With some people you plan journeys for eons. Other travelling partners find you within moments. Both have one thing in common: you have no idea where the journey with them will take you. Real travelling is always unplannable, open and without a destination.

I’ve grinned 17 Thai ticks to death, talked 24 Egyptian vultures to sleep and sung at least 32 Filipino karaoke guys to death, but it’s in the pushers on the Nicaraguan border that I find my masters for the first time. On the 800 metre walk between Costa Rica and Nicaragua, an ever-changing swarm of at least five eloquent shithouse flies accomplish the masterpiece of taking a whopping $60 out of a globetrotter’s pocket instead of the necessary $20. (more…)

Playas del Coco surprises us. Actually, we were just looking for a suitable stretch of coastline where the wind comes sideshore. We find a nice little village in a beautiful bay on the Pacific. Our hotel with a huge room is right on the beach, and there’s already a bit of wind blowing on the beach when we arrive. The bars and restaurants are not too crowded and the village is a pleasantly Rastafarian-free zone.

The next morning, the wind doesn’t really get going. We drive a few kilometres by car to the more north-facing, secluded Playa Panama. (more…)

After almost 1000 kilometres on the Caribbean side and through the Costa Rican highlands, we rejoin the Panamericana. The road from Laguna Arenal was marked normally on the map. It takes us two and a half hours to drive the last 40 kilometres of steep gravel road down to the Pacific. Some local residents said it would be impassable with our car.

The Panamericana takes us another one and a half hours to the tourist centre of Jaco, 100 km to the south. The grubby surfer hostel right on the beach offers free surfboards, but waves without wind are just not my thing. (more…)

The Inuit may not have 17 words for snow, but the Ticos know 21 words for rain – and one for fate. During our two days in La Fortuna, we see the Arenal volcano up to an altitude of 20 metres, despite two days of continuous rain, and dripping mud monsters return home from hikes.

The number of five-star resorts is only surpassed by the price of drinks. Six US dollars for a can of beer is a top value even in expensive Costa Rica. There is nothing that is not available here: Rafting, zipline, hot pool, night hike, horse riding, mountain biking, quad tours and, of course, volcano climbing. (more…)

At six in the morning, the rain clouds hang low over Orosí. The ascent to the 3,432 metre-high Irazú volcano, a good hour away, seems to be a washout. Unexpectedly, however, the thick cloud cover breaks up on the way. When we arrive at the gate to the crater at eight o’clock, after a heavy heat-up among the first cars, the weather is perfect. La Brass Bande disperses above the clouds.

Parking on the Irazu volcano is only permitted in reverse. The last eruption was only in 1994, and for an entrance fee of $15, the safety-conscious traveller can expect perfect evacuation preparation. At the edge of the caldera we find the height of Costa Rican smoking racism: the Ticos have declared the entire volcano a smoke-free zone. A hilarious affront that we can’t possibly ignore. (more…)

We pull our kitebags across the border to Costa Rica on an old railway bridge with holes in it. The formalities are minimal. Hamburg didn’t let Condor’s crap flies on the plane under the false pretence that their return ticket had to be from the same country. No border guard wants to see the flight tickets here.

The first stop in Costa Rica is Hippie-Central Puerto Viejo, a somewhat too relaxed little surfer village on the Caribbean side. The non-pot smokers are a radical minority here, with teetotallers on the red list. The Rastas smoke weed everywhere and all the time. Not taking the plug out of your mouth when a police car drives past is good manners here. (more…)