The recent flooding and stranding of hundreds of people in Macchu Pichu and Aguas Calientes, Peru, has wondering what Tamarindo would be like if it was hit by a natural disaster of epic proportions. What follows is a fictitious account of this alternate reality.

When the first wave rolled in high off the horizon on that fateful morning, the surfers hooted and hollered, and began paddling further out from shore. No one wanted to be caught inside of the large waves building up in the distance, and soon they were heading out to sea through the biggest waves Costa Rica has ever seen. Later that day, as people moved through the wreckage from the waves, trying to pick up the pieces of their broken lives, the stories would begin to circulate of one heroic surfer who’d turned and dropped into a wave so big, he survived only by riding it all the way in and landing in the third floor balcony of a room in the Hotel El Diria, several hundred meters in from the shore. No one knew how he’d managed to paddle into a wave of such size, but everyone who repeated the story would go on to praise a higher power that must have been watching over him.

By the end of the day, the death toll in Tamarindo would be reported at a grand total of four. Many had been injured and were lying in emergency care facilities set up in aisles of the Super Compro grocery store, but the only fatalities seemed to be a group of down and out Ticos sitting on the beach when the largest of the waves came through. One witness saw these men as she was running for here life and later told reporters that they’d been pulling from a bottle of cheap guaro while the killer wall of water headed right for them. “They were just laughing and pointing,” she said. “I yelled at them to run, but one of them just, he just whistled and gave me this gross look like he was trying to see through my clothes.”

On the second night, things seem to have regained some semblance of normalcy. Many of the bars are full of revelers, cheering their survival and recounting where they were when the wave hit. The electricity hasn’t been down long enough for the beer to go cold, and the surviving restaurants are selling tickets to all-you-can eat barbeques in an effort to use up their meat before it goes bad. I’m eating as much as I can, because I know that food will become sparse in the coming days. The only real road into town has been washed out, meaning no one is able to leave, and no supplies can be brought in. I’ve stocked up on dry goods from the local store, and have a large stash of cookies, chips, and bottles of drinking water to get me through. People don’t seem to have realized the extent of our isolation out here, and only a few of us have begun to hoard supplies. Things are going to get rough here, and I plan to be prepared.

It is now three days after the wave hit, and I’m walking through the remains of the main stretch of town. Most of the buildings are still largely intact, lacking only the glass that had been shattered by incoming water and floating debris. Shop owners sort clothing and cheap souvenirs into piles of salable and ruined, and the restaurant staff try to locate the tables and chairs that were swept into the street and smashed to pieces. The only real road into town has been washed out, and with no one able to get out of town, and no supplies coming in, things are getting a bit desperate. The armed guards normally standing with shotguns at the ready outside of the banks, have been relocated to the stores with the largest remaining supplies of alcohol. Once cheap prices for beer and hard liquor have now soared as availability of those bottles and cans not smashed or lost has dwindled to a meager supply. Long lines of surfers stretch out of these shops, with those who’ve just made their purchases clutching bags to their chests and scurrying back to their rooms under the hungry gaze of the line-up. A cute girl wearing tiny cut-off jean shorts and a bikini top wanders aimlessly among the crowds, handing out fliers to last week’s ‘girls drink free’ night at Club Aqua. A makeshift bandage covers her head, locks of blonde hair flowing out behind it, and when she hands me the flier I notice that her vacant eyes seem to look through me, as if she doesn’t know where she is.

I’ve spent most of the four days since my last outing hiding in my room. Feeling that someone has to document this tragedy of human suffering, I decide to go back out into the town. The initially hopeful air of those trying to rebuild after the disaster has been replaced with the sour stink of fear and desperation. By now, most of the shops are empty or boarded up, having been looted of merchandise. From the window of a store where I search for food, I see two surfers stepping out of a surf shop with arms full of board shorts. “These shorts were seventy dollars before the wave,” one of them said when he saw me watching them. “They were practically robbing us at those prices, so now we’re robbing them!”

A block past the empty food store, I come upon a real-estate agent sitting in the street with his head in his hands. Between choking sobs, I can hear him repeating, “my listings, all my beautiful listings…” again and again. With no new influx of foreigners, he hasn’t made a property sale in days. At the sound of my sandals slapping the pavement as I walk past, he lunges up with a hungry look in his eyes and rushes across the street to me raving about a new condo presale. “It’s a really great location, good price, hardly any water damage, and you can take possession in just six months. Can I book you for a viewing? I have pictures!” he yells as I run away from him.

Closer to town now, and the scene is even more disturbing. People are wandering from garbage bin to garbage bin, picking up empty bottles and cans, looking for dregs to drain into their collecting bottles. Dreadlocked hippies are scavenging the grasses for any plant they can dry out and roll into something to smoke. Vendors wave pieces of cardboard with Costa Rica written in marker and trying to sell their ‘postcards’ at three for a dollar. One Tico stands next to a burnt out hunk of smoldering car remains asking “Taxi, man? Taxi?” when I approach.

Many of the hostels sit far back from the water and although the buildings hadn’t been affected by the destructive force of the waves that rolled through town, their residents are suffering immensely. I enter one and immediately notice the lack of loud music and sounds from their television. Travelers sprawl on the hammocks and in the couches, staring off into space. Every few minutes someone will absently begin with, “this one time, I was at this full moon party in Burma…” and drift off into oblivion, head slumped onto chest. I can’t take any more of this. I’m going back to my room where it’s safe.

We’ve been stranded in this town for two weeks, and I’m down to my last package of cookies. I need to go out and find food, and furthermore, I’m impelled to document the chaos that has consumed this small town. I’m standing on the balcony of my second floor room, steeling myself for the trip, when I hear the whump whump whump sound of a helicopter in the distance. I scan the horizon, and spot the small dots that are the first of the rescue efforts flying in over the hills. As they approach, I can see the markings on the side of the large cargo helicopters, and recognize it as the Imperial beer company logo.

The choppers are heading for the center of town, and I rush back down to meet them. Keeping a low profile, I dodge scavengers and looters, and briefly hide behind a tree when the real estate agent looks up from his wailing. Below the first aircraft is a large pallet of crates, and as I reach the landing spot at the main intersection, I can see that it has already deposited its cargo, and the first of the stranded have already emerged to start unloading the crates and handing beer to those who continue to arrive.

The helicopter touches down a few hundred feet away, and a crew of medical staff emerge, ducking beneath the massive rotor blades still churning the air and kicking up dust. An aid worker yells for me to come nearer and when I’m close enough to hear, he turns his head to the side and says in a low voice, “you wanna buy some weed man?” and I know our ordeal has come to an end. At long last, we have been saved.