September 12, 2023, Costa Rica. I wasn’t looking forward to the day—it involved catching buses, crossing the border, and all the usual travel hassles. I rushed to Tuesday Market, bought a banoffee from Bastien, and waved goodbye (and good riddance) to others. I’d packed the night before but didn’t realize I’d left most of my food behind until I arrived at Russ’s place.

At 9 a.m., Brian gave me a ride to David, where I was lucky to catch a bus to the border immediately. I was in such a rush I didn’t take the time I should have to say goodbye. It turns out I would never see him again.

At the Panamanian border, officials made me wait about 15 minutes. When I finally asked what was going on, they questioned when I had first entered the country. I explained I’d come, left, and returned two months later, giving exact dates. Satisfied, they stamped my passport—but so faintly that Costa Rican customs told me to go back. I asked them to look more closely and warned that if I had to return, I’d miss my bus.

The bus was at 11 a.m. Costa Rica time (12 p.m. Panama time), and the next one wasn’t until 4:30 p.m. Since the trip takes two hours and sunset was at 5:30, I didn’t want to miss it. Luckily, I caught the 11 a.m. bus just in time. Everything went perfectly.

The ride to Palmar Norte was beautiful. I had an assigned seat with a great view. Though tired, I kept my eyes open to enjoy the scenery. I arrived around 1 p.m., and Russ arrived shortly after. I hoped to see scarlet macaws along the main road like last time, but none appeared.

I did my usual survival chores: withdrew 10,000 colones (about $20—not quite enough) from the ATM, refilled water bottles, and shopped at the local market. Russ said it was cheaper here than nearer Ojochal. We pulled into a roadside soda (open-air eatery) just as it started pouring rain—perfect timing! I bought a $5 meal of chicken and beans, and we sat down to eat.

On the way back to Ojochal, I quietly soaked in the stunning southern Pacific coast views. I asked Russ about visiting the local Indigenous village above Palmar Norte, but he said it was quite off the road and that he wasn’t big on road trips. That’s part of why I’m thinking about renting a car to explore on my own.

He asked what I wanted to do while here. I said I hoped to go up into the mountains above Dominical, swim at El Pavón waterfall, and explore the whale tail at low tide in Uvita. I also wanted to visit Amber’s temple near Riva in Chirripó, but he didn’t seem keen on driving there—another solo trip in the making.

Once back, I unpacked and headed up the road toward the waterfall. Around 4:30 p.m., I saw a man riding in the back of a truck. It was Pablo Azul, the local who had offered to walk with me in the mountains last time. He recognized me, and we had a nice chat. He said his phone was broken and he’d lost contacts, so asked me to message him. He had time on the weekend, and I told him I’d be leaving Monday but would send a message so we could walk together. I was excited at the prospect of seeing local flora and fauna.

I walked as far as I could on the road, wary of dogs. Sure enough, two bolted from a yard under a driveway gate and chased me. One looked like a greyhound. I popped open my umbrella with a loud snap, holding it between them and me. Too bad I hadn’t brought my stun gun! After about half a mile, they finally stopped chasing me.

Then came the bat harassment—possibly a vampire bat, common in this area. I thought I’d escaped, but it caught me again in the dark woods where I’d been dive-bombed on the way up. I quickly held the umbrella overhead to block further passes.

By the time I got back to Russ’s, I was wiped out. I’d walked fast all the way back to avoid more dog encounters. I didn’t want to face the dog that had barked at me earlier, especially not in the dark.

Russ was watching his pro-Trump, anti-Biden, supposedly “independent” inflammatory TV program. The reporters shrieked and laughed maniacally—it was a disgrace to journalism. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would watch such abominable content and presentation. Over the next six days, I tried to tune it out, but like dogs worrying a bone, they obsessed over one alleged false move by a Democratic representative, repeating it ad nauseam. Tedious and irritating.

September 13. I had unknowingly timed my trip to coincide with Costa Rica’s Independence Day on September 15. I asked a local about the schedule since Russ said he hadn’t attended in his 17 years here. I learned there would be a lantern festival on the evening of the 14th and a parade the morning of the 15th in Cortés, the nearby county seat.

While waiting for a latte at Tagua, an adorable bamboo café under construction when I was here in early May (just a 5-minute walk from Russ’s), I chatted with a local mother. Later, we headed to the farmers market at 8:30 a.m., which has been running for a few years. People come from as far as north of Manuel Antonio, one to two hours away.

I spoke with the main farmer selling produce, who said it’s tough to make it as a farmer here due to taxes and fees. I bought a croissant from a French gentleman who makes them from scratch—yum! There’s a large French community in Ojochal. Russ bought vegetables for the week, and I picked up a papaya for smoothies.

Russ granted my wish to go to the mountains above Dominical. He’d waxed poetic about Nauyaca Falls, where he’d taken Hala on a day trip. I hoped we’d go, but he dislikes long trips now, especially with osteoarthritis in his hip. He used to organize quad trips on dirt roads; his quad is still parked in the carport.

He didn’t want to drive far and had to stop several times because his SUV was overheating. He planned to show me the lookout over San Isidro, but it was socked in with fog, so he drove on. Within minutes, we were in town. On a hill above the center, I spotted El Rey, a charming fish restaurant covered in murals. I suggested lunch and treated Russ to ceviche and a pineapple smoothie.

I liked the town. It felt much more authentic than Ojochal, which seems to be turning into an expat refuge. We took our time watching the rain pour down. The restaurant was cozy yet simple. I wanted to drive further but didn’t want to push my luck—Russ can get cranky easily, and I didn’t want conflict during my short visit. I’d had enough of that with Boquete expats.

We drove up the mountain and down the other side toward Dominical. I loved the small villages dotted along the road and the fruit stand in the mist selling exotic fruit some hadn’t even tried. When I’d been here in May, I’d seen a pair of scarlet macaws in the palm trees near the beach. I hoped to see them again.

I walked down the beach toward Uvita and back without spotting any, while Russ sat still and saw one fly overhead. Sometimes birdwatchers have better luck staying put. I saw many butterflies migrating south along the beach, flying in large groups low over the coast. I wondered if this was their migratory path.

We considered staying for sunset, but I preferred daylight to see the landscape on the drive home. Once back, I sat on the back deck, worked on my blog, and read the Lonely Planet Costa Rica guide, gathering ideas. I’d secured a vehicle for over a week. Diego at Alamo, San Jose airport, was very helpful, finding me a 4×4 suitable for Costa Rica’s rugged terrain. It was much cheaper than quotes I’d gotten in Uvita since airport agencies allow you to decline extra services others don’t. I hadn’t known that.

I love Russ’s porch, but his septic field was surfacing in the yard. His gardener discovered it a few days before I arrived. The smell of human waste and chemicals wafts in when the wind shifts. Yuck. It’s unpleasant and potentially a health hazard. I gently suggested he address it. It’s not just unsightly, it’s dangerous.

September 14. That evening, local school kids paraded their homemade lanterns. I was excited to see it. I started with a latte and locally made pain au chocolat at Tagua. Russ played pickleball in the morning but mostly kibitzed due to hip pain.

Around noon, we headed to La Cusinga, where I hiked for a few hours. The tide was high when we arrived, and I barely made it onto the beach. I loved the walk and made it all the way around to the pozo, where I plunged into refreshing water. I’d been sweating all day, so it felt wonderful. Then I had dinner with Russ.

One wrinkle: my phone dropped in the river while I was cleaning clay off my shoes. It sank too deep to see and I feared the current took it. Luckily, I retrieved it within five seconds. I removed the case, let water drip out, and turned it off for several hours. The concierge gave me a Ziploc bag of rice, but I wrapped something around the charging port to avoid rice getting stuck inside.

Later, I learned my iPhone 14 Pro Max has an IP68 rating—it can survive being submerged up to 6 meters for 30 minutes. I’m not eager to test that. Older iPhones had liquid contact indicators (LCIs) in the SIM card slot; mine has neither a SIM slot nor an LCI.

I love La Cusinga—it’s become my home away from home. The view reminds me of Nepenthe. Their policy is either a $10 day-use fee for trails or beach access or a minimum $10 meal purchase. The beach and trails are part of Parque Marina Ballena. I chose the meal option and enjoyed a reasonable $14 bacon cheeseburger.

We returned just in time to see kids crowding the community center for patriotic singing, folkloric dancing, and lantern contest prizes—best animal, house, creative idea, and more. Many lanterns looked parent-made, though some clearly had a child’s touch. I especially liked a paper train whose cars were filled with traditional products like coffee, cacao, bananas, and indigo.

After prizes, the kids bolted for the main road, where groups began walking the street. Cars passed both ways. The parade wasn’t what I expected—I’d hoped for candlelit lanterns, but they were battery-powered. Small groups of kids walked along the roadside, trying to avoid traffic. The kids at the front sang songs inspired by their teachers. I enjoyed that.

My favorite part was watching the faces of adults and children singing their country’s special songs. I was impressed that the melodies were beautiful and lacked the usual militaristic tone of most anthems.

September 15. The parade in Cortés was supposed to start at 8 a.m. Since my phone was out of commission overnight, I had no alarm and asked Russ to wake me. I had put my phone with desiccated silica packs into a screw-top jar, hoping to dry it out. We got a bit of a late start and arrived around 8:20. Luckily, the parade was slow to get going, with kids lined up by school. It was already hot, and some were getting overheated.

I took tons of photos and videos. The parade mostly featured drummers and dancers, with some brass instruments thrown in. I made my way to the front and headed to the main plaza, where different school groups were being acknowledged with occasional folkloric dances. In one group, a young boy danced with four girls. He wore a sash around his waist and waved a flag, moving with joy and grace. It made me happy to watch him.

I bought a fresh coconut and drank the juice cold. Oh, was it good! The vendor cut it open for me, and I tried eating the meat, but it was almost nonexistent—a very young coconut.

An older woman gave me directions to the bus ticket office. She called me “my love,” was very sweet, and asked how I liked Costa Rica. I gushed, and she beamed. After buying my ticket, I walked around town, wanting to get a feel for what a very nondescript Costa Rican town looks like. I much preferred it to Panamanian towns.

After three hours, Russ and I were both burned out, so we headed to El Pavón waterfall. I was struck by the lack of garbage since arriving in Costa Rica—on beaches, in the jungle, and along roadsides. I don’t think there are cleanup crews everywhere. More likely, people just don’t throw trash to begin with. What I wish for Panama.

The water was cold and clear. I didn’t want to go behind the waterfall; it was really powerful due to recent rains. Suddenly, Russ called out that there were capuchin monkeys downriver in the trees. They jumped from tree to tree, diving as they went. It was comical. They seemed to take the same path, diving onto a particular tree with dense foliage and flexible limbs. I’m sure they learned early which trees are safe to jump from and to. They’re very smart. As they got closer to my backpack, I held fast—monkeys sometimes run off with packs, and mine held my ID and credit cards.

A cute behavior of capuchins is lying flat on a limb, draping their long arms and legs over the edge. I’d seen one do this on a railing at Manuel Antonio Park. Adorable. I was enjoying the water, so I stayed until my fingers turned blue. Reluctantly, I got out and we headed up the trail.

I asked Russ about eating at the restaurant, but he didn’t seem interested, so I waited to get in the car. He had parked near bushes, unknowingly on top of an ant hill. What felt like army ants started biting me, and my legs were on fire. I shouted, toweled off the ants, and ran back down the trail to the pool, which was a great relief. Cold water is very healing for insect bites.

I asked if we could stop at Playa Tortuga on the way back; I didn’t remember seeing it last time I was here. It turns out I had but just didn’t recall. There’s a turtle research station where people help collect sea turtle eggs for incubation and release. I didn’t plan to stay long and walked the trail to the main beach park.

There were already a few people there since it was a long weekend. As I walked, it started raining. I held a thin towel over me, like I’d seen Panamanians do with plastic sheets. It was effective at keeping the rain off. I walked about five or ten minutes until the sand became as soft as quicksand, then headed back. Russ waited under the trees, as did the others. I was the only one crazy enough to be out in the rain.

We drove back to his house, where I spent the rest of the day reading the Costa Rica Lonely Planet guide, trying to identify places to visit. Around 5 p.m., I took a walk—to the river for a dip, then past Phase 4 of the Ojochal development. It’s a beautiful area, and better yet, there were no dogs. Mostly undeveloped lots. When I got back, I did more reading and worked a bit on my blog.

September 16. We had planned to walk at the Whale’s Tail but forgot it was Saturday of a holiday weekend. When we got to Uvita beach, it was packed, and parking was nearly impossible. Luckily, a lady directed us to a spot and charged $4, which seemed reasonable given the difficulty.

We waited a long time in line because the national park ticket taker seemed incompetent. He didn’t recognize Russ’s ID and kept asking if I was paying for him. Eventually, another guy stepped in, saying Russ didn’t have to pay. The ticket man then grabbed my card and told me to be patient—I thought he was rather rude.

We walked toward the Whale’s Tail. Russ was hurting, so after 5 or 10 minutes walking together, I went ahead. I walked as far as I could on the rocky part of the tail, checking the pools, which seemed almost lifeless. Then I walked north along the beach to a river. On the way back, I caught up with Russ, who said he would go back to the car and try to help a local with a camera issue. I walked nearly to the end of the south beach before heading back.

It was a really hot day, and I got pretty sunburned. The beach was crowded, as it was a beautiful holiday. Interestingly, locals stayed in the shade of the trees rather than in direct sun. Smart move. When we got back around 12:15, I decided to get a latte. I shouldn’t have— it made me late for my meeting with Pablo.

He’d finally messaged saying we could meet at noon after work. I shared an omelet with Russ, then headed up to Pablo’s at 2:20 p.m. He seemed surprised to see me—his phone hadn’t been working. When he plugged it in, the screen stayed blank.

He asked me to wait a minute and went to get his rubber boots from his parents’ house next door. His dad is 95 and his mom 88—I was amazed at what great shape his dad is in. He got his galoshes, and we started walking up the road, his dog Tigra barking happily as she explored the vegetation. I thought we’d stay on the dirt road, but when we reached Garden of Eden, we turned off and headed across the river into the jungle.

I worried we might encounter snakes since I wasn’t wearing rubber boots. I walked third, after Tigra and Pablo—the third person supposedly gets bitten according to local lore (the first wakes the snake, the second disturbs it, the third gets bitten).

I don’t like dogs running wild in the wilderness but didn’t say anything since I’m a visitor and Pablo has lived here since he was five. Tigra ran ahead, exploring river and steep jungle banks. She wiped her nose in the dirt like she was trying to remove ants—she stuck her nose everywhere. Pablo laughed and said she was happy and crazy.

He showed me a grinding stone used by native people in the region. Very cool. The trail was steep. At one point, we had to climb up and around a downed tree. The clay was so sticky my feet stuck in place. I almost fell into the river climbing over the tree. After about 20 minutes, we reached a waterfall. I washed my legs—I’d been bitten by ants—and Pablo said I could take a dip. Not necessary for me.

I’m fascinated by tourists’ obsession with waterfalls. They’re pretty, but not worth paying $50 to see. Same with ziplining. I don’t like standard tourist activities—they’re too expensive and don’t help you get to know a place or its people. I prefer walking. Pablo said we could cut up the mountain to another road through thick jungle. I decided to head back. Retracing our steps was easier, as he had cut a trail with his machete. Tigra appeared while we crossed the river.

Back at his house, we heard howler monkeys nearby. He asked if I wanted to see them—of course. We headed into the forest, and their calls grew louder and more menacing. Then they started throwing fruit and large seeds. I ducked under some trees.

Pablo encouraged them by howling back—provoking them. I took some videos. It was special—I’d never seen howler monkeys up close except at dusk at Tikal, but then I could barely see them.

Pablo bid me farewell—I think he needed to help his parents. I worried he expected payment. He didn’t mention it but said next time I could bring a group to the waterfall. I think he’s paid very little and is sole provider for his family. Later that evening, I messaged him apologizing if he expected payment and said I could bring money next time. No answer—I guess his phone is still on the blink. I didn’t get the sense he was mercenary but happy to help.

Back home, I worked on my blog. Brian messaged me about the expat who asked me to leave after two days. He learned from a mutual friend that she thought I’d used food without replacing it. This set off a whole series of reflections and self-recriminations.

I’d been very careful to bring and only use my own food when staying with people—no small feat without a car. She and her husband had been welcoming and encouraged me to use the kitchen, which gave me a false sense of security—until the second day, when I sensed her anger.

Regarding the bed, she had asked if it was too hard and suggested I compare it to the mattress under the bed. I asked Paul to help me switch mattresses, but we concluded they were the same. I hadn’t complained—it was her offer. However, she told Karen that I had complained about the guest bed. She also said I hadn’t offered pancakes to her husband, but I’m pretty sure he was in the garage working on a soldering project when I made them. The next day, I did offer pancakes to the cleaner.

I sensed her upset and apologized, though I wasn’t sure why. I asked what I had done to bother her and apologized profusely for any unintended offense. After that, I started walking on eggshells and felt very sad and hurt that she didn’t respond to my questions, except to harshly tell me to leave. Then she contacted the previous guest who had asked me to leave after I gently requested if he might replace the cucumber he had eaten. I’m sure she made up stories about me. Ironically, when she first invited me, she said he had been rude to her and her husband, explaining why people called him “Dick.”

That was a red flag, and I wondered what she might say about me. Two days later, I found out—though never directly. Despite my pleas for information, she remained silent, even though she read my messages. Her cold treatment was very painful. I had to wait until my friend Brian told me what she said to his friend over lunch—the joys of passive-aggressive behavior.

I had offered the food I’d purchased, including my jam and milk. I offered money for expenses and replaced the eggs I used. I couldn’t replace the teaspoon of baking powder without buying an entire container. She kept the pancake batter I made and the beans. I would have offered Paul pancakes if he had been there when I was making them.

I was being punished for things I hadn’t done, and these false accusations spread to others, like Karen. Whenever I cooked at Richard’s place, I shared food. So being accused of not sharing hurt deeply. It felt like she was looking for reasons to blame me. I had almost been bitten by a dog on my way to the store to buy ingredients. That’s what felt so unfair.

Then, to be treated so harshly—she practically stopped talking to me after the first day. Looking back, it seems she was storing up resentment and didn’t want to give me a chance to respond. It was more important to build a case and be right. Then her husband began avoiding me on the second day. Being shunned is one of the worst punishments for a human being—besides being kicked out and rejected. No wonder I’m still thinking about it, waking up in the middle of the night two weeks later.

September 17. I had a horrible sleep worrying about my upcoming car trip—concerns about safety, where to camp, parking on the roadside, whether it’d be too hot to sleep in the vehicle, whether I could afford hotels, not having a cooler, and more.

It was Sunday, and I went for my usual latte at Tagua. A Danish woman was scheduled to perform music there at 10 AM, but I would miss it since Russ wanted to drop me off early at La Cusinga before the local drag show bingo fundraiser.

The good news was the tide was low, so I could walk all the way down the beach. I chatted with a female staff member and left two Lonely Planet travel guides. The beach was pleasant, overcast, with tourists from an excursion boat eating coconut and hanging out under a waterfall. On the way back, I saw a man carrying his girlfriend to the sea—admirable, but quite a long walk. As I headed up the trail, I heard howler monkeys, but couldn’t spot them in the treetops.

I hiked the trail to the rocky point overlooking Balleina Bay and beach, then to the large Ajo trees across the river. I could hear toucans but not see them because of the dense foliage. By the time I reached the river swimming hole, I was soaked in sweat. An amorous couple was there, and I explained I didn’t have my bathing suit. They said not to worry—they were leaving—and recommended I walk to the upper falls for a shoulder massage. It was too slippery, so I decided it wasn’t worth the risk.

After a relaxing swim, I changed into a less sweaty shirt and decided to forgo my sports bra, still damp with sweat. I headed to the lookout and started writing my blog. Around 4 PM, it began pouring rain. A Welsh woman asked me for directions to the beach, and I showed her the trail. A large family came to enjoy the view, and the patriarch decided he liked my chair—ironic, since I’d hung my clothes on it. Ah well. I felt a bit guilty when his wife told him to move.

The toucans arrived like clockwork—one with a really large bill, and a smaller one. I videoed them and watched with fascination. I spoke for a while with Sian, who had stayed at Manuel Antonio but disliked the crowds and was now staying in Uvita. She said she’d like to stay at La Cusinga. I don’t blame her. It’s low season, so cheaper and easier to find a place.

At 5 PM, I sat down to dinner as Russ was arriving around 5:30. I had to pay either for a meal or a $10 day-use fee—I chose the meal, even if more expensive. I ordered the hamburger again, since it seemed the best value, and admired the filtered sunset through heavy clouds.

As I headed back to the lookout, Russ showed up. He said he’d had a good salsa lesson and enjoyed the fundraiser. He and his Czech partner enjoy teasing each other. Neighbors have joked they should get married, and Russ replied, “If so, one would be dead and the other in jail.” Not surprising, since Russ can be very stubborn and passive-aggressive.

We got back, and I packed, as I had to be in Uvita for a morning bus. Russ said his cleaners would arrive at 6:30 AM and I should be ready to leave. I asked if they could start elsewhere to let me sleep in a bit, as I hadn’t slept a wink the night before. He said yes.

I sat on the veranda writing. When I heard a frog croaking, Russ grabbed his tennis racket and went searching for the noise. He said he smashes frogs who dare croak in case they lay eggs in the pool. I wondered how many innocent critters…