To the beach!

“Vamos a la playa! Vamos a la playa!” Reecey chanted.

We had reserved two seats on TicaBus, which offered a coach-like services from Granada to San Jose and the promise of a swifter clearance through the Nicaragua-Costa Rica land border. Next time we’ll take public buses again for 5% of the price.

The Nicaragua-Costa Rica border, heaving with people in the sweltering pre-Christmas rush, was now dusty and quiet as we made our way back to Costa Rica. It was there that it became clear we will never book on TicaBus again:

1. A three and a half hour journey inexplicably took six and a half hours.
2. The bus assistant struggled to understand that he was not an immigration officer (“Passports, passports”) but a bus assistant - who should therefore probably assist with bus-related matters such as the location of the bus stops.
3. The remake of Jaws, followed by its mutant-crocodile sequel, is not the best DVD option for transporting holiday-makers to the beach.

This was particularly the case given our friend in the local swamp.

But the Costa Ricans were happy to let their toddlers play twenty metres away while they took photos of el crocodillo no more than five metres away. (I was happy to look down from the safety of the bridge).

We arrived at Liberia, a regional town in Costa Rica’s northern plains, in time to catch a 6.10 pm bus to Nicoya, the gateway to the Pacific beaches. The two hour journey set us back 1200 colones each - a much more reasonable $2.40 a pop. For two hours, we bumped along the Costa Rican countryside under a clear, starry night, our packs sitting on our laps as BYO airbags.

A little boy sat on his mother’s lap next to Reecey and looked fearfully at her with all her bags.

We arrived in Nicoya too late for the onward bus to our beach, Playa Carillo, but not too late to catch a taxi. Our taxi driver was one of 20 children, which we both thought was incredible, until we befriended another Tica on New Years’ Eve who was one of 23 children. It was black but we could still hear the waves when we arrived at La Tropicale.

The owner, Arno, had already gone to bed but came out to greet us in pyjama bottoms and a warm welcome. He had reshuffled the rooms around due to our late (and doubtful) arrival, so we got to sleep in his spare bedroom, usually reserved for visits from his mother living in France.

The house, designed by Arno, is beautifully decked out over two levels with a loft, surrounded by trees and with wide balconies making it a perfect set for a Robinson Crusoe remake.

The next morning, Arno greeted us with fresh fruit, fresh coffee and toast with guava marmalade. Arno must be Playa Carillo’s most interesting character: he speaks a mashed dialect of English, Spanish and his native French. He was trained as a dancer and previously ran a guesthouse in Morocco, where he also worked for the King as a painter, until he “Just fell in love with Costa Rica darling!” His enthusiasm for his “project” and inherent gift as an attentive and engaging host, combined with a hint of traditional French snobbery, gave life to La Tropicale.

Kuku, Arno’s pet macaw, was the star of breakfast. “Hola!” he would mutter, then “Arno!” Reecey made friends with him when she let him pinch a piece of her marmalade toast.

Playa Carillio itself is beautiful, a bell-shaped beach lined with palm trees, clear blue-green water and playful waves. We swam in the mornings and watched sunsets in the evenings.

We spent New Years Eve with Arno and his friends (including Kuku, asleep in the tree) at La Tropicale. (Confession time - we had a nanna nap between 7 pm and 8.30 pm so we were awake for the festivities!)

We watched the fireworks from Arno's balcony, comforted Arno's startled pet dogs and wished our Mexican party-goers Feliz Ano Neuvo and promptly went to bed!

Happy New Year!