DISCLAIMER: This post is not about Jiu Jitsu, but it's my blog, so try and stop me.
Due to the Great Thanksgiving Eve Midwestern Fog, we were rerouted and delayed getting into Costa Rica. While we were set to arrive around 7:30pm, we actually showed up around 10:30, which seems to be a bit past CR's bedtime, because the buses and trams had long since stopped running for the night. Given that our choices were take a cab or sleep in the airport, we chose a two hour cab ride, through the jungle/mountains/countryside of Guanacaste. It was a well-paved "highway", but tiny and winding, with no shoulder to speak of a lot of drastic roadside drop-offs (I think there were drop-offs. It was also really dark out there).
After two or three years of riding in absolute silence, save for the quiet Reggae that Cab Driver seemed to dig, we arrived in the town of Samara, and followed the signs to our resort. By now its around 12:30am, so at first the sight of a huge wall, guard building and closed gate out front aren't that alarming, even if it is pitch black inside, because there are probably beds in there somewhere, we think. We pull into the drive and Cab Driver rolls down the window and starts speaking (in Spanish, of course) to a very surprised guard. Rosie and I don't really speak Spanish, so whatever they're saying is a mystery, but it's probably, hopefully about how happy they are to see us and how the beds here are the comfiest in all of CR. After a while, it becomes pretty clear that something's amiss. After being asked to understand Spanish (a request we were unable to fulfill) and writing down our names and reservation number on a very unofficial-looking legal pad, Guard spends some time on his walkie talkie and returns to talk to Cab Driver, who probably really just wants to go home. Cab Driver takes in the mystery information and looks concerned, we look concerned, Guard looks concerned, so we look concerned again.
Finally Cab Driver (who is probably about 19 years old) calls his English-speaking girlfriend and she explains that the hotel is closed for renovations and our reservation has been canceled, but that Cab Driver is going to take us to a hotel down the street. It's only when we start to ask follow up questions that we learn that she doesn't actually work for the hotel. We thank Girlfriend, mutter "gracias" to Guard and drive down back down the pitch dark street, past a free-wandering horse, toward our new hotel. After a couple of turns, we come upon a tiny gravel lot on what looks like one of the oldest, tiniest Motel Seis ever. It's after 1am by now, so the front desk area is empty and mostly dark, so Cab Driver gestures for us to stay put (where else would we go?) and makes enough of a ruckus to draw the attention of the night watchman, to whom he explains, I assume, that he has two very stupid white girls in his car and he's going to leave us for dead if Night Watchman doesn't let us have a room. Night Watchman agrees to let us have a room (and probably that we're stupid) and Cab Driver gets our bag from the back, we pay him a million, billion dollars for not killing us and leaving us in a ditch and send him on his way.
Inside the lobby, Night Watchman pulls out a composition book (the kind with the marbled cover and non-perforated, lined pages) and writes our names and our passport numbers then explains in vvveeerrrryyyy ssssslllooooowww Spanish that there may be someone who may be there sometime in the morning who maybe speaks English and can explain to us what is happening/has happened, probably, so go to sleep. We walk up the stairs to plain, mid-sized hotel room with a bathroom that's covered in fire ants and try to get some sleep.
After two or three years of riding in absolute silence, save for the quiet Reggae that Cab Driver seemed to dig, we arrived in the town of Samara, and followed the signs to our resort. By now its around 12:30am, so at first the sight of a huge wall, guard building and closed gate out front aren't that alarming, even if it is pitch black inside, because there are probably beds in there somewhere, we think. We pull into the drive and Cab Driver rolls down the window and starts speaking (in Spanish, of course) to a very surprised guard. Rosie and I don't really speak Spanish, so whatever they're saying is a mystery, but it's probably, hopefully about how happy they are to see us and how the beds here are the comfiest in all of CR. After a while, it becomes pretty clear that something's amiss. After being asked to understand Spanish (a request we were unable to fulfill) and writing down our names and reservation number on a very unofficial-looking legal pad, Guard spends some time on his walkie talkie and returns to talk to Cab Driver, who probably really just wants to go home. Cab Driver takes in the mystery information and looks concerned, we look concerned, Guard looks concerned, so we look concerned again.
Finally Cab Driver (who is probably about 19 years old) calls his English-speaking girlfriend and she explains that the hotel is closed for renovations and our reservation has been canceled, but that Cab Driver is going to take us to a hotel down the street. It's only when we start to ask follow up questions that we learn that she doesn't actually work for the hotel. We thank Girlfriend, mutter "gracias" to Guard and drive down back down the pitch dark street, past a free-wandering horse, toward our new hotel. After a couple of turns, we come upon a tiny gravel lot on what looks like one of the oldest, tiniest Motel Seis ever. It's after 1am by now, so the front desk area is empty and mostly dark, so Cab Driver gestures for us to stay put (where else would we go?) and makes enough of a ruckus to draw the attention of the night watchman, to whom he explains, I assume, that he has two very stupid white girls in his car and he's going to leave us for dead if Night Watchman doesn't let us have a room. Night Watchman agrees to let us have a room (and probably that we're stupid) and Cab Driver gets our bag from the back, we pay him a million, billion dollars for not killing us and leaving us in a ditch and send him on his way.
Inside the lobby, Night Watchman pulls out a composition book (the kind with the marbled cover and non-perforated, lined pages) and writes our names and our passport numbers then explains in vvveeerrrryyyy ssssslllooooowww Spanish that there may be someone who may be there sometime in the morning who maybe speaks English and can explain to us what is happening/has happened, probably, so go to sleep. We walk up the stairs to plain, mid-sized hotel room with a bathroom that's covered in fire ants and try to get some sleep.
Continued in part two. Stay tuned.
Don't stop now!
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