The feeling I got when first stepping into the crystal clear water on the beach just in front of my bungalow was pure happiness, zen and an instant release of all tensions. The temperature of the water was perfect and it was beautifully turquoise. I was thrown into contemplation about the beauty of my reality and thanked myself for enduring all those late hours at the office – if this is what I can actually get in return for working hard, life is absolutely amazing.

And yes, it’s up to me to make sure that I save enough money, allocate enough time and make all those planning efforts needed to keep being able to arrange cheap and beautiful get-away’s and battery charging trips like this. They bring me that extra dose of inspiration and energy to continue doing what I do, and those travel friendships and stories shared by kind people that I can’t get enough of.

So I arrived to Little Corn at 11am and found my way to a Lodge called Cool Spot which is situated right on the beach just like most places on the little island. I got away very cheap as I got my own bungalow for 15USD, and I headed straight out to the sun where I had a swim, a 3USD traditional Nica breakfast and instantly met new friends. One of them was the local diving instructor and crab-fisher Wyvon – his favourite song is the Titanic song and I have him on video singing it for me. One of many videos to look forward to.

While taking a walk around the little village later on I met Marcelo who also lives at Little Corn, he invited me for traditional Latin American ceviche (fresh raw fish marinated in lime and spiced with ají, chili and onion.) that him and his fiends were going to prepare and eat at the place where I lived. So I joined the Corn Islanders, a group of Nicaraguans who have chosen to dedicate their lives to travels and handicrafts sales and three travelling German girls who had joined the guys and travelled with them the past month – the ceviche was amazing, the company was fun and inspiring.

Later on in the night we walked to a nightclub where we spoke to local fishermen and danced a bit, it was Sunday, so it was quite calm and I decided to leave a bit earlier. One of the guys, Carlos, followed me home through the dark jungle and I was amazed by the sounds of the nature and by how strong the moonlight was. “The Island is completely safe,” Carlos explained, “you can walk around alone in the night, carry your big camera, everything. There is a system in the community that if somebody commits a crime and you know about it, you have to report it not to be considered an accomplice. People are generally calm and happy so it’s very, very safe here. This is why I live here, the place has a positive energy.”

The next morning I woke up early with the sun shining in through between the boards of my door, I opened my bungalow and let the sea breeze in and then spent the morning at the beach where I continued talking with Wyvon and his friend the Rastaman who both speak Creole English and insisted on calling me Coraline. I spent the day like that, reading, talking to people, and going for a walk and lunch with Annika, one of the German girls.

Hannah, the absolutely beautiful Japanese-Mongolian-Something-German girl who had chosen to join the Nicaraguan handicrafters and learn their skills offered to braid a decoration into my hair just like the one’s the rest of the group were wearing. I happily accepted, chose the colours I wanted, and spent the next hour sitting with the group and chatting about the mayans and vegetarianism while everybody were working on something, Carlos was making a necklace, Carlos 2 was fixing the seams on my leather bag, Wyvon was talking about Obama and bringing us coconuts from the palm trees on the beach, Darwin was smiling, and Hannah was working on my hair.

In the evening Reina, one of the local girls, invited us to come over to her place to cook the traditional Jamaican dish Run Down. So we took that beautiful walk to the other side to the island guided by the moonlight once again, and the guys started cooking. I was amazed by how they simply cut the coconuts, vegetables and bananas straight off from the plants in the garden to start preparing the fish stew. Everything was peeled, the coconuts were graded and then Marcelo added water to the graded coconut and extracted the coconut milk that the stew was based on. Everything was made from scratch and thrown into a big bowl that was placed on a fire next to us. In the meantime, Darwin kept cutting down more coconuts, both the brown and the orange kind, from the trees around us and opening them so that we could drink coconut water and eat while we were waiting. It was like being in paradise where everything was simple and 3 year old Isak and his baby-brother Ivan were playing around. And there was a monkey.

Yes. Reina and her sister Shana have a baby monkey in their garden. His name is Pingu and he loves coconut as well.

We ate the Run Down which tasted absolutely amazing (- really!) and had some talks before returning back to our place. Annika and I agreed on our 5am catching the flight wake-up time, I sat for a while with the group in the bar and then I went to my bungalow, packed my backpack, relaxed and fell asleep.

Corn Island is a beautiful place with perfect beaches that one can experience while partying with young Americans, snorkeling or just reading books and hanging out. I had an absolutely amazing time, shaped mostly by the people I met and the surrounding nature. Being able to eat straight off the trees and feeling truly connected to nature by having the moon guide one’s way through a pitch-black jungle brings a certain depth to one’s reality. A love not only for the place and context, but for life in general and everything around you. Pure bliss.

The urge to travel and see something new, different and fresh took my mind all the way to Nicaragua’s Caribbean coast. It was already Friday, I would get Monday off, and I had three options for my weekend trip:

1. Catching a Saturday morning flight from Managua to Corn Island and spend three full days on paradise beaches. Quickest, easiest and safest, 80USD.
2. Catching a 6h Saturday morning bus from Managua to Rama, 2h boat to Bluefields, arrive at 14pm and spend the rest of the day in Bluefields to see the town and hopefully some Palo de Mayo celebrations before catching a Sunday morning flight to Corn Island. Safe and cheap, 17USD.
3. Catching a 6h Friday evening nightly bus from Managua to Rama, spend 3h in Rama waiting for the sun to rise to catch the 2h boat to Bluefields, spend the entire day in Bluefields and then catch the Sunday morning flight to Corn Island. Most difficult, longest, most interesting, 17USD.

I asked a friend what he thought about my options,

“Well, I would really prefer you to take the flight or at least go by day with the bus, but I already know which option you will choose..”

(For those of you wondering how to get from Managua to Bluefields and/or Corn Island, the options are 1,5h by air with La Costeña (leaving 6.20am or 14pm, +50522632142) or by 8-12h Bus+Boat with Transportes Wendelyn Vargas (leaving 6am or 9pm, +50522532879) to Bluefields and then a 15minute flight with La Costeña – you can easily book your flights online or via the phone. Booking a seat in the bus is not possible and you will need to go to the Costa Atlantica Terminal in Managua directly to buy the tickets, what you can do is call to confirm that there are still free seats. For the hardcore savers with a lot of time to spend there is also a boat from Bluefields to Corn Island but I know little of it as it leaves only once a week and takes 6-24h.)

So yes, I actually went to the bus terminal on the same day to catch my 9pm bus. I just couldn’t miss out on the experience of going by bus by night, talking to sleepy people in Rama, and getting a full day in Bluefields.

The busride from Managua wasn’t hard at all. The full bus left a couple of minutes after 9pm and I was sitting next to Michael, a guy my age from Corn Island who had been working on a cruiser ship the past six months and was going back home for vacation, bringing bottles of Jack Daniels to celebrate with his friends. We shared some nice talks and watched each other’s bags the way good travelbuddies do. I was really impressed by the great standard of the highway and managed to get about 2h of sleep in between the loud salsa music and the stops we made. At 3am we arrived in Rama, not a second late.

In Rama it’s smart to get in line as soon as possible to get your name on the listfor the boats, there was no problem as it is low season now and there were not that much people but Michael told me it gets really bad when many buses arrive at the same time. I spent the next three hours in Rama walking around with my camera by the station and speaking to people while Jurassic Park III was playing on a TV on the wall. People were sleeping, eating and yawning. I took some photos of a boy that laughed really hard when he saw himself on the display of my camera and spoke to the girl sitting next to him, her name was Scarlyn and she was 16 years old.

“That’s such a beautiful and expressive boy, is he yours?”
“Yes it’s my son, Joel. He is two years old.”

Scarlyn and I had a talk, about stuff, about her studies, about life.

“So where’s the daddy?” I finally asked. “He’s at home with my mother, my 36 year old stepdad is the boy’s father.” she answered without showing any sign of feeling uncomfortable about the fact. “Oh okay, how long has he lived with you?” I asked, trying not to disrespect her by showing the pity she wasn’t asking for. “For the past 9 years” she calmly answered. I was impressed by her very mature and calm way of speaking reasonably with the boy when he started to whine and she added that she thought it was important for her to continue her studies, and that she didn’t mind me to share the photos and her story on my website.

Scarlyn is one of many young mothers in Nicaragua, teen pregnancies being the most common reason for school dropouts in the country. An extremely sad reality of little girls suddenly being thrown and forced into being adult, responsible women..

At 5.30am it started to lighten up and we moved from the benches in the station to wait by the boats. “We can leave as soon as the sun comes up.” Michael told me and people started to place their bags in lines on the ground as men in camouflaged suits searched their luggage for drugs with a happy golden retriever.

The boatride was cold. Bring something warm if you are going by speedboat! The wind was hard and people were covering their faces, but the air was crisp and the views were beautiful. I was a bit exhausted and finally fell asleep for the hour I had left in movement.

We arrived in Bluefields two hours later, at 8am, and I had no idea where to go apart from the fact that I wanted to wash my face, wander around and find a place to stay, so I said goodbye to Michael and started walking. I went to the central market which as you know is golden for both photos and people, I met so many interesting people during the day (Majesty, Jorge) that I will share the stories separately from this post not to make it too long.

Anyway, my first mission was finding a place to sleep and leave my bag, I stepped into some cheap hotels that didn’t really call for my attention and then an old woman pointed to a house. “Over there, by the mattresses, the lady in there is renting rooms.” I stepped into the porch of the house and the lady was a bit surprised that I had found it but I got a nice room with en suite bathroom for 10USD, much less than those ugly hotels. The daughter in the house was 28 years old and told me that she was a hairdresser, so I let her cut my hair. My walk around Bluefields was beautiful and I was trying to listen in as much as possible on the Creole English I heard on the street. A guy in Rasta’s approached me and asked: “Hey gyal, I be wonderin is you people be with you der in de Sweden.” I think he wondered whether I have my family in Sweden or here, but I’m still not sure. At noon I took a two hour powernap before getting out again, in the evening I had a great fish fillet at the Pelican’s Bay Restaurant on the seashore and when I came home I sat for a while with the old landlady, watching Nicaraguan talk shows and laughing.

As agreed, the daughter in the house, Angelica, took me out for me to see the Palo de Mayo celebrations. The festival is celebrated throughout the month in different neigbourhoods of Bluefields and ends with a big festival in the last weekend of May. We asked around to find out where the Palo de Mayo was and took a taxi to the 19 de Julio suburb of Bluefields to join the party. The dancing started with the Tululu chain of people dancing underneath a tunnel of arms, going round and round and round. And then there was some proper Palo de Mayo dirty dancing. We danced as well, although we didn’t go full-crazy as the other’s did, but it was great fun anyway, and the guys were not only great dancers but also completely fine with keeping their distance which was a bit against the stereotype I originally had about the dance and context. A fantastic evening full of positive energy.

We decided to go home when the party began crossing the line to slightly uncomfortable as people were getting too drunk. The moment we jumped into our cab and started driving home the sky opened up and I got a beautiful night to the sound of rain against the metal roof of my room.

On Sunday, I woke up at 5.30am and hugged Angelica and her mother goodbye. I went to the airport and was there way too early, so I took a walk around the airport area instead. My camera took me to an area with houses built just by the water. There, I met an 84 year old man that was very happy about having his picture taken, and the two four-year-olds Merelyn and Marlo that I had a talk with – then I had to hurry back to the airport to catch my flight and wave goodbye to Bluefields, a true gem of diversity and kindness.

Suntanned, beautiful people of all ages walk shoeless in the little village of Tamarindo, carrying nothing but their surfboards. Dogs run around freely, wagging their tails and waiting for their masters to get back from the water, fresh, ice cold fruit smoothies are widely available, the beach bars play tropical lounge music, the temperature is absolutely perfect in the evenings, and the sunsets are red.

You don’t get far into Costa Rica before hearing the expression Pura Vida for the first time. Pura Vida translates to Pure Life, and is used both as a greeting and a synonym for “Great!” and “Life is beautiful!”. The waves that have earned the small beach towns on the pacific coast of Costa Rica their fame have created a tangible and slightly over-exploited surfer’s paradise vibe here. Blond, long haired men, American accents, beautiful girls on cruiser bikes, well defined abdominal muscles, horses, beers, perfect tans and all those dogs.

“Hey man, what’s up? Been to the water yet? How are the waves out there today?”

The standard phrase between my friend Frank and most of the people we meet while walking around the village makes me take for granted that everybody here surfs. People gather from different corners of the world, everybody seems to know each other, and Spanish is only the second choice of language. I ask about the code of conduct for surfing, about the different surfboards, about the dangers, about the relationship with the locals, and about the difficulties in learning the skill.

Frank explains patiently. It takes about ten years to learn how to surf properly. One can stand up on the board already on the first day, but then there’s a whole world of understanding how to read currents, weather, wind and waves. The time of the preferred “high tide” moves forward by exactly 50 minutes each day, coral reefs can be a deadly, there are sharks in Tamarindo. Surfing seems to be a sport that demands not only skill and cautiouness, but also a lot of patience. One can sometimes spend several hours in the water, only to catch a few waves.

“We line up in the water, and the first one’s on the sides get to catch the wave, depending on which side it comes from. If they miss it the next person tries to paddle up and take it, however, one should always respect the Ticos and give them priority. We don’t want the local community to feel that we came to their paradise to steal the waves. The waters belong to them and we are only guests.”

I met Frank in 2007, before my first backpacking trip to South America. He already had 10 years of experience travelling by himself at that point, and I basically needed somebody to tell me that I could travel around the continent on my own and that he had met other girls who travelled alone. We were introduced by a common friend, met for a cup of tea and travel stories, and I was reassured that I was going to be fine. Since then, we have been following each other’s adventures on Facebook and staying in touch sporadically about our whereabouts. This time we were too close by not to meet and catch up.

Frank is from my city in Sweden but decided many years ago that he prefers the lifestyle in Latin America and that he wants to focus on enjoying life, so he finally sold his apartment and moved to Tamarindo. Today, Frank basically walks around barefoot, drinks fruit juice, follows the stock market and surfs.

“Sometimes you are not sure about all of this.. it becomes a bit monotonous, especially when the weather goes bad for a couple of days and there is nothing to do in this little village. But very soon you sit down and relax after a couple of hours of surfing beautiful waves, you have a proper look at the sun as it sets, and then you realize the great value in this lifestyle.”

Craving for a couple of days without time, responsibilities or planning, I came back to Tamarindo to spend the remainder of my time in Costa Rica on the beach. I knew that hanging out with Frank would be simple and flowing, which is exactly what it proved to be. We ate in different places, walked all the way to Langosta beach where we met Frank’s friend Theresa, watched the sunset with our maracuya daiquiris and went out dancing all three of us. On Sunday, Frank and I left the house by noon, bought fruit salads and smoothies, and then spent the entire day on the beach until long after the stars had come out. We spoke about randomness, ate tuna sashimi, and finally went home to watch a movie.

Monday morning I went out early for a stroll on my own, had a fantastic breakfast where I was surprised with avocado, pineapple and strawberries as a bonus, and spent my last half hour in Tamarindo enjoying the sun before heading back to Frank’s place, picking up my backpack, and hopping on the bus.

There was no time, no musts, no nada of the likes in Tamarindo. Only Pura Vida, smoothies, sun, beach and contemplation. And I kept feeling happy and grateful for allowing myself to aim for and appreciate these simple moments, and for once again having access to a hippie paradise just around the corner.