I open the car door a crack. The wind immediately snatches it out of my hand. When an old bony tree dies in the dry steppe here, it simply collapses in the strong wind. Our beach house is 300 metres from the spot and has room for eight people. As the only guests, we decadently treat ourselves to separate bedrooms after three weeks of travelling together.
The wind in Bahia Salinas is the strongest I have experienced in 16 years of kitesurfing. It never actually blows at less than 20 knots – with gusts of often over 50%. At high tide, the beach is completely gone and there is only a small dusty spot to launch from. (more…)
Playas Del Coco
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…)
Costa Rica is killing me…
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…)
Lost your luggage? Condor crap flying!
Dear Condor Mistfliegen,
I would like to thank you very much for losing my luggage. It’s not just Condor that loses luggage, it can happen to any airline. But the concentrated incompetence that you Condor dung flies have been offering for the last 20 days has knocked the bottom out of every barrel of my almost 100 flights so far.
I would like to thank Condor for losing my luggage, because you have finally given me the opportunity to really hurt a big company as a small individual. You love flying? I love page views! (more…)
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Kitesurfing @ Laguna De Arenal
The north-east trade wind only accelerates by five to ten knots on the last three kilometres of the 40 km long reservoir. The hot dry steppe of Guanacaste sucks the cooler, humid air masses from the highlands north of Laguna Arenal sideshore over the ticowind.com station.
The only possible launch site can only be reached via a 1.5 km long dirt track. After heavy rainfall, driving there without a 4WD is borderline. Before we arrived, it rained non-stop for two days. (more…)
La Fortuna: Rien ne vois plus
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…)
Irazú Volcano
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…)
Wet pants in Puerto Viejo
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…)
Rastafari-Smurf-Village: Bocas del Toro
We leave the Panamericana for a few hundred kilometres towards the Caribbean. The route takes us a good 200 kilometres over the mist-shrouded rainforest mountains of the Reserva forestal de fortuna, which are up to 2,200 metres high, down to the Bocas del toro. The boat takes us a few kilometres further to the island of Colon. Every backpacker between Alaska and Tierra del Fuego stops here.
We reach the Rastafarian smurf house at sunset. It smells of money, grass and hibiscus. The wooden houses are endlessly colourful, some in ruins, some in need of renovation and form a wonderfully uniform whole. Bukowski would have loved our hotel room: dark, musty-sweet, but unbeatably cheap and in the centre of dozens of bars. (more…)
Panamericana, km 532: Boquete
The Panamericana is the monster truck of the world’s roads. The thinness of the thread stretching from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego makes it the time-honoured grande dame of the road trip basics. Ewan McGregor rode it south on his motorbike. We headed north with our kites.
On the first morning of the trip, my first destination was the exciting Puente de las Americas across the Panama Canal. Today it’s Boquete at the foot of the 3,500 metre high Barú volcano in the north of Panama. Km 532. Ten hours, four buses and a nice Panameño north-west of Punta Chame, I’m quite overwhelmed by the endless expanses. The Panamericana has bitten me for the first time. (more…)
Punta Chame
John Wayne once had an island around the corner. It is now Disneyworld. Punta Chame is different. Situated at the end of a long peninsula 100 km north of Panama City, the lonely empty holiday homes of rich Panamenos withstand the strong winds. The stoner Belgian cook from our French fazienda drags us along to a kiteboarding party at the end of the road.
The glossy apartment block with Jaccuzi is empty during the week. The reggae is reminiscent of the rooftop bar on Cape Verde, but the grass smells much better. I quickly consider Jack Nicholson as a possible neighbour. I successfully combat the feeling with rum, which is the Spanish word for “grandad”. Until an Ansbach perma-traveller with a butcher’s knife pulsing in lemons tells me I’ve just eaten shark. (more…)
Oh how beautiful Panama City is!
Ghandi was not so wrong. Life is suffering. But he forgot to add that this is what makes the beauty in between shine. He would certainly have liked Panama City. Here, the latest glossy skyscrapers stand next to a completely dilapidated old town, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. At seven in the morning, the sun shines pale on empty building shells supported by steel girders.
After the tour through the Casco Antiguo, I walk a few kilometres further up to the Punete de las Americas. This is where the Panamericana motorway crosses the Panama Canal. At some point, the narrow left-hand pedestrian lane, which is never used, comes to an end. I cross to the other side and obey the many “no trespassing” signs. The canal belongs to the Americans, the bridge probably does too, and only Asterix should mess with Romans. (more…)
From milkmaids & chocolate boys
Strolling along the beach at Santa Maria, I count the 57th milkmaid/chocolate boy couple of the day. There are far more chocolate child pairings here than single malts. There are hardly any white Fickingers to be found. The black lads are crisp, the white girls are willing and the hormones are running amok.
As a white man here, you’re about as sexy as a piss-yellow olm with dorsal fur, as sought-after as scabies spread for breakfast, as popular as an oven-blasting flatmate on meth – and you’re right at the top of the endangered species list anyway. This is exactly how the dinosaurs must have felt after the comet impact. (more…)
Morning Session
Santa Maria is asleep at six in the morning. The night before at the Reggae Rooftop Bar was once again bloody. Windfinder gave 16 to 18 knots for five to eight o’clock. With three good kite days in a fortnight so far, it’s clear what needs to be done: with four hours of sleep, I stroll through the dark streets, clean and still drunk, and look for the first awake taxi.
In the light of the headlights to Mitu Kitebeach, the salt of the salt pans shines brightly. I’m all alone on the beach. The orange and black striped tiger dog sleepily cuddles a lucky cat. A small flock of sandpipers play catch with the waves. White sand dunes shine golden in the sun rising behind clouds over Africa. Above, the moon watches the waves. On some days, kitesurfing is a religion. (more…)
Santa Maria!
At dawn, above the unfinished poor houses of Santa Maria, a dead dog crawls across the cobbled street in front of me with its tail between its legs. Somewhere Ennio Morricone is playing. A prairie bush blowing in the dust is the only thing missing for the perfect tombstone feeling.
Sal is a ghost town at the beginning of October. The wind statistics for October show 68% gliding wind, but unfortunately it doesn’t reach the 15 knots required for my weight class for a whole week. The luxury hotels on the outskirts of the town are only a quarter full. Locals train on the beach in the first rays of sunshine. I understand the many blonde Euro-females with their pieces of chocolate. Fishermen sit half asleep on the quay. (more…)
Tooth Temple & Pack Up
I spend my last few days in Sri Lanka in the lively town of Kandy. The Temple of the Tooth houses a tooth of Buddha and is the largest shrine of the Sri Lankan Buddhists. Every day, thousands of people flock to the large temple complex directly on Kandy Lake in an alcohol-free October festival atmosphere.
In front of it, dozens of traders loudly offer flowers as sacrificial offerings. Their market cries sound like a spastic tuktuk stuttering through rush hour on speed. I walk past them almost every day – and fail every time I try not to grin. (more…)
Nuwara Eliya & the end of the world
From Kandy, I join two fun Swiss kiters for a trip to the Sri Lankan tea centre. We take the train early in the morning to Nuwara Eliya, just 40 kilometres away by air. The journey takes five hours and runs for around 125 kilometres, constantly ascending through endless tea plantations and jungle. The open doors are my panoramic viewpoint.
At 2000 metres above sea level, Nuwara Eliya is the highest town in Sri Lanka. It was founded in the 19th century by the heat-stricken British colonial rulers, and numerous buildings still bear witness to this today. Our accommodation is an enchanted little hostel in the style of Peter Pan: a bamboo courtyard and stream garnished with tree-trunk furniture, surrounded by small two-storey huts. King Fern Cottages. Fine. (more…)
Kandy
Only 3 hours minivanab Kalpitiya, 1 hour tuktuk roadkill through the Colombo rush hour, 4 hours waiting at the railway station, twice being blown off the kitebag by the sound pressure of departing trains and 3 hours panoramic train into the mountains away lies Kandy, the old royal city of Sri Lanka in the foothills of the mountains at an altitude of 500 metres.
Kandy is a completely different world, one that immediately enchants me, a colourful mixture of Shangri-La and small city, chaotic, loud and quiet. The evening traffic jam is interspersed with drums and mantras from the numerous monasteries. There’s a Burger King, and right next door is the Hotel Muslim, where I cleanse myself of two weeks of British food with roti, naan, curry, fresh fruit juices and candied fruit. (more…)
Of Mad Max & Mega Downwinders
My three weeks in Kalpitiya are coming to an end. It was a strange time. A lot happened, but little happened. Towards the end of the season, the wind bucked more and more violently, completely overpowered to the point of sinking every second was the standard. Landing was often difficult and many kites formed intimate relationships with the trees in SriLankaKite.
On the penultimate day, we took three boats 25 kilometres out into the upper lagoon of Puttalam to Magic Island. I do the whole trip with the chiefs as a downwinder. Thanks to the narrow lagoon here, the first six kilometres are pleasantly flat water. Every now and then the kite sinks, even frontline pulling doesn’t help. There are fleas on the seaweed in the 10cm deep water, and they bite like jellyfish. (more…)
To every order its costume!
I have been living in the climes of my new order, Srilankakite, for some time now. Our colourful habit refers to the difficult local wind conditions. My monk brothers are adorned with the inscription “Gusty ain’t for pussy”, my nun sisters proudly wear the slogan “Size does matter” on their chests. Both remind us daily how much nature is our master here.
Our daily routine is characterised by the same meditative sequence of our monastic tasks: eat, kite, work, eat, kite, eat, drink, sleep. We perform our duties with the utmost fervour, some even claim that some of the monks have fallen victim to religious madness when it comes to “drinking”. Joining the loud music around the drinking area, their call “Arrack-Attack!” announces the next round. (more…)
Safari anxiety
Everyone is afraid of something: the dentist, public toilets, spiders, the infinite vacuum in Nazi brains or coleslaw flatulence in a full lift to the 43rd floor. I’m afraid of three things: Cruises, permanent campers and safaris. Fortunately, I was able to tick off cruises and long-term campers in one go two years ago on a Philippine ferry. That leaves safaris.
The thing I’m afraid of on safaris is the people. Yes, I’ve read Tommy Jaud. But beyond that, there’s still plenty of room for socks in sandals, safari hats and fanny packs as beer belly holders. Elitist champagne breakfasts in air-conditioned safari tents at sunset. The disconnection with nature in a snow globe. And the burning question: “Karl-Heinz, why didn’t your mum ever buy you a guinea pig?”. (more…)
Kitesurfing Sri Lanka: Kalpitiya
The road from the airport leads 120 kilometres north to the Kalpitiya peninsula. The name is hard to remember, but it’s pure onomatopoeia. That’s exactly what you shout on the water, with a long “jaaa” at the end. The lagoon is about 400 metres by 2000 metres. The wind has been blowing non-stop at 25 knots for three days now.
After the Tamil Tigers gave up their civil war here in 2009, development began – very slowly. The houses of the Muslims living here are more than modest. There are just a few shelters. Even these are not ostentatious. In the evening, the village gathers around the fishermen on the beach. Ravens scream from the trees, followed by the muezzins in weird stereo from two minarets. Otherwise everything is quiet. (more…)
The Dubai Dress Code
For evening prayers, the entire Dubai airport is filled with muezzin singing from Bang&Olufsen loudspeakers. Fully veiled women and scantily clad New Arabs go to prayer. While the eternally yesterday at home consider a national referendum necessary for even the most modest mosque, here in the airport prayer room even non-believers are welcome – at least in the men’s area, but even barefoot.
I have seven hours to spare. After a cigarette at 8 o’clock in the evening, still a good 40°C, I am perfectly prepared in terms of perspiration for a classy dinner in the panorama restaurant of the Burj al Arab. If there is any “inappropriate” here, then I should fulfil it perfectly with my backpack and my 18-hour-old travel clothes. (more…)
End of a 4,000 km kite trip
My quarter of a year in Brazil is coming to an end. It was the strangest of all my journeys. In contrast to holidays, travelling means finding a home away from home. When I travelled, I often felt at home quickly in many places. Brazil was different. I could say that the wind simply blew me away too quickly. But that was only ever true on the water. On land, I spent longer in each place than on any of my other journeys.
Nevertheless, I felt at home in very few places. Perhaps even the Ballermann often has fewer Germans. Maybe kiters no longer really have a common spirt. Maybe my passion fruit and caipi love affair was too intense. Maybe the internet was almost always too bad to work. Maybe I just couldn’t open my eyes wide enough after a tough year. (more…)
Repeat Magic @ Galinhos
When travelling, it is dangerous to return to good places. Magicians can repeat tricks. But magic is unique. Most of the time, second visits are just chasing after the illusion of times gone by. People change or disappear. The magic of Galinhos is stronger: the good people stay good and the new ones blend in.
In 2,000 kilometres along the coast of Brazil, there was not a single kitespot comparable to Galinhos. I spend the last five days of my trip here. This time there are ten good kiters, the wind is blowing at 25 knots or more, much stronger than at the beginning of October. The lagoon would have room for hundreds more. But the arduous journey to get here continues to successfully deter mass tourism. (more…)
The Author
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.