PDA Report, February 14, 2005

Dominical, Costa Rica

I’m swinging in a hammock at a Pacific beach resort called Dominical. Forgive me, this must be a tiresome (if not annoying) topic for some of you. Indulge me this one last time. I hear the thundering, rolling surf nearby which is constant. I’m reading a novel, the first item I had picked up from a spartan shelf at Tranquilo hostel: Douglas Coupland’s ‘Hey Nostradamus!’  Scarcely past the first page, I’m struck by the fine writing (have not read him before).

He describes a Vancouver winter morning: “The air was see-your-breath chilly, and the front lawn was crunchy with frost, as though each blade had been batter fried.” I’m hooked! The setting is the North Shore featuring locations such as Ambleside and The White Spot. Places I’m intimately familiar with. I notice something shadowy from the corner of my eye. A green iguana about the size of a cat, ferocious looking thing, waddles past me at arm’s length, disappears behind a stack of construction lumber beside my tent.

Dominical comprises a tiny dirt road village with a 3-4 km stretch of sandy beach. I  came here because of its reputation for minimal development. True, mostly; there’s just the right mix of thatched roof dwellings, upscale hotels, cheap cabinas, camping, general store, bistro, fruit stands, internet café, real estate office, and traditional sodas, all concentrated and interconnected, tucked here and there -- very intimate.

The beach proper is devoid of any man-made edifice. Still, I can't get over the amount of trash on the ground, particularly in the campground region. A triffle, I suppose, in comparison to what I've seen in Nicaragua, but it bothers me to no end and inexcusable for Costa Rica. Over two days I don't think I saw more than a dozen people on the beach at any one time. Turns out, however, that Uvita 20 km to the south, is the place I've really been looking for -– the end of the rainbow.

I'm staying at the far edge of the village, the last establishment on the strip, a place called Pyramys. It's weird. A partially finished/abandoned two storey restaurant/dwelling, about 50 ft square-- all concrete. It's got the ambience of a bombed-out bunker, grafitti (murals?) all over. Only the ground level has a modicum of finish, the second level is but a slab of incredulously sloppily poured concrete, half finished pillars with rebar sticking out rising to a dashed dream 3rd storey never to be. From the pillars extend irregular drift wood logs forming a cathedral-like A-frame roof structure with corrugated metal or plastic. It sort of works spatially, but can't imagine it being part of the original design. The second storey is in effect a loft without walls, a table top with roof; the campground. What's really weird is that when you walk on the loft floor, the building shakes.

There are about half a dozen tents pitched of which I've rented one. Beer bottles, ashtrays and camping paraphernalia strewn about. Lizzards dart in every direction.  My tent is filthy, musty, but I've run out of pocket cash, there's no bank and at $4 per night I'm not complaining. The woman proprietor is friendly, fetches me clean linen. There are dungeon toilets and showers. There's a single hammock. And there's the ocean, 50 paces ahead.

This is surfer territory. I asked one practicioner how he'd rate it. Says it's a 6 or 7 world class, but for consistency can't be beat. I'm blisfully lost, alternately to the surf in my ears, my mp3 player and the novel. Two strapping dudes, twenty-somethings appear. I recognize them from the night before. Together with some girls they partied all night, presumably oblivious to me trying to sleep in my tent.

They drank, smoked pot, drank, smoked pot, ordered pizza, talked. Someone had desktop speakers -- first it was some techno-thump reggae/hip-hop-rap fusion you hear everywhere in Central America (it engages for the first 15 seconds, then saps your soul). Some godawful metallica followed. Then, mercifully, they settled on jamming on their guitars. God, it was bad.

Amazingly, they managed a decent rendition of Ottmar Liebert at one point -- I was stunned. The taller of the two asks me for a lighter. I shrug. They shuffle about then recline in their chairs beside me, pass a joint between them.

Later in the afternoon the dude approaches again, asks if I've seen a bong lying around.

There's a van parked at the beach underneath the palm trees. It's got British Columbia licence plates. A small maple leaf flag on a stick is stuck to one of the rear doors. I feel a mixture of embarrasment and distaste, similar to when I encounter fans careening down Robson St. after a hockey game.

Thirty years ago I travelled through Europe and, of course, I had a maple leaf stitched to my backpack. I think I had a bumper sticker on the car too. It was cool back then. With Americans appropriating the habit for camouflage, you'd think it was time to stop. Why not just hang a flag with the word SMUG written on it?

On Ometepe last month I encountered a guy from Saskatoon. He had maple leafs stitched to every piece of his vast array of luggage, including his guitar case. He would ask people where they were from, and before they could open their mouths he'd launch into a documentary about Canada. In MY country this... in MY country that...

There's a new arrival on the scene, a young man with dreadlocks from southern France. He pitches his tent, introduces himself as Boris, is eager to chat. He's a gardener, into organic farming, has travelled the world as a woofer, wants to buy land and build a yurt. We've got stuff to talk about. I tell him about Ike's orchard. The dude approaches, asks Boris if he's got any weed. Boris shrugs.

The dude then slowly turns to me, asks where I'm from. I've met hundreds of travellers over these past two months. Every encounter congenial, neutral at worst. There's been the odd love-in. Now, an intense dislike wells up inside of me -- try as I might, cannot dispel it.

I'm from Vancouver. Oh. He doesn't reciprocate until I prompt him. And you? Oh, we're from the Gulf Islands. I'm left dangling for specificity. I add: actually, I live on Gabriola Island. Oh... we're from Galiano, that van down there by the beach, that's us, there's a bunch of us from Galiano -- the dude was born there!

We quip about how the two islands, three actually, Galiano, Gabriola and Gambier get mixed up in people's minds. His cohort chimes in that his grandfather lives on Gabriola, just down the road from the Twin Beaches store.

At some point I plug my mp3 player into the desktop speakers. The quivering, tangy-twangy jazz/blues of Harry Manx come on. It follows I should mention he's from Salt Spring. Harry who? Manx. M-a-n-x.

It might as well be Mannix for all these lugs can comprehend.

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