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Part 6: Kowabunga

I arise in a much cheerier mood than expected given my Busch Light nightcap and head down to the beach. I'd say it's high time to rip some barrels. I sample the market and a surf lesson seems to be running \$40-60 depending on your vendor. I start walking down to the fella who quoted me \$40 when a guy who probably can spot a gringo in need of a surf lesson from a nautical mile away offers me his services.

"¿Cuánto?"

"Thirty five dollars mi amigo, pura vida," he replies confidently.

Well hot damn, you have yourself a deal. And with whom do I have the pleasure of doing business?

"Tarzan"

Hell yes. I'm going to learn how to shred the gnar from a guy named Tarzan. I wouldn't want it any other way. Between the coffee tour with Geronimo and a surf lesson with Tarzan Costa Rica has blessed me with some pretty kickass names.

Tarzan grabs a board and gives me a crash course on the beach and I can already tell this ain't gonna be easy. It seems limberness is an attribute that would benefit a surfer I have the flexibility of a middle aged woman at Starbucks when they run out of caramel for her macchiato. I try to nail the technique a half dozen times and each time Tarzan tells me I'm not doing the thing he just told me to do. I'm laughing my ass off because it's hilarious how bad I am as this and Tarzan eventually gets tired of repeating himself and relents.

"Ok let's go surf"

My thoughts exactly, Tarzan.

We walk out into the surf and the waves are rolling in great. Or at least I think they are. Actually, what the hell am I talking about I've never done this before. All I do know is the waves are breaking in waist-deep to chest-deep water so Tarzan can stand there and give me a push like a dad teaching a kid how to ride a bike. He sees a wave he likes and gives me a shove. And I fail spectacularly. In an instant. Well dadgum.

Let's give it another go. And another. And another.

I try a few times without even the slightest resemblance to what anyone would call "surfing." And then just like that Tarzan gives me a shove and I pop up! I looked like a baby giraffe standing up but I got up! And then fell. I might have made it 3 seconds but I was up for a bit. A few more wipeouts, a few more successful attempts of increasing length.

I eventually rack up about 3-4 times where I stay up for an extended period of time and actually surf. I mean I had no idea how to turn and was wobblier than a frat boy at 3 AM but I surfed I guess? It was fun when it worked but it was a damn workout. After a little over an hour of displays of mediocre athleticism I fall off in pretty shallow water and land a bit funny on my ankle. It didn't really hurt it was just awkward. I took that as a sign that the ocean had endured enough of my feeble attempts at recreation and I decide to call it a day. We'll just keep it at "almost injured" instead of "broken ankle in Costa Rica."

Tarzan
Surfin
I wanna ride giants, Kunu

We walk back up to Tarzan's tent where I drop my board and find Kaiti waiting for me at the bar with a glass of cold, refreshing sangria wine. I thought she had a shuttle to catch a few hours ago but I guess it was delayed so she decided to come watch me make a fool of myself. We laugh about it all, mostly about the golf-ball sized rash on my stomach from rubbing on the surfboard.

Post surf
Sangria wine
Après

Since the first sangria wine was so tasty we decide it would be best to have another. Whoa-oooooh-ooh-ooooh-oooooooah I love sangria wine!

Well That Escalated Quickly

We finish our glasses and it's time for her shuttle back to the Westin. We make the short walk to the pickup point and while waiting for the van a guy starts talking at us. He asks us where we're from and informs us that he was born in Costa Rica, grew up in Miami, never got his citizenship, and was deported about 5 years ago. Kaiti's ride shows up and she is mercifully spared from our new conversational hijacker.

It's supper time and I try to break away to grab some grub but he dives into his life story. It's a tale full of drugs, gangs, fights, and jail time. I really just want to tell him to have a nice day but now I don't want to anger him. I keep listening and he tells me he had gotten his life in order, had a wife and two boys, and it all fell apart when he lost a son in a house fire in Miami. It's pretty heartbreaking and I think he just wanted someone to talk to. Maybe he wanted to talk to me because I looked like Jesus. In any case he details the dark paths that he went down that led him to his current situation, deported from the US, hustling to make it in Costa Rica. He really doesn't want to be here but it's the hand he's played with the cards he's been dealt.

His story is seemingly winding down and I'm ready to peel off for some food and a beer when the entire situation takes a turn. An insane turn that I wouldn't believe if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. We were talking in the main town square, a well lit intersection with dozens of tourists wandering around, right in front of a popular open-air Argentinian restaurant. A place that you wouldn't expect what's about to happen.

Out of nowhere like a bat out of hell a long haired dude charges up and starts attacking him with a machete taped up with newspaper - presumably with the intention to maim instead of kill.

That's right, the guy gets attacked with a machete in the busiest section of the most touristy town in Costa Rica. I look at all the other gringos on the square and we give each other knowing glances of horror and confusion. If you could convert the look on our faces to English I believe it would be something akin to what the fuck is going on?

The assailant strikes about half a dozen blows before they tumble out onto the dimly lit beach. I stand where I'm at for a few minutes completely dumbfounded, not really knowing what to do. Everyone else gets back to their mulling about and since I had nothing better to do I joined them in the mulling. I end up plopping down at El Mercadito, an open-air food hall right next to the Argentinian restaurant. I'm still trying to process what just happened and after a few minutes I decide I guess I'll eat something?

I order a steak sandwich named after Leonel Messi and grab a beer from the bar in the center of the market. I stay for another beer and walk back towards Sharky's, where a couple Ticas I met said there should be a fun crowd. On my way over there I see the machete victim walking down the street looking worse for wear. He's got some pretty serious gashes on his head, neck, arms, and ribs.

I tell him he needs to get stitched up and he says all the clinics are closed & he doesn't have any money for cab fare to get home. Jesus. I snag the few bucks I have in my pocket and he says that should be enough. I dip into the grocery store just before it closes and get him some rubbing alcohol, Tylenol, and cotton swabs. That's about all they had in terms of first aid supplies so it's the best I could do.

He thanks me profusely and tells me as I dump him into a cab that I've got a friend for life. So, uh, I guess if anybody needs some shady shit done in Costa Rica I have a guy? By now it's after the 10 PM curfew and everything is closed down. I walk back to my accommodation and try to get some sleep; it's a little difficult to wind down after tonight's wild events but I eventually get some shuteye. Costa freakin Rica.

Kowabunga: Part Deux

The next day is significantly less eventful than... that. After a run on the beach and breakfast/coffee I head down to rent a board from Tarzan. I had the lesson yesterday so let's take the training wheels off and see if I can do this on my own. Spoiler alert: I can't.

For about an hour I try unsuccessfully to stand up, fighting the waves and trying to pick the right one without Tarzan there to give me a boost. I almost get up a couple times, a kind of half-squat/half take-a-knee position that I can't transition to a full stand. The waves are a bit bigger today and it's even more of a workout than yesterday. Plus my board is smaller and much more unstable. I think Tarzan gives folks the big board while he's giving lessons then a small wobbly board when they just want a board so they'll go back to pay more for another lesson. This is just my theory and if it's true I love the ingenuity. Tarzan is a hustler.

I try and try and try some more then decide to call it a day when my left shoulder gets a little squirrely on a paddle stroke. This is the shoulder I dislocated skiing in February and I definitely don't want to deal with that again. I tip my cap to the ocean and walk off to surf another day.

The afternoon is spent reading and relaxing on the beach. I see the Costa Rican girls again tonight and meet up with them and two Spanish girls at El Pacifico after supper for some beers and reggae. The party ends just as it's getting started due to the curfew and everyone disperses out on the street. As I'm walking back home I bump into Esteban. We order a few beers from our old friend, Lady on the Corner, and he tells me about his coffee venture that he's been working on.

He's a coffee connoisseur and quit his job to try his hand at building a specialty coffee company. He's been working on building relationships with suppliers of beans from Tarrazú, one of Costa Rica's most famous coffee growing regions.

Coffee regions
Coffee regions of Costa Rica

He's in Tamarindo trying to get coffee shops to buy his beans with limited success. He's a coffee purist and the quality of the coffee he wants to provide is not yet appreciated by the masses. I think it's similar to the early stages of the craft beer boom, where people didn't know what they didn't know about good beer. People are used to their run-of-the-mill commodity coffee and don't know what they are missing with specialty coffees. It's a tough racket but his passion is clearly evident. He invites me to try out his joe, so we make plans to meet up mañana.

The next morning Esteban picks me up and ferries me to Tamarindo Coffee Roasters where he's made friends with the owners and baristas. According to his expert opinion they make the best coffee in the area, plus they allow him to use their high-quality Diedrich coffee roaster. He shows me to the back room where he pulls out a tub of beans and gives them a big ol whiff. It's been 4 days since he roasted them and he says they have gotten a bit sweeter every day. This is a medium body, medium acidity, medium roast coffee - right in the meat of the curve. It should be pretty approachable.

Coffee beans
Chemex
Breathe it in

Esteban weighs out some beans then takes them out front to brew. He readies up a Chemex and tells me the proper technique for preparing it. Once it's done he pours me a cup and we give it a try. He tells me all the tasting notes: citrus, dried fruit, and some floral notes, but my unrefined palate only comes to the conclusion that this is damn fine coffee. I mention that it's not as hot as most coffee I've had, which allows me to taste a fuller complement of flavors. He laughs and says that most coffee is served so hot because it's shit. Good coffee should be served at a temperature where it's not scalding your mouth and you can actually taste it. Makes sense to me.

We finish the coffee and as we're about to leave Esteban tells me about cáscara, a tea made from the dried skins of coffee cherries. He had a bag already opened and he reaches in and scoops out a fistful and pops a few right in his mouth. I follow suit and they tasted like a mix between dried plums & cherries. It was quite tasty so I decided to buy a bag as we were leaving.

Cascara
Cáscara

Esteban drops me off back in Tamarindo where I head to the main square for a collectivo - an informal taxi that's essentially just a guy with a car that you negotiate a price for transport. I'm headed up to the Westin - Kaiti said they have day passes and invited me to spend a day living the life of luxury. Sounds like a damn good deal to me, let's get fancy.

Traveler

Musings of a panhandlin, manhandlin, postholin, highrollin, dustbowlin daddy