Los Hombres of Samara

by Taylor Johnson (United States of America)

Making a local connection Costa Rica

My body was covered in sand and my hair dripping with a mix of mud, ocean water and blood. My jean shorts were ripped; I was convinced I was concussed from the earlier challenge, but I couldn't stop smiling. Samara Beach lies in the Guanacaste province of Costa Rica, forty-five minutes by bus from the city of Nicoya, where the local Samareños go to pay their bills. The route to Samara is filled with curves and potholes, one can easily lose themselves in the forests that surround the road or be struck by the wildlife which seems to play hide and seek with the passing cars. On the beach itself, the energy changes into a profound almost trance-like state, with the sound of the ocean mixed with the indistinct chatter of people acting as hypnosis. The beach is relaxed the majority of the time, only during the December high season are there enough people to overcrowd the magic of the sand. During high tide, the sea is filled with all who are looking to feel the waves. When the tide is low, the shore is littered with coral and shells and horses; the horses always roam free in Samara with the local children acting as guides. If the tide is low enough after work, the locals have a mejenga ( the Costa Rican word for a pick up soccer game) on the beach until the sun sets. My host brother told me about the mejengas the first night I arrived. I had to play. “Puedo Jugar?” Can I play? I asked my first day after my spanish classes my heart beating hoping they wouldn’t say no. SI! the oldest man of the group said laughing. I was nowhere near the level of the locals. No matter how hard I played, it seemed they were always faster and more skillful, but I always found myself smiling from the joy I felt playing in what felt like paradise. My first week in Samara, I played every day. I would limp home, sore and exhausted, covered in sand and blisters ready to play again. The locals began to call me Modric after the Real Madrid futbalista, for the resemblance and the fact my name is difficult to pronounce in Spanish. The games were always physical, filled with passion and pride. They always told me "Mas fuerte Modric, Más fuerte con cuerpo" Stronger Modric, Stronger with Body. They were never afraid to put their bodies on the line, however, even the hardest foul was never met with violence, they were all brothers on the beach. In most cases, they were related or had known each other their whole life: the curse of living in a town of only 1,500 residents. With time, I began to feel part of that brotherhood. When walking to the beach, I was always met with ”Pura vida Modric, Todo bien?” I didn’t recognize everyone I talked to, but I would always respond “Pura vida mae” Living the good life dude. At bars and nightclubs, I would see the men I would play soccer with, and we’d drink Pilsen or Imperial (the national beers of Costa Rica) while talking about our lives. There I learned Samara had one of the best beach soccer teams in the country but that they were severely underfunded. I also learned many played soccer professionally or with another team and just played the mejenga for fun. While others had families and worked full time as fishermen or tour guides. The hardest part is leaving the trance of Samara Beach. I sat on the beach, taking in the scene. The tide was not low enough to play, but the locals sat smoking rolled cigarettes while watching the citrus bruising sunset. They asked if I had brought my ball so we could juggle it a little. I told them I had left it at my house, and let them know it was my last day. They all shook my hand and said goodbye, tears brewing in my eyes. I remember the one who had always played the hardest saying in his accented English , “It was amazing though wasn’t it, Modric? When are you going to come back?”