Crazy Good Fortune Out of the Blue - 5*
The fact was, Central America represented an extremely unknown quantity to me. Before this, I had traveled only around the U. S. and Europe, and the news reports I had read in the States about this part of the world made it all sound dangerous and primitive. It seemed well within the realm of possibility that we would be traversing dense jungle populated by a few thatched-roofed huts where the natives had rarely glimpsed a Norte Americano. Or guerrillas might be roaming around, packing submachine guns, hoping to get in a little target practice on Californians and Texans. And what if the car broke down? I felt sure they didn’t have AAA here.
It didn’t help when we emerged from the Kelton’s driveway in our jeep and we ran over the telephone lines, which were lying in the road.
“Trouble with the phones, I see,” remarked Paul.
We drove through quite a bit of densely populated country until we got out of the central valley. Although San José is the capital, several other cities just as large occupy the valley, forming a megalopolis. Soon, we were driving on one of Costa Rica’s two highways, the one that ran east–west, a two-lane blacktop that reminded me of back country roads in the Ozarks. It was crowded with traffic, including the ubiquitous buses that bogged down going over every hill, holding up dozens of cars. To my utter dismay, impatient motorists passed the buses on blind hills—and Paul went with them!
I nearly fainted the first time. When we made it the second time, I was able to open my eyes halfway through the maneuver. The third time, I managed, with my eyes open, to keep from squirming visibly and I realized that a pattern was emerging, that of “the determined line.” When oncoming traffic was faced with an entire line of cars in their lane, they simply got out of the way. They drove on the shoulder or on the dirt, flattened roadside stands if they had to, sent pedestrians scurrying for cover. Collective mass and numbers were in our favor; if a single car had attempted such a foolhardy feat, it would merely get run off the road or smashed into a mangled heap. But when twenty cars did this, they ruled.
Of course, this meant that we were also faced with determined lines coming the other way. The good news was that the cars in Costa Rica, almost every one of them running on diesel, didn’t have a lot of power and couldn’t drive all that fast. The bad news was, the Ticos actually seemed to enjoy these brushes with death. I could see them cackling maniacally as they zoomed past, altogether unfazed by the flashy little shrines that flecked the side of the road like mile markers, gleaming white crosses draped with plastic flowers that denoted spots where unlucky victims had perished in automobile accidents.
Once we departed the central valley, the traffic thinned out dramatically, and I started to breathe a little easier. That didn’t last long, however, because only minutes after the road became less traveled, someone stepped out into the highway, and all my paranoid fantasies about guerrillas came leaping to the fore. I couldn’t see the person all that clearly yet, but I did see that he was brandishing something. My pulse pounding, I kept my eyes glued to the guy as we drove closer and closer, trying to make out what sort of item he held. He wanted us to see it, that was for sure. We drew closer … and closer … my palms broke out into a heavy sweat. Panic-stricken, I glanced at Paul, who was frowning and slowing down as we approached. I couldn’t quite make out what the guy was clutching but every single speck of saliva had disappeared from my mouth, presumably to rush unhelpfully to my sweaty little palms. What did he want? What was he holding?! Finally we were close enough that I could see it was … … fruit. Mangoes, to be exact. The boy grinned at us and waved as we puttered past, and we waved back.
“Anybody want any mangoes?” asked Paul.
We shook our heads. Lijia, of course, had stuffed us at breakfast and I was still so full I felt slightly nauseated.
We passed several more roadside vendors on our way, some of them actually located in makeshift stalls, others simply hanging out by the side of the road, holding up their wares for the perusal of passing motorists. It was, as the Ticos loved to say about everything Costa Rican, “muy typico.” That meant “very typical.” Of Costa Rica, that is—in other words, very Costa Rican. They feel so deeply and exuberantly proud to be Ticos that no one from this country could possibly have an inferiority complex.
After a while, we descended from the mountains that formed the backbone of the country, turned off the highway, and started following dirt and gravel roads through palm plantations. At one point, we stopped at a pulpería, the local equivalent of a Seven-Eleven, little tin-roofed shacks on the sides of the roads that sold soft drinks, candy, cigarettes, and more tropical fruit. We drank Cokes and Fanta Grape standing at the counter since glass was so precious in Costa Rica at this time that no vendor would let you leave his or her stand alive if you were making off with one of their bottles.
The palm trees in the plantations were planted in rows, rows so regular I worried a little that gazing at them as we motored past might trigger some sort of seizure. They possessed both a crystalline, anal-retentive beauty and Dada-esque sort of horror. And they went on and on and on. Oh, and the temperature had risen about twenty degrees, along with the humidity, if it’s possible to have humidity greater than a hundred percent. The jeep didn’t have air-conditioning, so the dust kicked up by the tires floated into the interior, coated the insides of our mouths and eyelids, and thickly powdered our perspiring skin. By the time we reached the resort, poised dramatically 500 feet above the dazzling sapphire waters of the Pacific, I was so hot and thirsty and sweaty and filthy that I wished I could be taken to my room on a gurney, where emergency shower and beer therapy could commence immediately.
Paul checked us in and a young Costa Rican man showed us to our rooms, which turned out to be individual split-level villas with stunning views, bathrooms the size of New York apartments containing a profusion of huge tropical plants that grew out of a plot of earth on one side of the shower, and dramatic decks where hammocks hung seductively. As we stood on the deck, admiring the view, a flock of chartreuse parakeets zoomed by, cheeping and chirping. Our new circumstances were such a dramatic change from our former ones that it really was hard to believe that this was happening.
For example, one of the odd jobs I’d taken during our period of unemployment involved building a barn in a slippery, depressing mud hole during one of the coldest, snowiest winters in Redding history. And this was not just any mud, mind you. This was evil, sentient mud whose prime directive was to infiltrate every crevice of every tool and cover every surface of my body, no matter how inaccessible. And when your hands are cold, it’s almost like having leprosy—you have practically no feeling in your hands, so it’s ten times easier to smash your thumb with a hammer, snag a finger with a staple gun, or jab yourself with a screwdriver. How did we get from a freezing, depressing, staple-stabbing mud hole to here, a five star resort where the towels were as thick as down comforters and our room was bigger than our entire house back home?
Paul told us to meet him at the bar after we got settled, and we were eager to comply. So we rinsed off, donned our swimming suits, slipped on our flip-flops, and headed to the part of the resort where a charming thatched-roof hut served as the bar. We proceeded to indulge in one of the most decadent, enjoyable experiences that I have ever known. Picture this: Between us and the bar lay a jewel of a swimming pool, its aqua waters sparkling in the tropical sunlight. We were hot, and parched, and our bones ached from bouncing around in the jeep as we drove over miles and miles of rutted washboard. So we collapsed into the deep end of the pool, where heavenly soft, cool water tickled our skin. We swam languidly to the other end of the pool, slithering through the tactile equivalent of nectar. When we hauled our dripping bodies out, we were met by a smiling young man who handed us each one of those outrageously thick, luxuriant towels. Then we just about rolled—I’m serious, I felt as if someone had replaced my ankles with ball bearings—over to the bar where we ordered a beer which arrived one degree Fahrenheit above freezing. The glass was ice cold. The beer was ice cold. We gurgled it all down in one long, delectable swallow, and for a moment, I really thought that I might die from pleasure.
I didn’t, though, fortunately.
Soon Jane arrived, squealing endearingly about our arrival, with Paul in tow. She ensconced herself in a large, egg-shaped wicker chair that hung from the ceiling of the hut and ordered a scotch on the rocks, fanning herself with her paperback. Paul took a seat next to us at the counter and ordered a beer, while Jane explained that Horace was being his usual reclusive self. After a while, one of the owners showed up, a nice-looking man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and drip-dry shorts.
“I’d like you to meet our friends, Richard and Celeste,” Jane told him. “This is Garth.”
He gazed at us levelly, as if sizing us up. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, in a nasal whine that came off as humorous rather than annoying. “Richard, is it?” He extended a diffident hand. “And Cecily?”
Jane whacked him with her paperback. “Oh, for God’s sakes, fool, her name is Celeste!”
Garth giggled. “Celeste, Cecily, what’s the difference?”
I laughed with him. I’d heard so many variations of my name over the years—it was truly amazing what some people came up with—that I really didn’t get too exercised when people got it wrong. Besides, I’d always been partial to grown men who giggled.
Jane rolled her eyes in my defense, then took a slurp out of her drink while simultaneously lighting up a cigarette. “You kids might want to take a walk down to the beach in a little bit,” she suggested.
Richard and I looked inquiringly at Paul, who shrugged. “Sure,” he said.
“Is there a path?” Richard asked Garth.
“Oh yeah,” he replied, smiling pityingly. “It’s long, hot, and steep, but you look like you might be the sort to enjoy that kind of thing.”
Jane whacked him with her paperback one more time while Garth held up both hands to fend her off and protested with an “ow!” “He means y’all look like you’re in good shape,” she mumbled indignantly through a mouthful of ice.
“Right. That’s what I meant.” He paused, took a couple of drags from his cigarette, then stubbed it out. “If those pigs chase you, just kick ’em in the snout.”
“Pigs?” I said.
“Yes, the people who own the land next to us have a bunch of pigs and they’re simply awful! The other day they came onto the hotel grounds and starting chasing guests. I told Jorje to shoot them the next time they did that. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Jane exclaimed delightedly. “They chased guests?”
Garth turned to her and nodded, equally delighted. “Well my dear, those beasts went into an absolute frenzy!”
Soon David, the other owner of the resort, came ambling into the bar, dressed in the same general style as Garth and in his mid-fifties as well. The two of them proceeded to entertain themselves by commenting on the guests who occupied the swimming pool area.
“My God, would you look at that woman’s hair?” sighed David.
“Awful!” agreed Garth. “And I just know she’s going to blame it on our swimming pool.”
“And for God’s sake, do you think any of them would get out of this broiling sun?”
“I can only think they’re trying to get skin cancer. They look like lobsters!” Garth cracked himself up with this observation and he gave a loud cackle.
“Y’all are just awful!” declared Jane. But we knew she thought they were a hoot. Actually, I thought they were a hoot. But I didn’t think I would venture back out into the pool area until they were out of observing range.
We hung around the bar until the sun sank lower in the sky and then we decided to head on down to the beach. Fortunately, no pigs came charging out of the underbrush to trample us or poke us senseless with their snouts, but we did see beautiful land crabs scuttling about everywhere, decorated in mouth-watering shades of indigo, fuchsia, yellow and orange. The beach turned out to be a lovely cream-colored sandy beach with perfect waves for body-surfing. I’d never tried body-surfing actually, only body-boarding, but the one time I went body-boarding in southern California, I’d found it such an addictive rush that I stayed in the water until my lips and fingernails turned blue and my brother had to coax me back onto the beach. So Paul and Richard and I plunged into the ocean, which turned out to be the perfect temperature. It wasn’t cold at all, but it wasn’t bathtubby, either. It was perfect.
It took me a little while to get the hang of body-surfing, and when I caught my first wave, I was disconcerted by the fact that, unlike body-boarding, which keeps you on the top of the wave, I rode near the crest of the wave and the sea came rushing and gurgling and foaming into my face. When the wave deposited me on the shore, I managed to scoop up about ten pounds of sand down the front of my suit. But it was fun, and we played in the ocean for about an hour or so before heading back up to the resort to get ready for dinner.
Dinner turned out to be a gourmet dining experience, and as Jane and Horace were favored patrons, Garth and David joined us for dinner. Horace didn’t drink at all, Jane favored scotch, and Paul and Richard and I were drinking beer, but Garth and David ordered a bottle of wine to split with their meal. When Garth took his first sip, he made a face, declaring the wine unfit to drink. David concurred and I expected them to send it back. To my surprise, however, they just kept drinking it.
“Thank God none of our customers got this bottle,” Garth observed.
“No kidding,” said David, as he reached over to top off both his and Garth’s glass.
When the entree arrived, Garth pronounced the carrots so salty that they were inedible, but they tasted fine to me. “I think the cook hates me,” he remarked gloomily, sinking down on the table as if in utter exhaustion. “He does this just to spite me.”
We all enjoyed our dinners, however, and then turned in early. Floor-to-ceiling louvered windows occupied much of the wall space, so we made sure that they were wide open to allow as much ocean air into the villa as possible. Even at night, the temperatures were sultry, so we also cranked up the overhead fan as well. Then we lay down on top of the sheets, trying not to feel disconcerted by the fact that the fan was doing more than simply spinning, it was jerking and flailing and looking all the world like it was going to come flying off its stalk, plunge immediately onto the bed and chop us into bloody little pieces. We reassured ourselves by affirming that nothing so gruesomely untoward would happen in paradise.
We awoke the next morning, looking forward to another day of body-surfing, drinking beer, reading novels, and napping. This was definitely a lifestyle I could get used to. At least temporarily. It was a complete mystery how we had ended up here from the freezing, depressing mud hole, but I knew one thing: I was very, very grateful.
Above: The view from La Mariposa of La Playa Manuel Antonio, where we went body-surfing.
*Intro:
At the end of 1982, both Richard and I had been out of work for a year, despite constant looking, and the best we had been able to come up with was scrounging for odd jobs. It was an economic climate much like the one we’re in now, and we were feeling both dejected and panicked about what the future might hold for us. We certainly could never have imagined what happened next.
This is chapter 5 of the memoir I wrote about the year-and-a-half that Richard and I spent living in Costa Rica. It was quite the adventure, living with a an eccentric and flamboyant heiress** from Dallas, her elegant and erudite husband who wrote Westerns, and their handsome, bad boy son, whom Richard used to babysit. Oh, yeah, and next door resided the safe house for Eden Pastora, aka “Commander Zero,” leader of the Contras who were waging a civil war with the Sandanistas in Nicaragua at that time.
This was a particularly golden era in Costa Rica’s history, before it became “discovered,” even before the introduction of television there, really (it started coming in during the time we lived there). It was wild and exotic and magical and amazing.
So twice a week, I’ll be excerpting a chapter from Crazy Good Fortune Out of the Blue until I’ve told the whole tale. I hope you enjoy these stories!
**Jane, sadly, passed away not long ago, but she left a legacy as colorful as she was. In 1984, she commissioned one of the largest environmental sculptures in the Western Hemisphere, a set of standing stones in Arlington, Texas that were designed and built by sculptor Norm Hines. Caelum Moor has been a source of enormous controversy over the years, which I’ll write about one of these days. In the meantime, feel free to Google “Caelum Moor” and see what turns up. It’s fascinating.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009