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.