Of Dust, Flats, and Hemroids

As far as portals to national parks go, Manuel Antonio is an exceptionally authentic and tranquil place. The tourism aspect is executed tactfully enough that one does not sense the pimped-out ¨NatureLand - brought to you by Pepsi¨ vibe common to Yosemite or the Grand Canyon. While refreshing, this can also be problematic. Without an outright agenda to rebel against, one is capable of spending remarkable sums of money whilst occupied with the other-worldly sunset or the way the waves compliment an Argentinian womans twirling silouette. A dangerous locale for the impassioned budget traveller, no doubt.

I fled this morning, stopping in at the bank on the way out of town. The bank predictably turned into a half-day affair and it was two in the afternoon when I finally hit the road.

Travelling the coastal stretch of hiway 34 between Quepos and Dominical makes one intimately familiar with the Tico creedo of ¨if it sort of, barely, not really works - don´t fix it.¨ The road is unbelieveably rocky yet traveled regularly enough to leave a dense cloud of dust constantly hanging in the air. At regular intervals I was forced to dismount my steed and perform an akward roadside dance in order to cope with the simoultaneously painful and exhillirating sensation of the perenium reacquainting itself with the circulatory system.

At one point in the absolute middle of nowhere, as if part of some mad ongoing experiment in redundancy, a roadside sign read simply: ¨CARRETERA EN MALO ESTATO.¨ I laughed outloud and got a flat tire. After patching the small tear in the innertube I carried on. The scenery was once again ubiquitous palm, and I observed a revealing feature of the rural Costa Rican township. In the US, a town is not a town until it has a post office. In Costa Rica, a futbol pitch is the deciding factor - and any congregation of dwellings worth a shit has got one. Often times the field spans over more land than the rest of the villiage combined.

In the midst of this profound socio-anthropological revelation, my rear tire once again went flat. I examined the innertube for holes and eventually found a slow leak from the valve. I replaced the valve with a piece from the spare and continued bobbling down the road. A flock of white birds alit from a field and traversed the scenery like animated dinner napkins from a forgotten Dali dreamscape. For a brief moment I felt intuitively the eternal perfection and goodness of everything. I smiled and decided to stay there, in that serenity, forever.

My tire went flat. I shouted an uninspired string of explicatives to the open country-side. A few cows turned a wary eye. I felt suddenly graceless, foolish. This was going on my permanent record, I knew. So I analyzed my intentions, found them pure, and replaced the innertube altogether.

I rambled into Dominical with the last light of the evening. The quiet mainstreet felt sleepy, reserved, and brimming with possibilities. I stepped into a Mexican restaurant and, ye gods, it´s Taco Tuesday!

To top it off, the tacos are in fact tacos.

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written by  chaddeal on January 13, 2009 from Dominical, Costa Rica
from the travel blog: The Great Pan-American Synchronistic Cycle Extravaganza Unlimited
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