Our first week in Costa Rica over, we left San Jose for the hot and humid northwest of the country, Playa del Coco. There are several ways to travel the five to six hours north. For $200 per person, you can take an hour-long flight from San Jose to Liberia, rent a car or taxi for $50 and drive forty minutes to the beach.
A local bus is only eight bucks and takes about six hours, stopping at a dozen villages along the way. I have to admit, I pictured this bus straight out of Romancing The Stone with straw-filled wood crates strapped to the roof and Kathleen Turner sandwiched between locals with pigs and chickens running in the aisle. Fun, but grossly condescending and ignorant of me. It’s not like that at all and is actually pristine and bright pink. You are still crammed next to fifty strangers during Covid for a really long time, and you couldn’t pay me enough to put Sophia in that situation. No one would make it to their final destination.
So, we opted for the third option of a private transfer. No shame, it was wonderful. For $300, the four of us and ten, yes ten, pieces of luggage were transported in a large, air-conditioned white van with a driver who provided cold bottled water, answered lots of questions, and offered to stop whenever we liked.
Trees, trees, trees everywhere. Not the monotonous forests of fir trees like our home in the PNW; we drove through rainforests of Glory Bush, Guancaste, Travelers Palm, and Golden Rain Trees. Of course, I didn’t know the names of any of these. I had to look them up later, but it was fun to imagine I was in a white blouse and khaki trousers, traveling by overcrowded bus, pencil and notebook in hand, scribbling away about the landscape—for about five minutes. Then I appreciated our private van, my phone, and the tortilla chips I’d brought.
We passed jaguar crossing signs, sloth crossing signs, and my ears kept popping from climbing up incredibly steep hillsides only to plateau for moments then careen down the other side, reawakening my fear of topheavy large white vans driven by masochistic drivers who get paid the same amount of money regardless of drive time so are determined to shorten the trip as much as possible.
Tim spent the beginning of the trip bettering himself, reading an energizing book titled The Compound Effect, and promptly fell asleep. I chose to traipse through Europe with my travel writing hero—Bill Bryson. Well, I kept trying to read but would catch myself gazing out the window at the incredibly skinny white cows, hoping to see a jaguar even though they are expertly camouflaged, are nocturnal, and it was 9:15 in the morning.
Sophia slept almost the entire trip. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a treat, but I was more than happy to endure another three-hour numb butt episode as I was wedged in between the crack of two seats. A view of the seat that Sev smashed an uneaten banana into the mesh pocket with her foot while she dozed. I thoroughly enjoyed watching Tim clean up that bit of fun.
For two hours, we followed a small truck with an advertisement for MAX EQUILIBRIO! FOOD FOR HEALTHY DOG OR CAT! I felt it was shouting at me and grew to resent it. We drove so close, I could read the fine print and disclaimers. Don’t cats and dogs usually eat different food? Or is that a whole other level of privileged thinking I was unaware of?
But this, this was waiting for us on arrival: Home for the next two and a half months.
Sunshine Dunning 