Today was easily one of my favorite days in Costa Rica so far.

It started around about 5:30 this morning, when the howler monkeys outside of my cabin decided to give me a wake up call a good hour before my alarm was to go off. I wanted to be angry, but then I realized how undeniably awesome it was that there were monkeys waking me up and therefore decided to embrace it. This was followed by my complimentary breakfast; I was expecting cold bread and third-rate jelly, as America has forced me to grow accustomed to, but I was greeted (in German/Spanish/English, which I have decided to call "Englermish") by one of the lodge employees with the question, "How do you like your eggs?" It was closer to "A usted, como le gusto Ihre Eier? Scrambled?" Seriously, they move in and out of languages just like that. They're German immigrants who studied English in school but have lived in Costa Rica for several years. The owner's name is Wolf, which is sweet. Anyway, I got some really good scrambled eggs for breakfast and had a nice trilingual conversation with a couple of the guy's daughters. It was weird.

Moving on, it was pretty rainy this morning, so the beach really wasn't an option for me. However, I did still have my scooter (which still rules, see previous entry), and so I decided I would do some exploring of the area. I packed a few things in my bag (guidebook, passport, camera, iPod, etc.) and headed north.

Upon reaching a fork in the road, with one direction taking me to Cahuita and the other taking me to Panama, I realized that a whole world of possibility had opened up to me. I was only 32 kilometers from the border crossing at Sixaola, and another stamp on my passport was just too much to resist. So I revved up the ol' Yamaha and headed towards Panama. It was still raining pretty hard, though, and the speed limit was 80km/h (50mph), so I was getting pelted with rain and actually started to get a little cold. In Costa Rica, for crying out loud! I'm such a pansy; good thing I have a scooter to keep me macho.

Anyway, about 45 minutes later, the sun came out just as I was pulling into Sixaola. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Luckily there are kids who hang out at the bridge all day long to help tourists like me figure out what we're supposed to do. One of the ninos by the name of Emeriano latched onto me, and I've never been so grateful to have an eleven year old kid following me around. He spoke no English, but he spoke very clear Spanish and he had plenty to say. He pointed out the immigration office to me, helped me figure out which forms to fill out, and then he walked over the river Sixaola with me and provided some nice conversation about the area. Apparently a lot of tourists come through Sixaola in order to get to some area called "Bocas" and do a tour or something that's supposed to be pretty sweet. But there's also a fair amount of college-aged gringos just like me who just want to be able to say that they've been to Panama.

On the other side of the river Sixaola (meaning, in Panama), after paying my exit tax in Colones and receiving my change in dollars (which I don't understand), I went over to the neighboring Chinese restaurant and had a Pepsi. I put my iPod headphones on, turned it to "Panama" by Van Halen and watched some soccer on TV.

Yes. I have listened to "Panama" in Panama. Can you say that?

I finished my Pepsi and walked around town for a minute, and realized that there really wasn't much there. A supermarket, the aforementioned Chinese place, and a candy store were really all that the town had to offer. The main business of the town is pretty much wrapped up in people crossing the border, which is why all of the local kids hang around. As best I as I can tell, there's even a system for it. The 3-7 year old kids walk around shining shoes, the 8-13 year olds guide people through the process of crossing the border, and the 14-17 year olds are the managers of the whole operation, telling which kids to go with which tourists and pointing the shoe-shiners towards the people who look the most gullible. Anybody older than that works directly for immigration, either behind the stamp-desk or guarding the bridge.

So I returned to Costa Rica, walking the 200 or so yards across the footbridge that would take me back to immigration.

Oh, sidenote that I forgot to mention: it is illegal for motor traffic (for the most part) to cross the bridge. All persons must go on foot. Except, of course, for semi trucks. Seriously, just people on foot and semi trucks. I don't understand it, but that's the way it is. The road is EXACTLY the right width for one semi truck and one person. But not a fat person. Only skinny people can cross this bridge without fearing for their safety. Okay, end of sidenote.

By the time I had gone through both sides of immigration again, the sun was out in full force and it was about 1:00. I figured that meant that it was about time for me to be at the beach. I hopped on my hog (conveniently parked next to an orange juice tienda, which had some of the best juice I have ever had in my life that was purchased in exchange for the parking privileges) and headed back to Puerto Viejo.

The drive back was glorious. The sun was on my face and the scenery was alternating between banana plantations and rainforest the whole way. At one point, I couldn't help grinning. Then a fly flew into my teeth. I stopped grinning after that, but I still felt pretty good.

About forty minutes later, I got back to town and continued heading south. The best beaches around here, apparently, are very isolated. The only road that goes to them was only paved in the past couple of years, so they aren't yet feeling the strain of tourism and have retained much of their original beauty. And man, what beauty. It wasn't white sands and turquoise water, like you might find in Cancun or something like that, but it was definitely some of the most beautiful beach I've ever seen. Undisturbed jungle for miles, with the only eyesores around being the sixty-year-old men wearing speedos ("banana hammocks") who occasionally pass by. Aside from them, t was fantastic.

I got a little hungry, so in the southernmost village I could access with Growling Thunder (my scooter), I decided it was high time I had more seafood. Manzanillo, the village I was in, is apparently known for having some fantastic Caribbean seafood, so I ordered a whole grilled fish. Seriously, that was what my waiter (who was black and spoke very good Spanish with a Jamaican accent) recommended to me. Outrageous how good it was. I love the food in this area.

I spent the rest of the daylight hours working my way up the twenty kilometers or so of beaches in search of some of the most beautiful stretches on which to get some photos and maybe catch some sun. Once the sun had gone down, it was (of course) time for supper.

This was easily the best meal I've had yet, if not in Puerto Viejo then in all of Costa Rica. This village, in addition to being known for its seafood and its surfing, is very well known for the Italian immigrants who have settled down here. Italians everywhere. Italian food everywhere. I picked a restaurant that was right on the beach (Amimodo, if you're curious) and watched the last rays of daylight disappear while I perused the menu.

Get this: lobster ravioli. Outrageously good. I finished so quickly I think my waitress thought I had spilled it or something. I had never had lobster before, mostly because every time I thought I would have it I would look my lobster in the eye and realize that I simply couldn't sentence him to whatever fate my stomach would decide for him. This is why my food shouldn't have eyes while it's on my plate. Luckily, ravioli has no eyes, and thus I had the culinary experience of my year. Brilliant.

So tomorrow I have to leave around 11:00 in the morning to return to San José. If it rains again (which it probably will) I won't make it back to the beach, but I'll have had a good time here anyway. Either way, I've got seven or eight pictures I'll be posting either tomorrow or Monday, so we'll have some good times then. Hasta Luego.

"No hay motos aqui."
-Juan