Lost in the Valley of the Dinosaurs

I woke around 8am and splashed around in the waves for a while. The beach was empty and I felt like Gilligan. I sliced open a pipa and filled my water bottle. The road was much flatter heading south through San Francisco de Coyote. Open cow country flew by on either side as I whistled and spoke non-sense Spanish to myself, canoodling along in the morning sun. The road veered inland and the temperature rose considerably away from the ocean wind.

I stopped for refreshment in San Francisco de Coyote. A Dutch woman was liberating a wayward scorpion with a can of Raid as I took a seat in the open-air cafe. I had some blended fruit and one of those sandwhiches generally associated with bistros and fusion restaurants - small, expensive, bland. The Dutchess told me about the road to Santa Teresa. She cited every landmark, river, and good restaurant along the way, intermittenly reminding me - "always you are following this road." I liked her and tipped for the first time in Costa Rica - not a custom here.

I set off, then, pleased with the simplicity of it all. At the first crossroad , several kilometers out of town, I intuitively flowed left and silently congratulated myself on my keen sense of direction. The countryside opened up into wide grassland valley dotted with palmtrees. Not a single soul crossed my path. This was Michael Crichton's turf. I could picture the Bronchiosauri gently filandering about the scenery, occasionally rising on hind-quartes to snatch a coconut from an ancient palm. I smiled and yelled strange things in faux-Espanol and hummed the theme song to Jurrasic Park.

An hour or so passed before I came to the river, the one the Dutchess spoke about, no doubt. I hacked open a riverside pipa and filled up my empty water bottle. The milk came thick and white and stinking of fermentation - an ominous sign, to be sure. I dumped it out and carried on. I was at the edge of a small villiage and decided to to speak with an old caballero selling pineapples by the road to confirm my position on the map. The wizened cowboy promptly pointed to an inconsequential dot, somewhere up in the mountains. I laughed inwardly and corrected the poor man - "no, we are here...which road goes to Santa Teresa?" He pointed in the direction from which I had just come. A young Tico came over to help and told me the same. The man at the pulperia confirmed it once more.

I had gone in exactly the wrong direction.

I zoomed back to San Francisco de Coyote, not sure if I should be irked or totally indifferent. Neither seemed healthy, in the long run. When I finally returned to the fateful intersection, I sat and contemplated life in the shade for some time. The sun was harsh and stifling, and I was exhausted from a poor nights sleep. Lesson learned, I'd decided. I'd never be going back down that road again. I got up to move on and noticed that my bike lock, crucial in this haven of petty thievery, had jostled itself loose from its clamp and was no longer connected to the bike. So, indeed, back I went - several kilometers until I found the damn thing lying leisurely among some rocks. I glared at it accusingly for a moment before snatching it up. By and by, I rolled onto the ultra-low-key beach at Playa Coyote, having made very little southwards progress since morning.

I was spent. I ate shrimp and rice and contemplated my intentions. I found them to be simple and pure, subject to the flippant impulses of the universe as was everything. Shortly after sunset I strung up my hammock on the beach and slept for a very long time.

written by  chaddeal on January 4, 2009 from Puerto Coyote, Costa Rica
from the travel blog: The Great Pan-American Synchronistic Cycle Extravaganza Unlimited
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