I’d grown quite fond of Nicaragua for the segment of it we experienced. Not least for its volcano sledging and studded landscapes, colonial jewels of the Spanish-American culture and corkers on the hostel scene, but also the food. Tasty fare from the Caribbean creole to the Maya-influenced Spanish style cooking was noticeably lighter on the pocket and consequently tastier somehow. Give me a street-side polystyrene plate of stuffed tacos, rice and black beans or a dish of homemade stew bobbing with the local veggies and blue corn pupusas (tortillas infused with egg and cheese) for dipping any day of the week. We owe our taste buds exposure to a whole world of culinary delights, do we not?
Blog
30 Jun 2015 – A ‘day at the beach’ blitzing borders: three countries, two bikers & a happy ending
My sleep-haunted cries came only as stifled whimpers, muffled by my clamped jaws and the bedding. What started as the previous evening’s premonition had been driven home with startling swiftness that morning. Jason rousted me from my slumber with, “Come on lazy bones, GET UP.” The coincidence of our hostel being called ‘Lazy Bones’ wasn’t wasted on me. Regardless. It was official; our trip in the tropics had turned into motorcycle boot camp. I didn’t dare to ascertain the time for which my morbid curiosity so desperately wanted to know. Too late, I was told. “Pass me my spork would you, darling and I can spoon your eyes out,” was my preferred response at 4.56am—fuelled by a desire for a sense of well-meted justice. You could even say I’m not a morning person.
24-29 Jun 2015 – Bobsledding at volcano velocity, air raid sirens & Pearl’s umpteenth saving grace
Negotiating a decent rate with Gonzalo, owner of Cabinas Corobici in Cañas made our final overnight stay in Costa Rica a good one: peace-of-mind parking, a rudimentary but comfortable room and a cheap Chinese restaurant nearby where the portions were substantial and the prices not too shabby. Topped off with an invigoratingly cold shower, I could ask for no more post a hot day’s ride.
3-24 Jun 2015 – A moto-damsel-in-a-rear-wheel-snag & an unforgettable MOO!
“Oh, it feels soo good to be back on the bikes, and finally making headway through Central America! Eh, Jase?” Riding carefree at a cruisey 50 miles per hour inching our way out of Costa Rica while her sun caressed our faces, a flash of worry began to flicker inside my head. Why was Pearl susceptible to the odd tremor on the smooth stuff? Her tyres weren’t flat, not even the front one—forging ahead after 23,500 miles—so why the wobbling, missy? Mmmn?
21 May-2 Jun 2015 – 57 lost miles, flying by the seat of our pants & loose wheels
“How many milos back to San José, Jase?” I casually enquired astride Pearl having spent my energy and half the day with the hummingbirds at Chichona.
“According to the sat nav, 57 miles” was the succinct reply received down the helmet intercom.
“Really? Well, what’s that massive city down there then?” I queried as we contoured down the mountain road towards a metropolis of urban sprawl.
“I don’t know but we’ve still got nearly 60 miles to go yet.”
Blindly following Jason who was blindly following the GPS took us into the concrete heart of said unknown city, whereupon I enquired with stronger conviction, “Look at that sign Jase, it says we’re only three Ks from San José, this must be it.”
13-20 May 2015 – The Blue-jeans frog & hummers in every hue
At risk of becoming full-time residents at Camping Maria near Cahuita, it was a wrench to go and meander into pastures new. After moving camp a couple of times—shoreline tent pitching can be a little damp at best with those boisterous Caribbean waves—we got settled having made a pleasurable little routine for ourselves in which to indulge daily, such as taking long beach walks, fortifying ourselves with home cooked meals in Maria’s beach-garden and amusing ourselves with the Jason’s production of Mission Impossible about the black and green poison dart frog.
5-12 May 2015 – Camping in Costa Rica: seesawing the Pacific’s calm & Caribbean palms
The air, leaden with its usual heavy humidity was also laced with thick vegetation and alive with the noisy chirps of crickets. As well as the deep bulging calls of howler monkeys, affording us a quick glance as they were beckoned into the black heart of the forest. It provided a melodic background to the faint purl of an ebb tide; its subdued waves gently stroking the sandy shore. Manuel Antonio usually tended toward a manic tourist spot throughout peak season, although we greeted it—a small oceanside village in the Pacific region—in the serenity of the off-season.