Joanna Biggar's Blog

Mardi Gras in Flamingo

View from the Monkey Bar

  Everybody told us. Mardi Gras isn’t really a Tica fiesta. But by our second day at the CPI campus in Flamingo,  a small upscale town on the hot (95 this time of year) beautiful beach on the Gunacaste coast north of Tamorindo, we had trouble believing it. After school, in the camus with a central courtyard, fountains, lovely small swimming pool and beach across the street, Doug and I hung around the town to await the “non-traditional” festivities, and amused ourselves with our first visit to the “Monkey Bar,” a  thatched-  roofed bar with pool attached to a fancy hotel on a hilltop, with wonderful stiff breezes and views of palm-fringed beaches in every direction.  Oh yes, and the good part: they gave “student discounts” to the tune of 25%.

Monkey Bar, Inside View

  Following that we went to the beach north of town with its impeccable white sands and shade trees and braved a stiff surf, then went back to school to check out the impending festivities.

Courtyard at School in Playa Flamingo

     The parade started rolling about 4. The first clue to the real inspiration behind it was the arrival of two old gringos riding a golf cart and wearing paper hats. then, after quite a delay, the rest started to roll: four-wheelers, jeeps, pick-ups, large trucks, broken-down vans, more golf carts. Some were full of gringos wearing mardi-gras masks, beads and other crazy get-ups; kids were wearing what appeared to be Hallowe’en costumes, and melting in the heat; some were full of Tico with paper masks, cowboy outfits, cars decked out like traditional old wagons, and dusty trucks with owners diverted from their farms or plumbing shops proudly showing signs of their trade. People threw candy and traditional Mardi Gras beads, and initially, when the parade started in the nearby town of Potrero, there had been gifts for the kids. There were a few squeaky bands and several attempts to play “When the Saints Go Marching In,” but none were successful.

     Then the parade stopped and the festivities continued in two bar/restaurants in town. Beer seemed to flow in every which direction, and the bar where we ended up served hurracanes. Even though it isn’t a Tico festivitiy, it seemed to be a new tradition met that is met with great hoopla and enthusiasm — a Tico tradition in itself. And it seemed more promising than some of the local customs for Holy Week; one town for example, near the city of Santa Cruz, sends its young men into the river to pick out and tie up a crocodile, which is then taken into the town square until they release it back on Easter Day.

    After a couple of hours of this, with “mariachi” type music mixing with rock over speakers blaring everywhere, the trucks, carts, beat-up vans, etc. began to vanish. That left the big, fancy jeeps, small SUV’s and other more upscale vehicles, a signal of the whole event. By this time the party had shifted to a place called Marie’s where the restaurant spills out onto a plaza. Most of the Ticos had drifted home, which left the Gringos, mostly “older”, mostly American who had been flushed out of the hills for this cultural highlight. It became a curious ex-pat scene with “our guys” wearing silly masks or purple wigs, or wild “tropical” shirts over extended bellies, hairy legs sticking out everywhere. Not a pretty sight, but curious, and it was  appalling how well we fit in. So we joined the party, downed margaritas, and danced barefoot in the plaza to the sounds of the Beatles, Stones, Pink Floyd and even Dylan (yes!) played by a pretty hot Tico band, soon to perform at a rock/blues festival in San Jose. A good time was had by all. And afterwards, not wanting to walk the dark, dangerous road back to the apartments at that hour, we asked if we could call a taxi. A minute later, a youngish American in a straw hat appeared, and said he would give us a lift. Turns out he was the owner of the restaurant. We thanked him profusely of course, and he replied, “What the hell, it’s Mardi Gras!”