A Norte Boy: Palmar layovers

Forested mountains overlook the quiet but pleasant town of Palmar Norte

It’s a long way from San Jose to Corcovado. It can be done in one
day if you want to six & a half hours on a bus, followed by bouncing over the waves of Bahia Drake in the hope you reach your accommodation before nightfall. We twice elected to stop off on the way and - almost by accident - ended up staying three days in Palmar Norte, or “North Palm” as the simple translation has it (though that makes it sound a little more exotic than it is).

What Palmar Norte has in its favour wouldn’t fill a particularly large notebook, but it does have some lovely views to add to its advantage as a convenient stopping place. We decided to hop off there on the way to Corcovado, not trusting ourselves to survive an 8 hour journey with sanity intact, and found a roasting hot but pleasant little town, bereft of many other tourists but blessed with scarlet macaws hanging about and making the place look pretty.

The rarity of tourists explains the enthusiasm with which one of the town’s taxi drivers attempted to strike up a relationship with us. We’d already worked out how to get from the bus stop to our hotel (or so we thought) and it appeared to be only a few minutes walk, so we politely declined even the bargainacious $2 fare. By the time we’d wandered aimlessly around for ten minutes, and I’d shed my bags in order to run up and down the Interamericana in desperate hope of finding our lodgings, the driver had to control his mirth as he drove past and gave us a free lift the 50 metres back to where our hotel was ’hiding.’ He was well rewarded when we agreed that we were done with finding our way around, and that he should drive us to Sierpe in the morning.

The mysterious hidden hotel wasn’t quite Shangri-La, but it was the agreeable and friendly El Teca lodge on the main road. Alas, the exquisitely helpful owner has a sign which, if approaching from the south, is entirely invisible, but we soon forgave him. By the time he had had welcomed us profusely, offering all kinds of help and assistance with our trip, we felt rather guilty that we were only staying one night, something compounded when we found a charming little room with the most deliciously ice-cold aircon you could wish for. Like everywhere in Costa Rica it had more beds that were strictly necessary (never was the accommodation of a country so geared towards couples falling out), and the curtains fell down while Michelle was trying to close them, but it was cute, clean and comfortable and had the best WiFi we were to experience in the whole region. It was rather annoying that El Teca was completely booked when we passed back through a few days later.

Suitably freshened by blasts of cold air, we ventured out for the sunset and then promptly ran out of ideas. There may be entertainment somewhere in Palmar, but we had no idea where to start, so we plumped for the most inviting dining option, the rather bizarre Heladeria Diquis, an ice cream parlour that is also probably the best restaurant in town (we didn't do extensive research). It’s particularly strange because it doesn’t serve alcohol in the usual sense, but if you search the menu you can find an ice cream shake with a generous serving of Bailey’s, so that you can get drunk and fat at the same time. On my first visit I over ordered and struggled to get through some veggie nachos, but we kept coming back like alcoholic flies around a Bailey’s ice-cream and had plenty of opportunities to find out that Diquis does the business.

We stocked up on dollars at one of the numerous cash machines, having been warned that Corcovado lack such facilities. The one opposite Diquis, however, always seemed to have as queue of about 20 people, like an old school Post Office on giro day. I was sorely tempted to ask what was going on, and then remembered I don’t speak Spanish.
Palmar’s resident taxi driver collected us as arranged and then proceeded to drive like The Stig down the dusty road between Palmar and Sierpe, rows of neatly planted palm trees flashing by as he sped.

We decided to get the bus when we returned, just to be on the safe side.

Our second stint was a touch longer. Unable to get into El Teca, we were lucky to get what seemed to be the last cabin in Brunka Lodge, a pleasant assortment of wooden huts built around a small but pretty swimming pool. Michelle had some work to do, and was looking forward to some El Teca quality WiFi. Unfortunately - possibly because we were the furthest from Brunch’s reception - the WiFi signal was shocking. Our ongoing quest to download the Sherlock Christmas special was also thwarted as the connection dropped out every few minutes.

I went searching for more macaws, but on the return trip they weren’t to be seen. In the end I ended up exploring up a long and rocky trail that led round the back of El Teca and towards the mountains we had seen from our old “Mountain View” room. Camera in hand I walked further and further, occasionally passing dog walkers as I hopped over streams and passed old wooden houses with children playing in the dust. At one point some very large Alsatians took a noisy interest in me as I wandered near the fence of some sort of estate. I was reassured that they were behind a high metal fence, until I wandered further down the road and saw the fence ended in a wide open gate. I hurried on, less reassured. 

Far enough up the trail it suddenly turned into bird paradise, as colourful twitterers flew hither and thither across the path. I dawdled, bewitched by so many feathered friends, and walked slowly up the trail as the light began to turn golden. I never found out what was at the end of the trail, though a local family came back down it, carrying towels and picnic gear, so I assume some sort of river or pool awaits the truly intrepid. Eventually I began to get a little nervous about the light and turned tail for home, though I did see a flock of groove-billed anis (snacking on lizards) and - way up in the trees - a very noisy toucan as I did so.

Groove-Billed Anis. Groovy.

My adventurousness backfired the following morning, when I had an inexplicable impulse to go for a dawn run. Heading out into the quiet town, and appreciating the mist clinging to the mountainside, I ran a big circuit, keeping to the dusty roadside. As I got into the main drag of the town, though, a man decided to pull his vehicle into the road as I approached. I darted to my right to avoid him, only to find that - right there and nowhere else - the side of the road sloped at a 45 degree angle. My foot slipped and I hit the road knee first.

I looked up. It was dawn, and I’d hardly seen a soul on the road. However, it seemed I had chosen to have my calamity right in front of what passed as the town’s bus station. A small gathering of travellers were looking at me with various forms of “ouch” on their lips. Reluctant to still be there when their sympathy turned to laughter, I sprang to my feet, ignoring the pain shooting through my leg, and kept running until I’d made it back to Brunka.

Blood was streaming down my leg and my dignity was long gone, but the sun was getting hot - we'd need to leave early or next journey would be unbearable. Shortly afterwards I was back at the bus station, ready to head to Manuel Antonio.   

Un-Fortuna and the case of missing volcano

Tree bark: the most colourful thing in Arenal

La Fortuna (lit "the luck) is a faintly dull little town blessed with one, powerful natural resource: a sodding great volcano. Between the 60s and about four years ago, this local attraction was a big, attention seeking beast, spewing fiery lava down one side (conveniently away from the town) and providing something of a spectacle for those interested in glowing soil.

Having packed it in, grown up, and settled down, Volcan Arenal, the local rocky triangle, has become a little more shy and, lacking fire, has been known to sulk beneath a foggy duvet during the day.

So it was that, in arriving in "The Luck," we had no luck at all. Fortuna may have a big, triangular mountain, but as far as first hand experience can confirm it may well be a hoax. We think the town has been keeping photoshop artists in business for several years.

Our journey to the town had its own eruptions. Travelling from Monteverde via "jeep-boat-jeep" (a recent innovation that makes use of the artificial Lake Arenal to dodge the worst of the mountain roads and saves about five hours of driving), we clambered aboard Jeep A (yer honour) to find a raucous atmosphere as a posh English voice demanded to know if we were Swedish. Disappointed to discover we shared a nation with it, The English Voice proceeded to ignore us and ask every new passenger the same question - it was eventually sated when an elderly American confirmed that her grandmother was Swedish and that she a) qualified and b) took the wind out of The Voice's sails, not being quite what it had been hoping for.

The English Voice's key vice was in believing that, by making frequent references to its desire for beer, it was somehow being the very soul of Wildean wit and repartee. After hilariously demanding that we stop for beer every hundred yards, The English Voice was challenged by a German about English national characteristics. "We like beer!" Cheered The Voice. "No," I said. "The main thing about the English is not that they like to drink, just that they can't handle it."

I fear this response may have been lost to the sound of the jeep engine.

Refusing to look at the face of The Voice's owner, I looked out of the window instead. It might have been noisy, but Jeep A was taking a spectacular route over the mountains. Costa Rica may be famous for beaches, sloths and cloud forests, but its agricultural highlands are stunning - and, presumably, almost tourist free.

We drove down to the banks of Lake Arenal, famous for its beautiful surroundings*, and managed to lose The English Voice to another boat (such as shame). Sadly that was our only luck, as low cloud and persistent drizzle limited the famous view to only a few moody looking hills and the forbidding wall of the dam.

It's just about possible to imagine that - on a different day - the views from Lake Arenal would live up to the hype

The biggest challenge of staying at Fortuna’s bizarre-looking but perfectly comfortable Regina Hotel was working out how to pronounce it. We started with the English pronunciation to blank stares, before one driver caught on. “Oh, Re-high-na!” he said, delighted with this eureka moment. Later on we tried that, but got more blank stares before they said, “oh, Regina!” We gave up.

The hotel is not exactly charming, looking as it does like a holiday cottage for a communist dictator, but the staff were very helpful (without being overly so) and - something of a miracle in mid-range Costa Rican accommodation - the aircon worked, though given the weather it was seldom employed. It also had a very nice little balcony where you could go to judge just how hard the rain was coming down and, occasionally, enjoy a view of the town mercifully shorn of being able to see The Regina itself. And, for us, shorn of Volcan Arenal.

It never did show up. We entertained ourselves with delicious pizza at Anch’io, over the road from Regina (watching with interest as a party of 17 turned up on spec, hoping for a table, and had to wait patiently as - very slowly - the customers began to file out and table by table the staff created a giant eating space, like continental drift forging a culinary Pangea), planning to head up into the national park the next day. Arenal, though, was still under its duvet when we woke, so we went for a slightly overpriced heuvos rancheros at The Lava Lounge, which at least had videos of the volcano going pop. Seeking to avoid yet another tour bus, we asked about scooter rental at the travel desk attached to Soda La Cuchura Tica (where we later ate a perfectly acceptable, and cheap, casado), but the man on the desk warned strongly against the idea of driving one of his scooters up there, as the road to the national park wasn’t paved.

Was there a bus? No - you can hire a car. Can we? Great! It’s a minimum two day hire. But we’re leaving tomorrow.  You can take a tour. 

If your ambition extends mostly to getting wet, Fortuna is the place to be

Bugger. As it turned out, the tour was about as good as it could have been given the unrelenting rain and cloud. Buying yet another poncho (my Monteverde poncho having been split up the middle like a guard in Game of Thrones) we plodded around in the duckling chain being shown turkey birds and rainbow gums, though there was an interesting and rain-free interlude where the guide explained Arenal’s volcanos and their various explosions by building little replicas out of volcanic sand, though he lost points for rushing us through the forest in search of red-eyed frogs so quickly he lost two members of the party. Presumably they’re still out there somewhere, slowly starving and asking “isn’t there supposed to be a volcano here somewhere?”

Too soggy to get the zoom out

Finally, and we really weren’t in the mood for it by then, they drove us to one of the hot springs, so we walked through a bit of forest in our swimming costumes before taking a warm bath in the dark. We sat in a fast moving stream of hot water, being gently rained on, and somehow it was wonderful, though that could be the generously supplied cocktails talking. A few people got swept away into the darkness, but we could tell by their distant cries that they were still alive, so we tried not to worry too much.

The next morning there was still no volcano, so - avoiding The Lava Lounge to have an expensive but definitely worth it coffee at Down to Earth Coffee - we decided to get the hell out of dodge and on to San Jose, where Michelle had to do some work and I had an urgent appointment with blue skies and a swimming pool. As we left, I pressed my face to the window, thinking that maybe Arenal would reward us with a goodbye glimpse as we left.

Did it bollocks.

* "pretty, but just a lake" might just be my favourite Tripadvisor review of all time - of a lake, anyway.