The Beach Called La Mancha

Bejuco – Quepos, Costa Rica

We pretty much saw a jaguar today. Or maybe a puma. Not really sure. But it was big and very cool. 

So we’re riding along, minding our own business, about to go across a bridge over a river, when a guy on the other side of the bridge yells out:

”Hey Gringo!”

And then he says some other stuff that I don’t understand and he’s pointing down toward the river on his side of the bridge. 

I actually think I’m pretty good at these universal language things. Like the crocodile sign from the fisherman the other day. Because I pretty much know that this guy is seeing something cool and he wants us to come see it as well. When you’re a savant in these universal language things you just kind of intuit information like this . . .

I put my bike down and tell Diana to stop and come as well. (She’s not a gringo – she’s a Chino (as she is generally reminded at least once per day . . .) – so, presumably, the guy was not talking to her – but I figure it’s okay to include her anyway because she’s mi esposa. . .)

But there’s some traffic so it takes us a moment to get over there – and by the time we do, whatever the guy was looking at is gone. Nothing but water flowing gently downstream . . .

We ask him what he saw and he says, “La Gato.” And he’s also saying “grande” – as in, big. 

The guy has a statement tattoo on his face. I’m not sure what he’s committed to, but he is definitely committed. Good for him!

He’s pointing and gesturing and talking about the grande la gato – but, alas, there is nothing there. 

Eventually he walks off the bridge and into the jungle. He has bare feet. Even more commitment . . .

I’m not sure what he’s doing, and Diana and I start thinking about leaving. But then he appears out of the jungle about a hundred yards up river. He’s gesturing a little, but even committed-tattoo-guy is starting to lose his enthusiasm. 

He reappears on the bridge and he’s muttering “cerca” – which means “close” in English. But, sadly, the super-giant ultra-rare jaguar that we pretty much saw does not reappear . . . 

We get a picture with tattoo-man. (Not the one on Fantasy Island – this guy is normal height and everything. Although this place could easily be where they filmed Fantasy Island. It’s tropical. There’s the ocean. There’s volcanoes and, apparently, monkeys and stuff. No report on whether Ricardo Montleban lives here or anything – but he probably does . . . I guess I should start thinking about my fantasy. Maybe it’s finally time to check into an auto hotel . . .) 

Our next sighting is a little bit more real – even if equally rare. We see not one, not two, but several groups of serious riders on the road. Nice bikes. Kits. The whole nine yards. 

And I guess if you didn’t believe it before, this is absolute confirmation that Costa Rica is basically a U.S. state. Because I can tell you that we haven’t seen anything like that on this trip. Even in the U.S. we didn’t see packs of riders after we left Minneapolis . . .

Next stop: Playa La Mancha. 

Playa is the Spanish word for beach. Love that word. Easy to remember. Because you “play” at the beach. Makes perfect sense. 

Anyway, Playa de Mancha is basically in Quepos – the town we are staying in. We pick up some picnic lunch stuff and head over to the Playa. Sounds simple enough . . .

Except – seems like there is always an “except,” doesn’t it . . .?

Except the road goes straight up. I mean, steeper than the road up to Antigua in Guatemala. Whoever heard of having to go straight up in order to get to the beach? And, of course, I’m hungry at this point. Was planning on enjoying my lunch after we arrived . . . 

The only thing worse than going straight up on a loaded bike, is going straight up on a loaded bike with an empty stomach and that hollow feeling that you get when you’re this hungry . . .

But, of course, it gets worse. 

We eventually take a turn, and now we’re on – you guessed it – a dirt/rock road. Huge baby head rocks. Super steep – up and down and up and up again. 

After a while we are both walking our bikes. It is just too steep – you kind of feel like you’re going to tumble over backwards . . .

Inevitably, incredibly, the road gets even worse – now with a huge eroded pit in the middle of it (like Martell’s Pothole in the Chequamegon – if you know that event). At this point we abandon the bikes altogether. We lock them on the side of the road, take our stuff for the beach, and hope no one messes with anything while we’re gone (so far on this trip we have no incidents of theft whatsoever). 

It’s quite a hike down from here – and the final stretch has ropes to grab onto because it is so steep. Well, it has A rope to grab onto. The rest of the way is, I think, cheap extension cord that someone has rigged up along the trail. (It’s the little occasional nuggets like these that remind you that for all the boba tea and U.S. pricing – Costa Rica is still officially part of Central America after all . . .)

But when we arrive it is spectacular! Totally worth it. A little protected cove with maybe half a dozen other people. Nice sand. Picturesque rockiness. Quaint ships sailing by in the distance. 

This is probably where Blue Lagoon was filmed. Is that the one where Brook Shields was naked? Because this is, I guess, officially a clothing optional beach. But no one is nude today . . . Diana was, I think, a little disappointed about this. 

“I would have stripped right down if other people had been nude,” she said later. 

“In Canada – when we went to Toronto – the nude beach actually had nude people,” she remarked. “Who would have thought the Canadians would be more liberal on stuff like this than the Costa Ricans . . .?”

We finally have our picnic lunch, enjoy a few hours playing in the surf, and probably soak up too much sun. Whatever. It’s a glorious afternoon . . .

But the best part of the day? Making dinner for ourselves in the much-cheaper-than-a-hotel airbnb that Diana booked for us. We splurged and bought a liter of cream (that’s the only size they had) so that Diana could make her trademark mashed potatoes and cabbage – and, oh, were they good! 

The pan fried pre-marinated pork chops we bought were great as well. 

At this point I’m just sitting here reveling in that delightful feeling of fullness that you get after a homemade meal when you can eat your fill and it’s your own food. It’s funny – it’s one of those things that you only realize when you’re traveling. How valuable meals like that are. I think sometimes we think that the best meals are the ones at some fancy restaurant. But travel for 100 days or so – probably especially if you are biking or hiking and using up like a billion calories a day – and you’ll realize – nothing compares to what you make yourself . . .

Tomorrow? Manuel Antonio National Park. I guess we’re going on a nature tour that Diana booked. I don’t want to put pressure on the tour company – but can anyone say: “Monkeys and Sloths!”

I mean, we already have seen scarlet macaws, crocodiles, anteaters, and we – pretty much – havejaguars covered. So we’re not asking for much here . . .

We’ll see . . .