saw it. It flew over the roads of Washington.
"Tony! Lets go up to Arlington and go flying!?" I bent over my drafting board for Cedar Homes in Bellevue working late one afternoon with MacNeil. "MacNeil, what are you talking about? I can't fly and neither can you." Ah but Dave among his inexhaustible store of friends had one who did. A young pilot who flew for Rheem airlines in Alaska who had his own low wing open cockpit hangered at Arlington. Northward we roared in Dave's Morgan a white one with red leather interior which when I saw for the first time dramatically unveiled from beneath a cover, sealed my deal and said student loan. Arlington had a grass airstrip in the 60s. You could smell it just after cutting. There in the waning light was the Ryan trainer just taxiing in from a flight as Dave ran up to his friend yelling above the engine to "Take Tony up, Take him up and give it to him". Give it to him? "Sure climb on up and put this leather helmet and goggles and scarf on." Scarf and goggles...really? Buckled into the front open cockpit with the silver mono wing beneath me and only endless sky above I stayed in front of the "Is this really happening" question. The next thing I noticed was the huge radial engine with it's massive black cylinder "jugs" not more than 5 feet away from my nose! As we taxied to the end of the aromatic grass and reved up, I felt an unstoppable smile begin to crease my face. "Is this really happening?" Slowly forward movement was jerked by each blast of a cylinder. The explosions came faster and faster and with bang my body was pulled forward against the safety harness. I was literally being jerked into the sky! The balloon tires rumbled over the tufts of grass sending up newly crushed smells of sun warmed clover and the freedom of climbing air. I settled in to the ackety pop of the big radial in its circular firing and tried to relieve my facial muscles of its stretched and frozen smile. Over the ear phones I hear, "Are you ready Tony?" I nod. And we dive and the force presses me back as the earth covers all my fields of vision. Then more pressure as the horizon rolls back down from above only to disappear under the nose. Pressure now moves to my shoulders as I realize I am upside down and look above me t see the earth! Slowly and gracefully terra firma rolls from behind my head, down my forehead and back underneath me as the horizon again takes its rightful place in front. God that was a loop 5000 feet in suspension. So began my first experience with aerobatics in an open cockpit. We moved on to stalls, spins, hammer heads, rolls until the grass fields below began to dim in the dusk and it was time to settle down with the waning light. Returning to the airfield we flared down to a three point landing to the smell of grass and pasture. After the engine shut down and the only sound was the ticks of mettalic cooling. I could only sit wordlessly until MacNeil came running up wanting to know, wanting to hear all about it. Later that night we sat outside an empty hanger with a half dozen other elderly pilots talking hanger stories drinking beer and eating clams and oil from tin cans. The next week I went down to Willard's Flying Service to sign up.
Flying has never been the same. Commercial flying is not even close. Perhaps it was for a little while during the age of the Flying China Clippers but now its your basic bus ride with screaming babies, fighting for that elbow rest between the seats and re breathing that recirculated air full of hacks, coughs and sneezes and ankle swollen feet. One prays for the flight to be over sooner than later. There is no jaw aching smile about being in this air. Don't we all pray that this pilot was not so bored that he is alert enough to land? So finally we have landed in San Jose Costa Rica and we trudge from one line to another; baggage, customs, security, immigration, taxi hawkers and car rentals. Our car rental guy meets us at the airport and takes us into the dark garage to show us the car. It is 10 years old, scratched, dented, bondo falling off and a re paint job that tried to cover crusts and rust. Five minutes down the road to our airport hotel, LaAdventura Inn, we discover the right side windows, front and rear do not work. Try that in the tropical heat. We e-mail Diego and demand another rental that works. Surprisingly he brings us another one in the morning. Somewhat soothed we next drive off to the town of Puntarenas and the ferry across the Nicoya Peninsula to the West Pacific coast and our eventual destination, a private home near Samara we have rented for the month of February.
The unpaved beach roads are as bad as we remember but at least it is the dry season so the three streams we ford are low and slow.
Before reaching Samarra we need to spend two nights in a little fishing town called Montezuma.
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