There was an outpost feeling to Puerto Viejo, the air full of exotic aromas and taboo possibilities. The seaside town moves to its own rhythm, far from the rest of the world. People are friendly. Though we didn't run into many Americans, there was a Stateside slant to the place. Some merchants take dollars as well as colones. That's fortunate, because there are no ATMs in Puerto Viejo -- yet. Rumor has it that a bank will soon open here.
For now, townsfolk direct you to an industrious, dark-haired man who has a little hole-in-the-wall currency exchange spot at the front desk of Los Almendros apartments near the police station.
For a different side of Costa Rica, La Costa de Papito offers bungalows near the laid-back village of Puerto Viejo, where there is no bank but lots of beach time.
(La Costa De Papito)
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There are no drugstores either. Or supermarkets as we know them. If you want Q-Tips, for instance, you have to ask around to find the man who sells them. He runs a small shop near the bakery. You can also buy some Costa Rican bug spray there. But no corkscrews or machetes. For those you have to search out the beach store down the dirt road. Every small errand becomes an adventure.
A sign hanging in front of the Lotus Restaurant advertised a bookstore called David's Library. The "bookstore" was a loft above the restaurant that was obviously somebody's room. The bed was unmade. There was a guitar propped against a wall and old pipes lay crossways in an ashtray. There were a few shelves of used books for sale, most in English, but others in Spanish, Dutch, German and French.
Downstairs, we ordered lunch. Jan and I feasted on a cooling meal of shrimp salad with bananas, mayonnaise and papaya. Holt had red snapper in a sweet and sour sauce with rice. The cafe also featured the requisite broken-down bicycle, man in a hammock and dog.
Though there was little to do in Puerto Viejo besides walk among the vending booths that sold anklets and earrings, and dine, we ventured in nearly every night. Like the country, it seemed both safe and edgy. Double-edgy.
Deserted Beaches
Just a short walk across the road from our bungalow was a beautiful, uncrowded beach. Most days, the only interlopers besides our family were some talented surfers. The sand was hard and packed, the waves soft and rolling.
We found several deserted beaches between Puerto Viejo and the town at the end of the road, Manzanillo. On one we spoke with Rex, an architect from St. Louis. "Welcome to Paradise," he said.
Billy, Jacqueline and their tween daughter, Laura, were staying in a treehouse a few hundred yards from Playa Cocles, a postcard-perfect cove with a scimitar-shaped beach. Every evening a three-toed sloth climbed a tree just outside one of their windows and hung upside down all night. There were reports of other exotic creatures, such as white-faced monkeys and constrictors as big around as two-liter soda bottles, in their yard -- which a local gardener manicured with a machete.
In Costa Rica, there seem to be two national pastimes: repairing vehicles (bicycles, motorcycles, cars, trucks, buses, etc.) and battling the jungle. Old-timers still ride horses and carry machetes. The new generation pedal bikes and wield gas-powered weed whackers.
We were told that the best snorkeling in the area is at Punta Uva. On one of the days we hung out at the beach, we put our towels down in the sand. Nearby, an enterprising woman grabbed several long pieces of driftwood and, in the Costa Rican manner, constructed an out-of-the-sun lean-to . . . for her three dogs.
And now a word about dogs: Puerto Viejo is lousy with them. They wander in and out of cafes. They stroll down the middle of the road, unmoved by the long line of creeping cars behind them. A couple of dogs usually found us each early morning enjoying breakfast -- spicy eggs, granola, fresh fruit and smooth Costa Rican coffee -- on our porch or in the reception area. Like the pups, Holt especially liked lounging on the breezy porch. We would often discover him splayed out in the hammock, eating a banana or reading a book.
We rented horses from a no-frills stable not far from our bungalow. Our rock-steady guide, Melby, led us along the road, which we shared with cars and children and potholes, to a wooded path. Once through the trees, we arrived at a gorgeous beach, with crashing surf and a volcanic outcropping in the distance. My horse, Palomo, was a wise old steed, too smart to chase after the younger horses and riders in our group who galloped down the beach like outlaws. Holt's horse was so brash he sank in quicksand to his chest and Holt had to hop off.
