104 - Costa Rica. The risk is that you want to remain

104 - Costa Rica. The risk is that you want to remain

On January 10, 2010 at 18:42 (More histories of the Return to the World!!!, Rolling about South America, We Go towards Alaska!!!) (4x4, aloha, america, america head office, anna, sand, Argentinian, howling, bracons, head, callau, camping, crab ground, cartagena, catalunya, head office, centroamerica, charlotte, chora, cigaret, cigarets of dull grass, crocodile, colombia, coral, rich coast, information, where to sleep, the risk is that you want to remain, Spain, starlings, eve, exiles, Franc, peasant, hotel paradise, Indian, info, information, island, jose, laprise, laprisse, the waves and the wind, sea, shit, monkeys, mountains, nathalie, sink, nostradamus, pacific ocean, waves, pablo, appeased, palm trees, paradise, paramotor, male prostitute peels, pizza, Argentine, flat pizzeria, pure life, paradise, which to do, rasta man, réjean, réjean laprise, king, richard, routes in, Samaritans, sámara, sebastián, sucundun, surfing, surfear, surfers, tzunami, trip, traveling, viajeros4x4, town of leyva, turned to the world, zulema)

Beach of Sámara from the camping Aloha...

Again we have daubed it again. The roles mixed me, it fell down it waters down on the ink, to smoke dull grass makes you feel in the India. We lost the north and remained in the center. The risk is that you want to remain it was the slogan of Colombia.

(Do you remember Colombia? Of this terrible and stifling heat on the beach of the Caribbean Sea? In spite of Bracons and Cartagena and the fresh air of the mountains and Town of Leyva, in spite of the affectionate accent and the absorbent deserts of the Peasant, not, I had not remained. This reek to paramilitary of the Uribe government, this smell of business-minded right that distributes the country was doing that the cheek was hurting me. And that that we were not putting the mug)

But, again, we have daubed it again. It is not the first time that happens to us but this time the hole is deeper, neither we can go out. Because the head and the body do not agree while it returns at dawn and the will to set off remains buried in the sand of an almost empty beach. And the risk of sinking in firm ground, of sending all the plans again to the closet of the van turns into something too real to play randomly with ethereal and nice words.

- This is a male prostitute paradise. Do you realize?

Beach of Sámara, Guanacaste, Costa Rica. Nine grades fifty two seven ninety-seven minutes north, eighty five grades, thirty one eight thirty seven minutes west. North hemisphere. Central America.

At twenty-two after five in the morning the red sun (high place, I do not like Uribe but neither I like Chávez) he gets up behind the mounts that come up to the most pacific Pacific Ocean turned into peninsula. The coast bristled of palm trees, only allows to see the windows of two or three brown bundles that someone was wrong in constructing. Later there is the water, rocks that will resist other thousands of years the dashing of the waves, a beach that only is allowed to see when it lowers the long tide of the Pacific Ocean, and the island of Chora, a steep bump on the head that supports his intact virgin forest.

Then the line submerges and closes the bay disguised as reef, with dark rocks and some round corals like submerged moons pecked by the astronauts of the bottom of the sea. When it touches the shore again, to my right, the coast is called a Crab ground, although some time ago that the crabs eliminated in the pan. Of Crab ground up to my feet, up to the camping Aloha, there is five hundred meters of beach and palm trees and a tropilla of horses that gallops for the shore and a creek of fresh water that hides a small crocodile.

We already take three weeks here, in Sámara, Costa Rica, twenty-one calm, flying, intoxicating days, between howling monkeys that imitate the human beings and have a short rest to sleep hung of a palm tree.

And almost black blue starlings, which they sing and are hoarse like old man radioes.

And craftsmen, rasta man, surfers and Argentine and Spanish and Catalan and Colombian and Canadian and North American and French and German and Swiss exiles, who sold his soul of city and offices for a lot in the paradise.

Here there are done spontaneous courses of what is proposed: bracelets of thread, carved in wood of coconut, preparation of ñoquis householders, of caipirinhas of rum, of boomerang, of fishing with harpoon, of paragliding and of yoga. One teaches to open coconuts with machete. They spend emetic nights of Peruvian San Pedro to themselves. Movies are shared on the sand, with waves music. One learns to allow to spend the time. We break the Nostradamus predictions again.

- Plans? I already do not do plans. I leave that the things happen – José says, and inclines opposite to an altar with form of broiler, while Sebastián promises that his paramotor will make us fly more than a cigaret of dull grass.

After three weeks with the feet buried in the sand, the problem it is to detach again.

PD: Good memories for Richard, who sells properties in Sámara; for Sebas, José and Franco, part of the community pizzera Argentine and unbeatable in indoor soccer; for Olga and Carlos, Catalan and Colombian, affectionate craftsmen; for Tsunami Zulema, retired Argentine traveler who covers the Americas in his 4×4 with his dog I Peeled; and especially for the quebecoise family, Nathalie, Réjean, Eve and Charlotte. Without all of them, Sámara had been only another nice place.