Centipedes are plentiful and Guanacaste trees, ancient and moss-laden. The ocean is clear and green for the first 100 meters or so and the sky is azure with few clouds, unless it is late afternoon when the skies blacken and feed the earth. There is no thunder. No lightening. But beyond the thick grove of palms and other unfamiliar trees lining gray sand, the ocean is translucent green. Then-- where the water and sky meet-- is a collision of angry navy blue with nearly-black. Set against green water, the pending storm is breathtaking. Foreboding.
Meanwhile, we are floating in warm, turquoise pools. Wanting to stay-- if only to watch the sky and the water-- it is time to go. We follow an incline through the yellow and purple-leaved pathway. This is like crossing a spring stream as the rains do not relent.
Punta Leona is masterfully spread out along the Pacific coastline. Tucked away into the rainforest are little cottages and grand pools, winding trails and alas, the white sands of Playa Blanca. Foliage climbs both trees and houses. It is a constant battle between man and machete to tame the growth. When the sky opens and the waters pour, her fury is awe inspiring. Water may beat the rocks and dirt and hungry trees late into the night, but when morning breaks, beyond the trees, the sky is again a sweet blue.
The rain proves useful for showers. We stand in the little courtyard under the afternoon sky and wash our hair in her waters, which pelt so hard, the soap rinses out completely.
Power has gone out. The night is completely black. Apparently this is not unusual, and there's a candle and sturdy box of matches on the table. I fumble to strike a match and open the door. Everything is black. Our eyes have not adjusted, but when they do, it is still nearly impossible to see. There is nothing but darkness and the sound of busy monkeys and other unseen creatures among giant trees and their branches. It is seven. Hunger gnaws at our bellies, for it is time to follow the path to the house on stilts lit with candles where beet salad and chocolate ice cream and fresh fish are waiting to be served.
Eventually we hear the steady drone of generators, and borrow a flashlight to follow Greg along the paved trail to the house on stilts, where hurricane glasses filled with sand host lone, white candles. Fat carrots and broccoli are heaped onto silver platters among fuschia bouganvilla. Thinly-sliced cucumber covered in pink yogurt is delicious.
Later that night, we drift off to sleep in the same blackness: waiting, whispering... anticipating these final 15 weeks of language school. August will come and Lord willing, we will board a plane for the jungle, where there will indeed be more showers in the rain.