Those who came here for pura vida style refuge (and built the industry) now look at their Frankenstein a bit bewildered. Gil, a muscled retiree from Queens who looks like he could bench press a surfer, runs a small cafe where people stop by all day to chat or have a soda out of the sun. Once he counted--a truck passes down the narrow dirt strip every 60 seconds. They rip up the road, covering the cafes, the souvenir stand mobiles, even the sarong-clad girls from Denver and London, in a thick coat of golden dust.
Villa Macondo is a petite refuge from the fray, a tiled pool surrounded by sun-colored cabins and palm fronds. It´s offshoot location, blocks off the main strip, is filling fast with high-rise condos, created by construction crews who start their excavating and pounding at 6:30 am, in earshot both of four-star honeymooners and budget lodgers alike. I was shown around by the hotel´s Tica owner while frontloaders beeped and blared in the background.
So, what did they make of all this? I asked.
They were trying. Some guests on chaise lounges had ipods stuffed in their ears. What could she say? She peered high above our heads, blinking out the blinding blue. ¨We think, honestly, that one day one of these men will fall into our pool.¨