Journey to Tambor – Costa Rica

Journey to Tambor
Costa Rica

It all began with a chance remark from the guy sitting next to me at a boring retirement luncheon. Paul, sitting next to me and whom I didn’t know from Adam, suddenly says, “I’m headed south in a couple of weeks, to check on a hotel in Costa Rica I own with a partner.” It’s not the kind of remark you hear every day, so I perked up my ears.

It turns out that he and Bernie, two bureaucrats like me, had invested in a ten room hotel situated on a beach in a village called Tambor on the Gulf of Nicoya, west coast of the country. Then he went on, “We’re taking a party of other potential investors and there are two slots left. You interested?” The price sounded pretty good, sort of a package deal.

It was February, a cold one in the D.C. area. Naomi and I were ready for some warmth and sun. So I mentioned it to her that evening and in a spontaneous flash she said, “Let’s do it!”

So there we were, strapping in our seat belts at Reagan International for the flight to Miami. We’d just met our trip-mates in the terminal, and they seemed congenial. It was a quick flight down to Florida, where we found ourselves soon lifting up on the national carrier, Lacsa, bound for San Jose.

On the international flights the booze is free, so the Tambor-bound party was feeling no pain when they disembarked three hours later. In those simpler days, immigration and documents inspections were a breeze and before long we all piled into several taxis making for the hotel that Paul and Bernie had lined up. Naomi and I were thinking, ‘what a great beginning. Every thing’s smooth, so far’.

The next day was just as good, sightseeing around the gracious and vibrant old colonial capital. Then, next morning, it was time to cross over the Gulf of Nicoya to the peninsula, which hangs down from the northern part of the country sort of like a shorter Baja California.

We arrived in Puntarenas, making the two-hour run by bus past coffee and banana plantations. The ferry across the waters was due to leave at one p.m. so we had some time to stroll around the small city. Picture Humphrey Bogart in the classic film, “Treasure of Sierra Madre”. Bogy is down on his luck, unshaven and broke, mooching coins from tourists on the seedy streets of Tampico, Mexico. The natives of course, mostly have no more money than him. That’s the way I kept thinking as we ambled around, taking in the scene — not that we were broke, but that the atmosphere was so similar.

The Puntarenas streets were dirty and congested, as ancient vehicles of all shapes and types spit out their gray fumes. The shops, such as they were, were mostly small, with few wares that would be attractive to a local, much less a tourist. Many of them featured woebegone-looking sundries, clothing and cheap shoes. Fast paced Latin music belched from several tinny loudspeakers. Here and there a shop sat displaying fast-spoiling fruits and vegetables, baking in the hot sun.

The Author in Costa Rica

But the clamor, the bustle, the surprising energy, considering the heat (we gringos were sweating even more than the locals), was remarkable. This was LIFE, third-world style! Strangely, we were approached only once or twice by alcoholic-looking panhandlers, and not by raggedy, wretched children, as so often happens in other countries. The people of the streets looked surprisingly contented, often smiling and joking loudly with one another despite their lack of dinero. We found our way to the dock by a quarter to one. There was a fair size crowd already assembled, including Paul, Bernie and the rest of our companions from the U.S., waiting for the ferry to show up.

The forty-foot vessel, which vaguely resembled a tugboat, slowly backed in so as to load passengers from the port side, amidships. Most of us peeled off toward the right and the open fantail space there, which had a few benches lined along the railings. In ten minutes we were all aboard and, with two toots of his laryngitic-sounding horn, the captain headed out into the Gulf.

The “Santa Rosa” diesel engine sounded a little ragged but nonetheless chugged across the relatively calm waters at a steady ten knot clip. There were cold drinks available on board, and, as Naomi and I sipped at our (what else?) cokes, we congratulated ourselves on how smart we’d been to sign up for this flawless, so far, adventure. Just two days earlier we’d been shivering as we made our way to the Virginia departure point, and now we basked under sunny sub-tropical skies. Life was good.

Two hours later, land began to appear more clearly defined and we moved steadily closer to our destination. A solitary dock came into focus and the vessel took dead aim towards it. An air of tension started to build among many of the forty-odd passengers. We noticed that they were beginning to cluster along the starboard rail of the “Santa Rosa”.

“Wonder why they’re doing that so soon”, I remarked casually to my companion.

Only then did we notice, at the landward end of the dock, was a single, battered bus, waiting for — well, US! The locals, having already secured their positions, began to murmur in some kind of anticipation. The ship’s engine slowed and we eased along side the dock. An agile young deckhand leaped onto the dock and began making fast lines to some of the pilings. There was still a two-foot gap between the vessel and the dock, but a large piece of plywood was slapped over it and an immediate surge of Costa Ricans clattered across it and began running toward the bus.

The gringos had belatedly figured out the drill — first come, first served, for bus seats. So we trailed up the dock, no need for haste now, and clustered at the entrance. We could see inside that there were already standees. I wondered whether we could even all squeeze in. Paul had earlier informed us that it was a two-hour ride to Tambor, at the very southern tip of the peninsula. It wouldn’t be much fun to be stranded at this forlorn spot. Noticing our discouraged expressions, the amiable driver nodded his head, smiled and urged us inside, with a rapid chatter of Spanish.

The gringos somehow mashed all of ourselves and our luggage into the bus, observed with great interest by the already settled locals. The bus’s engine sputtered into life and we set off down the dusty road. I grabbed the overhead hand bargrip and gazed out at the passing roadside. Since the scenery was all so new, the time passed surprisingly agreeably. Some of the road was open and dusty, but much was forest, with its hints of exotic plants and animals. I thought I heard once a wild scream — a jaguar? Monkeys?

At one or another of the several village where we made brief stops, the seat-holders slowly disgorged, so that eventually a few seats became available, and Naomi gratefully bagged one.

At last, we pulled into Tambor. The Pacific Ocean lay dead ahead. Off to the right was the village, with a few bedraggled shops and a cantina, music blaring out from the open door. The sound of the surf across the beach floated out into the late afternoon air. To the left, someone remarked, appeared to be the hotel, down a palm-lined path perhaps fifty yards.

Kids Playing Soccer

The sun was just a few inches above the ocean horizon by this time and a few stray clouds were beginning to take on color. A few kids were knocking about a soccer ball on the beach before us. Paul emerged from the bus and said to the gathered would-be investors, “This is Tambor.” We all cheered.