Joanna Biggar's Blog

While reviews of going to Limon, the province that encompasses the Caribbean side of Costa Rica were generally enthusiastic, few people had much good to say about Puerto Limon, the main city. Full of thieves and scoundrels, we were told, a wicked place full of drug lords and gangs, and even the trying-to-be-positive guide books gave it such adjectives as “edgy” and “gritty.”  What really sold me though was a description by Paul Theroux in his book of riding the rails through Latin America in the ’80s, The Old Patagonian Express. His description of Limon was one of such brawling color and irresistible decrepitude, that as the throbbing heart of Caribbean Costa Rican culture,  it seemed a place not to be missed.

But given all the warnings, we decided it prudent to put ourselves in the “safe” part of town and venture out slowly. To that end, we made reservations at the Park Hotel, the best in town, and overlooking the sea. It probably is the best in town, with TV (we watched the Oscars!) an Internet connection in the restaurant, and water that moved off the lukewarm dial in the shower. The view from our window overlooked a crumbling sea wall and a patch of  “beach” consisting of dirt and rocks, where the sea pounded mercilessly at high tide.  The view reminded me of films I’ve seen of Cuba, though with little evidence of faded grandeur and a rich past.

The View from Our Window -- "Tristes Tropiques?"

When we first went out to walk around we went to Parque Vargas, about a block away. This is one of the city attractions — a park with carefully planted palms and a kind of Italianate gazebo, and as is the fashion here, the tree trunks had been painted several different rings of color, though that paint too was fading and the ground beneath was a sea of mud.  Most incongruously, Limon is a stopping off place for cruise ships, and there just behind the park an enormous Carnaval line ship was anchored,  its gringo tourists suddenly disgorged  like locusts into the grimy port town. Of all the gringo outfits we have encountered in this country, I don’t think any was more startling than that of a pretty blond woman with a distinctly Southern accent wandering around that park in a sparkly blue sheath suitable for a cocktail party.

Doug Among the Painted Palms of Vargas Park

A stone’s throw offshore, and visible from our hotel balcony, was Isla Uvita, where Columbus paid a call in 1502.  He didn’t stay long, and nobody from the outside much showed up until the 19th Century, when the railroad was put in, bringing with it Jamaicans, who brought their culture, Italians, who brought their names (lots of Italian names), and Chinese, who brought their cuisine.  Bananas were planted in large numbers to feed the railroad workers, and in the wake of the train came banana plantations, exports, and the United Fruit Company — a whole other story.

Being distinctly uncharmed by the supposed attractions of the seaside, we decided to venture into the streets. As in San Jose, there is a long pedestrian street lined with shops. The further we wandered, the more entranced we became. Yes, Limon is gritty, but it is also amazingly diverse, a crossroad of cultures, and throbbing with vitality. We went into the old post office, where the walls are literally crumbling and listened to three old black men, who evidently used the stone benches there as a sort of club house, jabbering antimatedly in their Jamaican patois. We saw the local school with its neat interior and play equipment and little kids in clean uniforms, proving that even on the far side of the country, the dedication to investing in education still holds.

Elementary School in Downtown Limon

We wandered further and further, eventually finding a car rental place where we arranged for a car, figuring at this stage and given the transportation situation, we had done our bit with buses and boats. Afterwards, we went inside a little restaurant for a cold drink. We spent the next hour entranced by the passing scene: a graybearded “Rasta” man crossing the intersection, shirtless, having a conversation with entities unseen in this world; an Indian woman of about 80, wearing a bright green dress, carrying her plastic shopping bags, and her hair in thick braids, now white, down her back; a young black man riding a bike with a baby girl strapped onto his chest; cops, some men, some women, walking their beat in black uniforms; a young black kid in sneakers, baggy pants and backwards cap, who could have been at home in Oakland, with his slim Latina girlfriend in her decorous school uniform, with long socks; a pair of gringo back-packers, packs on back, looking like weird aliens in their full-body wash n’ dry Ranger Rick clothes, complete with floppy hats; a slew of young chicas of every hue and shape strutting their stuff with what Doug calls “blow-on” pants, tight shirts, and glamorous stiletto heels. Meanwhile, a guy had set up a kiosk on the sidewalk where he sold fresh fruit and blended it in a juicer. He had lots of customers, including Doug.

I could go on, but you see why we loved our stop-over in Limon, and why we’re glad, contrary to all good advice, we didn’t pass it by.