Real connections between people in Nosara
On a Monday morning in a little shop in Garza I could not work out the colones and handed over a note that was far too large. The woman counted my change back into my hand three times, slowly, coin by coin, until I understood every one. She was not irritated. She said, again? I said, again. I now understand colones, and I understand her. I buy one mango from her every day so that I can keep practising. She has stopped counting. I have not.
The fridge went quiet while I was holding the milk, and the fan above the table slowed until I could see each blade. Then the router light went out too. It was only mid afternoon, so there was no dark to blame it on. Everyone I know here shrugs and says it comes back, which it did, after a while. I would like to know what people with a full week of plans do about it, on the beach road or anywhere else. What do you actually do when the power and internet cut out in the afternoon?
You were paddling out at Playa Guiones at dawn and I was standing waist deep with a rented board and a look of pure panic. You looked back and shouted, just lie down. I lay down. A wave took me and I came up laughing with the board in my hand. You gave me a thumbs up from fifty meters out. I caught my first wave on Thursday, a small one, forty meters. Nobody was watching, but it counted. I have looked for a pink board every morning at 5.30. It is always a different pink.
Someone said the turtles were coming to Ostional beach, so I walked down in the middle of the night. A man beside me on the sand spoke in a very low voice the whole time, explaining what each turtle was doing, and when one reached the dry sand he went completely quiet. Forty of us watched in the dark with no lights. I counted nine turtles. I have never been so aware of my own breathing. I did not know the man's name. I did not need it. I have kept my voice low since.
Near the Playa Guiones entrance a woman at a craft table told her friend, "It is not plastic, it is coconut shell, that is why it costs that much." The friend turned the bowl over, ran a thumb along the rim, and set it down very gently, as if it had just been introduced to her. I was pretending to read the notice board and listening to every word. She bought it, and carried it off in both hands.
I forgot my wallet at a small shop near Playa Pelada on Saturday at noon, and my groceries were already bagged. The woman said, take them, pay me when you can. I came back the next morning with the money and she was surprised I had remembered. She gave me a mango and a small hug. That is how it works here. I have been back every day since, and I always pay on the same day. It does not seem to matter to her. It matters to me.
I cut my foot badly on a rock near Garza one Tuesday afternoon and could not walk. A woman I had never met put me in her truck, drove the bumpy road to the clinic with the window down and one hand on my shoulder, and waited until the nurse had finished. Eleven stitches. She did not tell me her name. I limped for a week and told the story to everyone. I wear shoes on the beach now. I would like to wear them for her.
My rental truck was stuck in soft sand near Playa Guiones at noon and I was digging with a flip flop. Someone walked by with a red surfboard bag. You looked at the truck, looked at the flip flop, and ran off. Five minutes later you came back with a piece of wood and two friends. We pushed for eleven minutes. The truck moved. You left without saying anything. I never got to say thank you. The truck is fine. The flip flop is retired.
