Playas del Coco & San Juan del Sur
Resorts, Beaches, & An Unexpected Adventure
We did not get an early start leaving Quepos on Thursday morning, the thirtieth of November. I got back from my bike ride and cooled off in the pool. Stephanie and I had breakfast, and I returned the bike. Our plan was to drive toward Guanacaste, up the Pacific Coast to the northwest. Our late start mattered little. The coastal highway in Costa Rica is a multi-lane highway with a median. We made very good time in our rented Suzuki Jimmy.
Suzuki no longer sells vehicles in America. They don’t want to deal with American fuel economy, environmental, and roll over standards. I have noticed that several other car makers like Peugeot and Renault choose not to compete in the United States. Furthermore, several major auto manufacturers like Toyota have models they do not sell here. Toyota’s most popular pickup truck, the Hilux, is available almost everywhere we traveled outside the United States. It is the victim of tariffs that essentially require Toyota to assemble their pickups – the Tacoma and Tundra – in the United States.
The Suzuki Jimmy is a kind of under powered cross between a Jeep and an old Bronco II. It is a small, squared, four wheel drive SUV with a shamefully small engine. Nevertheless, it seems like it would fit a niche here not that different from the old Geo Trackers and Suzuki Samurais. It just looks more like the old mini Broncos. As we rolled down the highway in ours making our way northward, we bypassed the Nicoya Peninsula and the highway back to San Jose. We passed the much smaller Liberia International Airport that serves the Guanacaste Province.
Guanacaste is dryer and warmer than the area around Quepos. It is home to the all-inclusive resorts that many American tourists prefer. We saw many expensive and luxurious compounds where one could stay and enjoy tropical beaches without ever having to encounter poverty or locals – other than resort employees. That type of travel has its appeal for many tourists, but it is not my style. In addition to taking some pride and joy from traveling on a tidy budget, I also prefer experiencing what a middle- or upper-middle class family from the country I am visiting might enjoy while enjoying a weekend away from home.
We stayed that night in Playas del Coco. Our motel was on the water. All that separated us from the beach was the local beachfront street. Like most places in Central America, it had neither air conditioning or hot water. It turned out hot water was not really needed. It was warm enough that a room temperature shower was quite comfortable. The lack of humidity made the warm evening bearable, but even with a fan, it was still a little warm. Had we spent a lot of time in the room, it would not have been pleasant. We swam on the beach before dinner, and enjoyed the long beach along a beautiful cove on the Pacific Ocean, overlooking the Gulf of Papagayo. I think I liked it better than an all inclusive resort, even with its more rustic amenities. Our room came with a lovely breakfast, and also had a facility to launder clothes. The staff was kind, and the place was quiet and secure.
On Friday morning I was up early again. With no bike, I was forced to run. I started down the coast to the south, and encountered a river flowing into the ocean and had to turn back. I passed small dingies and fishing craft. I ran around a school where children were practicing soccer in the early morning light. I arrived back at the beach after a little over half an hour, sweat pouring off of me. When I travel, I bring one pair of shorts that double as swim trunks and run in them. Since I was already in swimwear, I decided to cool off in the ocean. I walked the park in front of the sea. It was not a spectacular park, but it was pleasant. The beach was mostly deserted at that hour. Now and then a feral dog patrolled the park, looking for scraps. I came back to sit on the bench in front of the motel and await Stephanie.
She got up, and we enjoyed a breakfast. We were offered the option of a fruit-centered meal with mangoes, pineapples and other such delights, or a typical Tico breakfast, with fried plantains, black beans, rice, and a few other items. It was a nice meal, but once again it was not early. Most of the things to do along the Guanacaste coast are the typical tourist activities. Many people surf or fish, though the waves at Playas del Coco didn’t seem big enough for the former. I have always wanted to try sea fishing, but Stephanie was not enthusiastic about that activity, and it was pretty expensive. I suggested that we drive up to the Nicaraguan border and see what the coast looked like up there. It was not a long drive, and we could just park near the border station, take a cab to San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, enjoy the day, and return that evening.
I had heard that Nicaragua was significantly less expensive than Costa Rica. I could not imagine that the coast and its activities could be all that much different just a few dozen miles up the road. Nicaragua suffers from a reputation worse than that of Costa Rica and Belize. It gets far less tourist traffic. Nicaragua may have been a dangerous place to visit during the Reagan Administration, but I could not imagine that was still the case. Stephanie expressed modest skepticism, but ultimately trusted me. We implemented the plan, and set off in the Jimmy toward the border station at Peñas Blancas.
(Continued)
It would have been better if I had adopted that plan promptly and set out earlier. Most days, getting a late start does not matter much, and having a happy, rested Stephanie more than compensates for the lost hours. In this case, by the time we reached Peñas Blancas, a line had formed that spilled out of the building and circled it completely once. There was no parking lot, so I parked alongside the road in some grass on the approach to the Costa Rican side of the border crossing. Most of the people crossing were immigrants going to and from Nicaragua. Many Nicos work on the Costa Rican side of the border where they earn higher wages. There were also a few expats there making a border run – a “vuelta” – by which means they reset their 90 day Costa Rican tourist visas. This is frowned upon by the Costa Ricans. They attempt to prevent this, and ask a few questions when you leave. Several people we met suspected this was what we were up to.
The day was hot. The line moved slowly. Money changers offered to trade Costa Rican Colones for Nicaraguan Cordobas. Vendors hawked snacks. Bit by bit, we inched our way toward the promise of air conditioning in the Costa Rican immigration building. Eventually, we made it in, and hiked over to the far newer, nicer, and more efficient Nicaraguan side. Shortly we were through, and walked over with just our day packs to a bus station a couple hundred yards from the border. San Juan del Sur was the closest Nicaraguan coastal city, but no buses were headed that way. I had investigated how much it should cost to catch a cab, and determined that the going rate was $30-$40 U.S. That seemed fair, as it was a 40 minute drive. Ride sharing apps were not an option, so the cab was the only way to go.
The taxis appeared to be just run down cars with some sort of plastic sign in the window or mounted to the roof. Several offered us a ride, so I began the tiresome practice of negotiation. My driver seemed set on a $100 fare and was not negotiating. I started a bit lower, but held at $40. Not until I began to walk away did he finally accede. Once the sword crossing was done, he was a friendly driver and we made small talk on the way to San Juan del Sur. We drove past massive Lake Nicaragua (Cocibolca), with its towering island Ometepe, created by two volcanoes. The island itself is over 100 square miles and was a pirate haunt in the Spanish colonial period. Such tourists as they have in Nicaragua often come to Ometepe as a destination in its own right. But that would have to wait for another trip. Our driver stopped for us to take a few pictures, then proceeded to the beachfront area of San Juan del Sur. We agreed in advance to the same fare on the way back. We exchanged WhatsApp contact information and settled in for a late lunch at a beachfront restaurant.
San Juan del Sur is a resort town, for sure, but looks a bit more run down than the Guanacaste resorts and beach towns. There were some very nice venues right on the beach, and we ate our lunch at one. The price was better than what we paid in Costa Rica, and we were at a top flight place. Our driver made sure of that. Even in this very nice beach front establishment, stray dogs occasionally came in to beg food, and vendors passed by the tables to try and sell “hand made” souvenirs, sunglasses, and all manner of kitsch.
Off in the distance, at the top of a hill, I spotted one of San Juan del Sur’s most famous landmarks, the Cristo de La Miseracordia (Christ of the Mercy) statue. It’s a very large statue atop a 440 foot hill overlooking the city. It looks like a smaller Cristo Redentor. I was sure there would be great views from there, and I was correct. Stephanie, however, looked at the hill which did have a significant incline, and was reluctant. I told her I was going to walk toward it, and that if she didn’t want to climb it, she could bale out and wait at some margarita shack while I finished the hike. It was not really all that far. I’m sure she was still a bit sore from the stairs at Manuel Antonio. We had only day packs, and she had not packed her best hiking shoes either.
We walked that way, passing a few beachfront alcohol vending stations at first, but then entering a more residential area with very nice looking vacation homes that all had some sort of cistern or water storage container on the roof. It was soon apparent that there were no more margarita shacks. Stephanie would not say so, but she did not want to stay in one without me anyway. So she hiked on as the afternoon temperature rose. Stephanie’s dander went right up with it. As we left the residences for the last climb, the road began to make switchbacks and got quite steep. We stopped often, but both of us had a good sweat going and I am sure Stephanie’s feet were not feeling great.
Once we made it to the top, however, Stephanie had to admit that the views were spectacular. We could see the entirety of the beach along the cove that was home to San Juan del Sur. On the other side of the point, we could see far up the Nicaraguan coast. There was a bit more breeze on the top of the hill. There were vendors selling water, and other snacks and drinks. I read some information about the statue, when it was constructed, and observed the small shrine there. It was a nice little hike. We took some pictures, and let Stephanie’s heels (and mood) cool down. It was a truly beautiful overlook.
We walked along the coastline after descending the hill, observing the shops, eateries, and drinkeries. I had withdrawn altogether too many Nicaraguan Cordobas, so Stephanie and I bought a disproportional amount of Nicaraguan souvenirs. I ended up with a good sampling of all of the Nicaraguan bills and coins, and quite a few surplus notes. There were plenty of signs advertising fishing expeditions for a small fraction of what those in Costa Rica cost. Perhaps I will return one day and do my sea fishing expedition from here. We enjoyed some time on the beach, watching people and taking in the scenery. It may be a little rougher around the edges, but I liked San Juan del Sur.
(Continued)
We stayed just long enough to watch a fantastic sunset over the Pacific Ocean, with San Juan del Sur’s beach and boats framing the image perfectly. It would have made a great travel brochure entry. What happened next makes a better travel adventure story than brochure entry. After a few minutes’ delay, our previous driver’s brother (or some relative) showed up to shuttle us back to the Costa Rican border. Night fell as we made our way back. We arrived at just a few minutes past six in the evening, the first of December.
As we approached the Nicaraguan side of the border, the guard told us it would not do any good to proceed any further.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Costa Rica… ees closed,” replied the guard.
“The whole country?” I asked in shock.
He explained to us that while the Nicaraguans would gladly process us, as they were still working, the Costa Ricans had closed their offices and we wouldn’t be able to pass through their side.
“Why?” I asked.
“Holiday,” he responded.
It is now emblazened on my memory that December 1st is Army Abolition Day. Costa Rica proudly boasts not having any sort of military. It was abolished – on December 1, apparently – in 1948. They worked that day, but closed the offices at 6:00, and we had arrived at 6:07. I found it more than a little irritating that all of those people in the office who had assumed we were just making a “vuelta” to renew our tourist visas once they learned we were just planning on making a day trip to San Juan del Sur failed to mention that the border crossing would close at 6:00 p.m. for Army Abolition Day.
I pleaded with the Nicaraguan guard. I explained that I had left my rental care along the side of the road in Costa Rica. We had no clothes for staying overnight. Darkness had fallen. There was no town within 50 kilometers. What were we to do? He kindly offered to call one of his amigos who was apparently had not yet left the Costa Rican office. I could hear him explain our situation in Spanish to the Costa Rican immigration official.
“Are they Ticos?” I heard the Costa Rican ask.
“Americanos,” replied the Nicaraguan guard.
“Well, then, there is nothing we can do.” Apparently, had we been Costa Ricans, they would have made an exception and let us back across. As it was, we were out of luck, and would have to figure out what to do for the night, sticky and sweaty with only the clothes we were wearing and day packs full of various Nicaraguan souvenirs.
Our cabbie was still back at the bus terminal parking lot. He suggested that the town of Rivas was the closest place likely to have rooms for the night. This jived with what limited information I had been able to look up while the Nicaraguan Guard was trying to work his magic. So, for another $40, we hired him to take us to the town of Rivas, Nicaragua for an unplanned overnight stay in Nicaragua.
It took us three attempts to find a motel that had any rooms at all. We bade our driver farewell after arranging for him to return for us – for another $40 – early the next morning. We were quoted $30 for what turned out to be a very modest room. I am pretty sure that this was the Gringo rate, but I didn’t attempt to negotiate. I was a little worried about finding a room at all, at this point, and $30 still was not a lot for a room. Our room had a bed, a bathroom, and a wall air conditioner. That was enough.
Rivas is a Spanish colonial town with a traditional Latin American square in the center, complete with churches, storefronts, and restaurants. It is kind of a regional center. There was some sort of festival going on. The square was very near our motel, and it was hopping with people and vendors. We decided it would be pointless to shower without finding a fresh set of clothes. We bought a few more souvenirs – this time shirts – and came back for a shower before heading out on the town for supper. I still have my Nicaraguan dry-fit jersey.
I just knew after all that had happened in San Juan del Sur that Stephanie would be madder than a hornet about this border crossing fiasco – getting stuck overnight with no gear, and having to make our way to some unknown town in the dark with a not-that-reliable taxi. It turns out that when it doesn’t involve pain or fatigue, Stephanie is a very good sport. I am pretty sure an average spouse would have blown a gasket at my buffoonery that led us to this misadventure. Not Stephanie. I took her to the nicest restaurant on the square, and we had our best meal of the trip. We ordered appetizers, steaks, desserts, and wine, and I think the total with the tip was not $30. Other than the standard begging dogs, it was a spectacular supper.
(Continued)
The whole evening was very nice. The sun had set. The evening was pleasant. School children marched around the square in their uniforms celebrating a holiday I would later learn was La Purisima. The square was colorful and celebratory. We wandered back to our motel with full bellies, clean clothes, a great story, and I with a special appreciation for a wife who was willing to roll with me, and trust me to navigate her through the unforeseen.
We settled into our plain but cool room for the evening, and in a reversal of our usual practice, Stephanie was out like a light and I lay awake thinking. I was a little worried about the rental car I had left in the grass alongside the road near a border station on the Costa Rican side. The rental car company had forced me to put up a ridiculous deposit for it, and I began to wonder how good USAA’s credit card based rental car insurance was. I didn’t want to have to test it. That’s why I requested our cabbie come back so early the next morning.
I eventually drifted off into a light sleep only to be awakened by what I was pretty sure was a gun shot. A minute or two later I heard another. I was fully awake this time, and was certain that’s what it was. I lay there in the bed, thinking. It was dark when we got to Rivas. What if this was the part of Nicaragua that had earned the dangerous reputation? Every couple of minutes, a gun shot went off. There was a night man at the desk in the front. I decided to head up to the water cooler and use my Spanish to inquire about the gunfire. The desk man was sleeping on a couch just inside the motel from the desk. A locked cage barred the front entry, but allowed the pleasant night air to flow in. I took a long, cool drink from the water cooler in the wee hours of the morning. The desk man apparently wasn’t alarmed by the gunfire.
I did not make much noise getting my water, but the sound of me stirring woke the desk man, and he asked if there was anything he could do for me. I asked about the shooting.
“It’s for the virgin,” he explained.
A bit puzzled by this, I pressed for more information. It was a holiday celebrating the Virgin Mary. Why it would be celebrated by gunfire, I still do not understand, though I later discovered that La Purisima is a distinctly Nicaraguan festival celebrating the conception of Mary, the national patron saint. It has been described as “Christmas, Halloween, Fourth of July, and Carnival, rolled into one.” That explained the parades, the decorated square, and apparently the gunfire, too.
We survived the night, and for once got off to a very early start, so as to arrive at the border station before any other traffic. I did not want that car parked on the side of the road any longer than it needed to be there. We arrived sometime around 6:00 a.m. at the border, and may have been the first to cross. I breathed a sigh of relief as I walked around the long slow curve between the Nicaraguan and Costa Rican immigration buildings and saw the white Jimmy parked right where I had left it.
It was not all that far back to Playas del Coco. Stephanie and I discussed our continuing plans as we drove back. We decided that we had had enough of the beach and wanted to spend a couple of days at the cloud forest. Costa Rica also has some amazing volcanoes. You can even stay in motel rooms there that have jacuzzis charged with volcanically heated water. We decided that the volcanoes and the Caribbean coast would have to wait for a later trip. We enjoyed one last delicious breakfast at our motel – since we had not used the beds, we figured we had better at least use the breakfast – and set off for the Monte Verde Cloud Forest in Costa Rica’s central highlands.
