Puerto Viejo, Never-Never-Land for the Surfer Type

I crossed the border from Panama and found myself in the beach town of Puerto Viejo, on the southern Caribbean coast of Costa Rica.  The shuttle dropped me off at Rocking J’s, a sprawling hippie-surfer-backpacker compound that offers $5/night hammocks and $7/tents (private rooms started at $20).

The walls are covered in a collage of backpacker art work:  broken tiles built into mosaics covering every wall, doors and lockers with individual murals and near the reception desk you can find these rules painted on the archway:

1.  If you’re smoking marijuana, do it on the beach.
2.  Everyone must shower once a day.
3.  3 months is the maximum stay.
(Oh and check out is at 11.)

I’d never seen a hostel like this.  It felt distinctly like summer camp for the 21-25 set, with all the amenities the low budget traveler could want.   You can see the ocean while you brush your teeth.  Every night there are bonfires and guitar playing.  The in-house restaurant has cheap but excellent food.  You can watch movies from the comfort of a hammock.  The owner’s 3 dogs roam the property, covered in salt from swimming in the ocean and looking for dropped food or a little affection.

I had to stay for a bit, just to check it out.

Beyond the stretch of beach that Rocking J’s runs along, there is a coast line that draws thousands of surfers every year.  Coral reefs provide big breaks at Salsa Brava, swimmers hang out at Punta Uva and find private nooks to sunbathe, Playa Negra has black sand beaches that are perfect for beginning surf lessons.  I wore my bathing suit every day for a week, beneath my sundress, and rode a rented bicycle up and down pot-holed dirt road.  It rained.  I didn’t care.  I skipped the surf lessons after seeing the churning waves and rip tides that threaten to steal my flip flops when I tested the water.  It wasn’t the best time to be in Puerto Viejo, but I didn’t want to leave.

For my patience, on the second to last night, I met some locals.  Luis rents bicycles by the hour and took some of my friends out fishing off the reef, by the ship wrecked barge that was current growing plant life from it’s top deck just 10 feet off shore.  They caught 5 big fish, and that night we prepared a traditional fish stew.  I peeled yucca and potatoes and chatted with Luis in Spanish.  He said we were his family.  This is the Costa Rica way.  He fried the fish, added dried shrimp paste, shredded coconut, local vegetables and cilantro.  He watched us eat before taking any for himself.

“In Costa Rica we help each other.  Whatever I have is yours.”  I must have mumbled something, as I stuffed more of the deliciously rich stew into my mouth.  “When you come back, you find me.”  I don’t think I could forget him.  That night I slept in my tent, and wondered about Luis, who sees so many people come and go and yet still remains open and friendly.  It always surprises me, the kindness of strangers.  Perhaps it’s something I can import into my own life.