Santa Teresa is a hard place to leave. One succumbs to quixotic visions of endless surf, early retirement at Zeneidas campground, and the ultimate french fry. The allure is Blue Crush meets Mad Max goes to Disneyland mostly naked. Everyone zooms around in beachwear on bicycles, quads, and motorbikes looking like 1930s bank robbers behind big shades and handkerchief masks. More than a hint of mischief lurks on the breeze.

The road to Montezuma was about 15 kilometers of rugged jungle trekking. The first stretch, all the way to Cabuya, consisted of several small stream crossings and a demanding climb over the coastal range. A thick, warm sheet of moisture hung visibly in the air. The final torturous uphill trek eventually gave way to a mountain-top vista of the wide gulf between the Nicoya Peninsula and the mainland.

Montezuma is even more like Arcata than Santa Teresa in its penchant for street-side pipe vendors, organic eateries, spontaneous drum circles, and fire dancing. It is a popular eco-tourism destination. Visitors from all over the world come for diving, jungle hiking, zip-lining, fishing, and beyond. Others come for the reggae and ganja, which looms thick and sweet over a brief main street.

I set up the hammock at a campground, talked with the animated host for an hour or so, and wandered around town. In the evening I had a few cervesas at Chico's and talked with a Tico from Jaco. He told me at length in Spanish about how great the place was. When he left, a dude sitting near by turned to me and said, "that guy is feeding you so much shit." So we talked The Economy, San Diego politics, and catching the waves of life and he turned out to be a good friend of a family friend who has a place in Montezuma. He spoke gravely of the crackheads and condo bullshittery which is blossoming in Jaco. The conversation was critical yet congenial, and we enjoyed sharing many similar views on the general condition of things. After an hour or so my friend left and I jammed on hand-drums with some chill kids on the street corner. Everybody was happy and there was a potent feeling of festivity in the air. Like in Santa Teresa, one feels in Montezuma undertones of celebration, in the pagan sense of the word, at all hours.

What more do you want?

Reluctantly I purchased a ticket for the shuttle boat to Jaco. At first they flat-out refused to take the bicycle. Scratches up the boat, they said. But after some argument and diplomatic half-truths, they agreed to take the bike provided I put it in a cardboard box and paid an extra ten dollars. By the time I finished boxing the bike, it looked like the a seven-year-old's improvised space scooter. The wheels were removed, the frame partially contained in an old fruit box, and the front fork inside a discarded soda carton. My hog was fully equipped for make-believe interstellar travel. Instead, I got on the boat and enjoyed an hour long high speed ride across rolling swells and bluebird skies.

About halfway over, the Tico from Jaco who had been feeding me so much shit the night before suddenly handed me his watch. In Spanish, he told me to keep it. I was confused and hesitant about accepting the awkward gift. Gringo paranoia kicked in. What does he want from me? Is it radioactive, a bomb? Then I remembered him telling me that he is a vendor of watches, among other things, and realized it was simply a kind gesture to a stranger - one of many along the way. I thanked him and we knocked knuckles in traditional Tico fashion as the condos of Jaco towered half-veiled in rain clouds on the horizon.

Jaco is always spoken of in cautionary terms. It stands as a monument and a warning as to what may happen to your humble fishing village, should you choose to sell your soul to the cancerous devil of foreign land developers. By the way people speak of it, you'd think the place was a festering hive of peg-legged drug fiends, cut-throat gangsters, and salivating hookers - and you´d be correct. Jaco is the bastard lovechild of Garnet Avenue, Miami beach, and Reno. An unholy union, to be certain.

I rolled into town just after sunset as main street lit up, revealing poor choices, done deals, with countless devils past. Illuminated signs of Pizza Hut, KFC, and Quiznos, veritable seals of civilization, pocked the trendy downtown strip. I found a hostel and now sit here typing, thinking about turning around and whooping it up in Santa Teresa or Montezuma for bit longer. Of course I can't, not yet. My inertia is too great. The fates, too anxious.

But maybe someday I will return to Santa Teresa and work for Pineapple Head at the hotel/sushi bar/internet cafe he is building - ET's Magic Beach Place. Or maybe I'll proclaim myself the resident poet Laurette of Montezuma and never wear a shirt again. I will be heralded like Krishna returned and shall sip fine batidos de papaya con leche in a hammock, deep into the burning hand-drum night.

written by  chaddeal on January 8, 2009 from Jaco, Costa Rica
from the travel blog: The Great Pan-American Synchronistic Cycle Extravaganza Unlimited
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Did you meet the current poetlaureate of Montezuma...his name is Oscar...he's a coked out alcoholic...and he is a great time!! You have a lot to live up to Chad! :)

written by  Layne Simcox on January 19, 2009

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