How many months does it take to turn a tourist into a tica?
That’s not really a fair question, and of course I know I’ll never be Costa Rican. However, I’ve been here in San Ramón, with a job and a (host) family and a purpose, for two months now; and I’m feeling pretty settled in.
The sunset from my window that first night
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Episode Forty, huh? Well, well, well. Celebrations would be in order, only I don’t really have anything to celebrate with.
How about you all celebrate by leaving me a warm and friendly message to tell me you stopped by? That would really make my day.
Remember when I said that I was writing from the clouds of Monteverde and you should stay tuned for news on our adventures there? Well, that’s what I have in store for you today. Just when the heat of La Fortuna was getting to be oppressive and a little too much to bear, we high-tailed it out of there and hopped on a minibus to the cloud forest. Ahhhhhhh, refreshingísimo. Continue reading
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Hola amigos y amigas.
As promised, Episode Thirty Nine will be packed full of goodies, anecdotes, Did-You-Knows and photographs. Are you ready? Then let’s go. We’ll start with a little orientation in La Fortuna.
Grant insisted on wearing black t-shirts and then complaining about the heat.
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I was planning to begin this post with an apology. My pristine blogging system has gone quite down the drain in these last few weeks, and I was going to say that I’m so sorry for just copying out the running commentary that I kept in my lovely Liberty notebook as I was travelling. Continue reading
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The time we spent in Tortuguero felt like no time at all – probably because it wasn’t really any time at all. The community around us seemed to live in a different dimension in that respect: one the one hand, I felt like they were in slow motion compared with us, but on the other, one of their days seemed like nothing in the grand scheme of things. They seemed to plod languorously by the flip-flopped, hammocked permanent residents like the turtles we saw sliding to the sea: I guess ‘permanent’ is the word. There was a reassuring constance about the place – a sense that the community would shift and change only superficially, its roots and trunk remaining firmly grounded and secure. Continue reading
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In Tortuguero it seems that everyone makes a living from tourism. Those locals with sharp enough eyes and ears, and a keen enough interest for wildlife, must have started their tour-guide training as soon as they can pronounce ‘resplendent quetzal’. Our boat guide, Riccardo, was able to spot wildlife on the move that I still couldn’t make out after 15 minutes of pointing: it seemed impossible. I’m still not sure I was looking at the right grey mass at the top of that tree 100 metres away; but the guide and a girl with the foresight to bring binoculars both insisted that there was a sloth up there. Continue reading
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When I first arrived in the Caribbean, I cried.
Mum seemed a little offended by this, and I was quick to explain that they were not sad tears – although exactly what kind of tears they were I couldn’t say.
I think part of it was stress and exhaustion from a long day’s travelling. Our bus from San José to Cariari was three hours long, and once there, a man with a strong Caribbean accent and no official uniform stuffed me and our luggage in a taxi with a French couple and whisked Mum off on foot to the bus station on the other side of town, from where our next coach left. Turns out he was legit, but at the time I was less than at-ease. From this other bus station, it was another 90 minutes of bumpy, non-air-conditioned journeying to La Pavona where we waited an hour for a boat to come along and take us on the two-hour ride to final destination Tortuguero. Continue reading
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If you’ll allow me to backtrack a little, I’ll share with you one of very few photographs I’ve taken from aeroplanes. I took this six months ago (okay, backtrack a lot), when my Christmas return flight ascended over New York City at night.
Do you see why I don't take a lot of aeroplane pictures?
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Hello to everyone!
So I’m home now.
Well, I say “home”. I’m not anywhere I’ve ever called “home” before. I’m not at my mum’s flat-roofed house in the Borders; I’m not in Robertson’s Close, the place I’d come to call home last year; nor am I even at Grant’s place in Zanesville, which I did catch myself calling “home” a couple of times, even though I guess I didn’t really have any right to. No – I’m at my new flat in Edinburgh, which I’ll be renting out for the coming year with my friend and flatmate from last year, Jenny. But I’m still in this weird interim period before Jenny arrives, living with another friend until the end of the summer, and I’m kind of caught in some weird limbo. Half of my stuff is still not unpacked; I’ve yet to christen the washing machine (although that will need to be done VERY soon); my walls remain empty and I’m in the process of finding a job and settling in to the area. In short – I say I’m “home” but it doesn’t really feel like “home” yet. Continue reading
Roamward Bound 