Holiday Rush - Blogabond

The blight of tourism arrived yesterday. A week ago Samara was quiet, tranquilo - static pulse of seashore, the occasional motorbike, unseen birds singing Guanacaste sabanero war cries from palm trees, a tinny radio playing Marley from the bar. Now the town is roaring, barely enough room to bicycle on the beach. Americans stomping around looking pale and insatiable, making crude, condescending demands to the breezy locals who seem to just sort of hang on and bare the rush like a bad joke while it lasts. Gringo business-types from places like Palo Alto and Phoenix talking too loud, oozing anxiety and a misplaced sense of entitlement: but of course this is my picture postcard week on the beach whole town propped up on toothpicks just days ago in anticipation of my mighty influx of Dolores (meaning either dollars or pain when you shift the accent) and what the fuck kinda of hamburger is this anyways want my money back.

Savages.

Up the coast a few kilometers, near Cristina´s house, is Playa Buena Vista, aka "Mel Gibson Beach." It is quieter here, out of the way. All the charm of Samara is obscured by tourism. Tourism insists on homogenized mediocrity, cheap comforts, familiar logos, and above all, absolute predictability.
The tourist sees the surface, complains that the tacos look more like wontons and the burritos are in fact tostadas. The American tourist reflects US foreign policy on the microcosmic level; it finds value in the natives only when they make themselves of service, produce something which it can exploit. The American tourist does not see culture or beauty, only a frantic hodge-podge of places to stick more money in the vain search for paradise. It is content to be just another tourist turd pushed through the established tract, apathetically bloating the town to its economic capacity before suddenly drifting away like so much bad gas.

In high season, a person can easily overlook the subtle nuances of the place. Like how the locals honk their horns at everything. Not the blatant amplified "Fuck You!" of the American SUV; the Tico beeper is a more articulate instrument. It says: "Hey mae, right behind you", "¿que pasa, Esteban?", "Sweet ride!", "¿Donde esta tu novio?", "Hey, I´m driving a truck, too!", or simply "Hey", because we´re two people driving down the road in paradise so why not?

Or how they Ticos never really took to the idea of refrigerating eggs or milk but they taste just as good all the same. The Tico way is relaxed to the point of being lazy, except for the fact that most of the people work well over 40 hours a week. But you wouldn't know it from the looks of them. The concept of "stress" is non-existent here. The most common response to anything is "tranquilo" (relax), "tuanis" (cool), or the national byline "pura vida" (pure life). Free time is spent playing futbol with friends, drinking Imperial at the beach bar, hollering "priopos" (witty and not-so-witty pick-up lines) at girls, and making empty accusations at passersby of being mariposas, pajaros, or about thrity other words meaning "gay."

All of this is lost upon the feverish tourist, who would never notice the smiling street dog who arises from a shaded spot to escort a stranger across town.

The right set of eyes, however, perceives the essence of the place intuitively. Something more, greater, very subtle, stirs behind the homemade tiki facades. A sense of stillness permeates the lackadaisical palm treed shoreline at sunset. One becomes absorbed in the realization that there is absolutely nothing to do except sit and watch, in awe, as the sun disappears down the neck of your beer and a lone coconut thumps the warm sand, somewhere down the Costa Rican beach.

written by

chaddeal on December 27, 2008 from Samara, Costa Rica

from the travel blog: The Great Pan-American Synchronistic Cycle Extravaganza Unlimited

Send a Compliment

well said mate!!!

written by andysteyn on July 23, 2009

comment on this...