Dirt. In my ears, on my scalp, up my nose, between my toes, all over my skin.
We said goodbye to Carol and headed out the door at 11 a.m. to look at yet another house for rent, this time in Villa Real, a little town just outside of
Tamarindo with a big grassy square in the middle. Jean Pierre, a friend of the owner, met us with his wife Francine, and had us follow them to the property. They speak no English; I speak no French, so we settled for broken Spanish which was neither
elegant nor precise but sort of worked.
For nearly 20 minutes we ambled over dirt roads, passing a funeral, a small heard of unattended horses, and a surprising amount of traffic. The house was beautiful but very far on a road that would turn
the underside of our borrowed car into shredded wheat if we used it regularly.
On the way home, the car stopped. Jean Pierre circled back and gave us a jump, which enabled us to go another kilometer or so.
Ultimately
we sent Jean Pierre and Francine home, called a tow truck, and settled down in the shade to wait. It hasn’t rained here since before our arrival in January, and the heat bears down every day. Its dusty. When the wind whipped up or cars
zoomed by, we were showered in dirt.
In an hour, the tow truck arrived. Eddie, our driver, skillfully loaded the car onto the truck, piled us in, and took us to the same mechanic where we had bought our fuse a few weeks ago. Crammed
into the front seat, I felt like I was on a teetering ride at the fair as we whipped along the curvy roads, motorcycles passing us with an inch or so to spare on blind curves. Costa Ricans take their Sundays seriously, so of course the mechanic was closed.
We started our walk into town, quite hungry by this time.
Eventually we arrived at Witches Rock, where we inhaled a few beers, some nachos, and a quesadilla. Then, handing over all the cash we had with us to pay for the food, we started our
walk back home just as the sun was beginning to set.