Well, I just got back from being only ten meters away from a wild bull in a coliseum-like stadium with about 150 or more other guys in the ring. It was a thrilling experience. To look over one's shoulder while running to see a bull heading in your direction is a sure way to get your heart pounding.
At about 8:30pm, I went alone to the Parque Central to watch the end of a cultural event: a group of children playing traditional music. I figured I would stay until the fireworks at the end of the evening at 9pm, before heading back to the home of los Briceno to call it a night. As a quick aside, I waited at the bus terminal for Ronald from a few minutes after 4pm until 4:45pm. As far as I know, he never showed up. And although I had my head on a swivel for the rest of the day, I didn't see him at all.
So, to fast-forward, it was nearly 9pm when I felt a tap on my back. To my surprise, it was actually Tony, the Canadian, along with another guy named Eric. A few minutes later, an American named Nate and a Swiss girl named Raquel came by. I suggested we all go to see the bulls. Shortly after we got there, Tony and I got into the ring. We were in there for over an hour as far as I can guess. As I said, it was absolutely amazing.
The earlier part of the day was dull in comparison. Besides stopping by the internet cafe for a few minutes to help Cristina open an attachment to an email, the only interesting event was observing the afternoon corrida de toros.
Friday, February 28, 2003
Thursday, February 27, 2003
Liberia, Costa Rica -- night
I'm staying now with los Briceno, a family with which Pito stayed when he was here in Costa Rica about 30 years ago. I just got done having a deep conversation with one of Don Ulpiano's daughters, Cristina. We talked mostly about relationships.
But to re-cap today, I woke at 10am, and went immediately to catch the 10:35am bus to Liberia, which arrived here at about 12 noon. I stopped in the post office to ask for directions to Farmacia Lux, which was my landmark to find los Briceno's house. I got the directions and continued on my way to locate it, which I did quite easily.
But before going to their home, I decided it would not be right to show up with an empty stomach, so I stopped by a restaurant on the town plaza to drink a lemonade and eat a cheeseburger (it was the cheapest thing on the menu).
From there, I found the house by asking several people in the neighborhood. But when I knocked on the door, no one answered. Since I had passed an internet cafe just three blocks away, I decided to kill some time by emailing Pito to let him know I was here, and to email some others as well. After an hour at that, I left to try the house again.
As I arrived, I saw a man getting out of a car in the small driveway behind the gates. I said I was looking for Don Ulpiano Briceno, and replied 'at your service.' I explained that my father had stayed with him thirty years ago. Of course he then recognized me, and he immediately invited me in. We ate lunch and he introduced me to his daughter, Cristina, and her son, Carlitos.
Afterwards, Don Ulpiano went to take a nap, so Cristina, Carlitos, and I went to visit a neighbor, an old friend of Pito's. Her name is Chila and she is over eighty years old, I believe. Cristina and Chila gossiped about community events for the next hour or more. It wasn't until the end of the conversation when we talked about the United States' impending war against Iraq that I became integrally involved.
Then after walking outside and giving Chila a big hug, I walked away with Cristina to the Briceno's home to get ready to go to las fiestas civicas. When we arrived, we got priority seating due to Don Ulpiano's high position (as former director of the province of Guanacaste for ICE: el Instituto Costarricense de Electricidad) in the community. By the way, this priority seating was on a platform above a circular coliseum: el redondel. This is where la corrida de toros was taking place. It was interesting to watch each man riding each bull, and then the great multitude of men running away from and taunting the bull after the man fell off. In a way, I felt bad for the bull. But at least there was no blood, either of bull or of man. All in all, I can say that it was entertaining.
From there, we walked around the grounds to the area of games and rides. Carlitos and I actually did bumper-cars; he was the driver and I was the whip-lashed passenger. Then, Cristina continued to lead me on a tour of the town, showing me the school, the kindergarten, the gym, the library, and the police station (which had been the prison in years past).
We walked on to the Parque Central, where there was a cultural activity going on. There was a large crowd watching a group of young men and women dancing in traditional dress to antique, formal music. The men wore white shirts and pants with blue cloth belts. The women wore beautiful dresses of white exterior and either blue, orange, or red interior; the bottom part of the dress was wide and large, and accentuated any turns or spins made by the girls. The whole performance was really quite amazing and entertaining too, of course.
Afterwards, Cristina took me over to introduce me to the nation's arguably most recognized television personality, the host of 'Buen Dia,' Edgar Silva. We shook hands while I told him that I was enjoying the fiestas of his city. He seemed nice enough, but was being bombarded by many other people, so any further conversation was out of the question, which was just fine with me.
We stayed to watch the beginning of the evening fireworks, but then Cristina began to feel sick so we walked back home. Very soon afterward, another daughter of Don Ulpiano, who also remembered Pito in his days as 'Francisco' came by to see me. Carmen and I conversed for about half an hour before she had to leave. But before leaving, I gave her my and Pito's respective email addresses, and I got hers. Subsequently, I had that conversation with Cristina that I already mentioned.
Now, I am ready for bed. But first I will read another chapter of Lord Jim. I'm nearly finished, with only twenty-six pages remaining. I hope to complete the book tomorrow. Tomorrow, I also look forward to meeting Ronald at the bus station at 4pm. I hope we can then participate in la corrida de los toros in the evening. That would be a very exciting and memorable experience. We'll see what happens.
But to re-cap today, I woke at 10am, and went immediately to catch the 10:35am bus to Liberia, which arrived here at about 12 noon. I stopped in the post office to ask for directions to Farmacia Lux, which was my landmark to find los Briceno's house. I got the directions and continued on my way to locate it, which I did quite easily.
But before going to their home, I decided it would not be right to show up with an empty stomach, so I stopped by a restaurant on the town plaza to drink a lemonade and eat a cheeseburger (it was the cheapest thing on the menu).
From there, I found the house by asking several people in the neighborhood. But when I knocked on the door, no one answered. Since I had passed an internet cafe just three blocks away, I decided to kill some time by emailing Pito to let him know I was here, and to email some others as well. After an hour at that, I left to try the house again.
As I arrived, I saw a man getting out of a car in the small driveway behind the gates. I said I was looking for Don Ulpiano Briceno, and replied 'at your service.' I explained that my father had stayed with him thirty years ago. Of course he then recognized me, and he immediately invited me in. We ate lunch and he introduced me to his daughter, Cristina, and her son, Carlitos.
Afterwards, Don Ulpiano went to take a nap, so Cristina, Carlitos, and I went to visit a neighbor, an old friend of Pito's. Her name is Chila and she is over eighty years old, I believe. Cristina and Chila gossiped about community events for the next hour or more. It wasn't until the end of the conversation when we talked about the United States' impending war against Iraq that I became integrally involved.
Then after walking outside and giving Chila a big hug, I walked away with Cristina to the Briceno's home to get ready to go to las fiestas civicas. When we arrived, we got priority seating due to Don Ulpiano's high position (as former director of the province of Guanacaste for ICE: el Instituto Costarricense de Electricidad) in the community. By the way, this priority seating was on a platform above a circular coliseum: el redondel. This is where la corrida de toros was taking place. It was interesting to watch each man riding each bull, and then the great multitude of men running away from and taunting the bull after the man fell off. In a way, I felt bad for the bull. But at least there was no blood, either of bull or of man. All in all, I can say that it was entertaining.
From there, we walked around the grounds to the area of games and rides. Carlitos and I actually did bumper-cars; he was the driver and I was the whip-lashed passenger. Then, Cristina continued to lead me on a tour of the town, showing me the school, the kindergarten, the gym, the library, and the police station (which had been the prison in years past).
We walked on to the Parque Central, where there was a cultural activity going on. There was a large crowd watching a group of young men and women dancing in traditional dress to antique, formal music. The men wore white shirts and pants with blue cloth belts. The women wore beautiful dresses of white exterior and either blue, orange, or red interior; the bottom part of the dress was wide and large, and accentuated any turns or spins made by the girls. The whole performance was really quite amazing and entertaining too, of course.
Afterwards, Cristina took me over to introduce me to the nation's arguably most recognized television personality, the host of 'Buen Dia,' Edgar Silva. We shook hands while I told him that I was enjoying the fiestas of his city. He seemed nice enough, but was being bombarded by many other people, so any further conversation was out of the question, which was just fine with me.
We stayed to watch the beginning of the evening fireworks, but then Cristina began to feel sick so we walked back home. Very soon afterward, another daughter of Don Ulpiano, who also remembered Pito in his days as 'Francisco' came by to see me. Carmen and I conversed for about half an hour before she had to leave. But before leaving, I gave her my and Pito's respective email addresses, and I got hers. Subsequently, I had that conversation with Cristina that I already mentioned.
Now, I am ready for bed. But first I will read another chapter of Lord Jim. I'm nearly finished, with only twenty-six pages remaining. I hope to complete the book tomorrow. Tomorrow, I also look forward to meeting Ronald at the bus station at 4pm. I hope we can then participate in la corrida de los toros in the evening. That would be a very exciting and memorable experience. We'll see what happens.
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Santa Cruz, Costa Rica -- night
I remember that one of my purposes in making this trip was to embrace my solitude. Tonight has been a night of feeling that emotion, that sensation, to an extreme.
I sit here lying on my left side, propped up on my left elbow, while writing these words. I am alone in a room of three beds, as if to remind me of the lack of loved ones, friends, or even companions. The only sound outdoors are crickets, and the infrequent car. At least the crickets have something to say out loud, and each other to listen. The floor, as well as the walls, of my room are simply slats of wood; and the high roof is a network of wooden beams, topped with a large piece of corrugated metal.
At the moment, the roof is doing its job as I hear a slight tinkle of rain spattering against the metal. Although the rain adds to the feeling of isolation, I am happy because it very importantly breaks up the oppressive heat and heavy atmosphere. An electric fan blows into my spiked, dishevelled hair. And a single light bulb high above helps to provide me with sight.
Lying on the desk next to the fan are my wallet, the room key, a pile of change, and - closest within reach of the bed - my automatic knife. I had used the knife earlier this evening to cut a cantaloupe which I had bought for 200 colones (I should have bargained down).
And now, I will permit myself a bit of sentimentalism. I wonder if I will find love, or perhaps more appropriately, I wonder if love will find me. Or am I destined to be alone until my last breath? destined to a life of solitude on this earth, whether it be a lonely corner in the Northeastern United States or chasing the horizon throughout the world? I cannot help but sigh just thinking about it. I often tell myself to just live, and all will come in its time. But I don't know if that is wisdom or ignorance. Sometimes I think that that line of advice is too simplistic; however, that may prove to be its beauty. Who knows? Perhaps ignorance really is bliss.
Because when I begin to comtemplate this topic, I usually end up feeling so frustrated, or else on occasion I feel like crying. But this latter comes less and less; I believe it is a reflection of my loss of expectations. At least hope still springs eternal; but who knows how long that will last. I guess I will just have to see. In fact, I don't have much choice. Life goes on. Time continues ceaselessly. The sun will rise tomorrow. And therefore, so shall I!!!
I sit here lying on my left side, propped up on my left elbow, while writing these words. I am alone in a room of three beds, as if to remind me of the lack of loved ones, friends, or even companions. The only sound outdoors are crickets, and the infrequent car. At least the crickets have something to say out loud, and each other to listen. The floor, as well as the walls, of my room are simply slats of wood; and the high roof is a network of wooden beams, topped with a large piece of corrugated metal.
At the moment, the roof is doing its job as I hear a slight tinkle of rain spattering against the metal. Although the rain adds to the feeling of isolation, I am happy because it very importantly breaks up the oppressive heat and heavy atmosphere. An electric fan blows into my spiked, dishevelled hair. And a single light bulb high above helps to provide me with sight.
Lying on the desk next to the fan are my wallet, the room key, a pile of change, and - closest within reach of the bed - my automatic knife. I had used the knife earlier this evening to cut a cantaloupe which I had bought for 200 colones (I should have bargained down).
And now, I will permit myself a bit of sentimentalism. I wonder if I will find love, or perhaps more appropriately, I wonder if love will find me. Or am I destined to be alone until my last breath? destined to a life of solitude on this earth, whether it be a lonely corner in the Northeastern United States or chasing the horizon throughout the world? I cannot help but sigh just thinking about it. I often tell myself to just live, and all will come in its time. But I don't know if that is wisdom or ignorance. Sometimes I think that that line of advice is too simplistic; however, that may prove to be its beauty. Who knows? Perhaps ignorance really is bliss.
Because when I begin to comtemplate this topic, I usually end up feeling so frustrated, or else on occasion I feel like crying. But this latter comes less and less; I believe it is a reflection of my loss of expectations. At least hope still springs eternal; but who knows how long that will last. I guess I will just have to see. In fact, I don't have much choice. Life goes on. Time continues ceaselessly. The sun will rise tomorrow. And therefore, so shall I!!!
Santa Cruz, Costa Rica -- afternoon
I'm sitting at a corner of the plaza at Santa Cruz. I came here on Pito's recommendation, which described the town as having a Mexican-type ambience. Besides the dome at the center of the plaza and the clock-tower across the street, there is nothing here which reminds me of a Mexican town. The dome has some nice engravings in the Maya tradition: human faces with indigenous features, and animal representations in the form of lizards and birds. The clock-tower is five stories high, made of stone, with very faded peach paint, and a clock-face that has probably not functioned for years. It is about four meters wide on each side.
Besides these attractions, Santa Cruz has already left a bad taste in my mouth. I went to a "pension" to get a room. I asked the price of the cheapest room, and was told 1500 colones per night. So then, as always, I naturally asked to see the room. And just like that, the sloppy mess of a man told me that he would not show me the room, that I should find a room elsewhere. I told him that I have always asked to see a room before I pay for it, but of course he wouldn't listen to me; he kept on talking, mentioning locations of other hotels and cabinas. Right before leaving, I cut in with a raised voice to say that I felt sorry for his attitude, his bad attitude. And I left.
Within five minutes, I had gotten a room somewhere nearby for 2500 colones per night. Once there, I read a chapter of Lord Jim in the courtyard, but then immediately fell asleep. And I stayed either asleep or drowsy for a long while after that, due mostly to the heavy heat here today. To top things off, I've had a nasty little cough today, due I think to a ceiling fan directly over my head the past two nights, which must have dried my throat.
An interesting observation I have made sitting here facing the church is that some people passing the church, either on bicycle or walking, will make the sign of the cross and then kiss their thumb.
Anyway, I think I will just do more reading tonight, then take the first bus I can to Liberia in the morning.
I just witnessed a scene where an older teenage kid snuck up behind a homeless guy to pour a plastic bag full of water over his head. The homeless guy started yelling obscenities at the teenager, but the teenager just laughed. Then, as the homeless guy walked slowly away, the teenager re-filled the bag and poured more water over the homeless guy's head. Now, since I've written this, the teenager has repeated the same scene at least four times. How sad. And what a shame. As I said, I'll be looking to leave Santa Cruz in the morning.
Besides these attractions, Santa Cruz has already left a bad taste in my mouth. I went to a "pension" to get a room. I asked the price of the cheapest room, and was told 1500 colones per night. So then, as always, I naturally asked to see the room. And just like that, the sloppy mess of a man told me that he would not show me the room, that I should find a room elsewhere. I told him that I have always asked to see a room before I pay for it, but of course he wouldn't listen to me; he kept on talking, mentioning locations of other hotels and cabinas. Right before leaving, I cut in with a raised voice to say that I felt sorry for his attitude, his bad attitude. And I left.
Within five minutes, I had gotten a room somewhere nearby for 2500 colones per night. Once there, I read a chapter of Lord Jim in the courtyard, but then immediately fell asleep. And I stayed either asleep or drowsy for a long while after that, due mostly to the heavy heat here today. To top things off, I've had a nasty little cough today, due I think to a ceiling fan directly over my head the past two nights, which must have dried my throat.
An interesting observation I have made sitting here facing the church is that some people passing the church, either on bicycle or walking, will make the sign of the cross and then kiss their thumb.
Anyway, I think I will just do more reading tonight, then take the first bus I can to Liberia in the morning.
I just witnessed a scene where an older teenage kid snuck up behind a homeless guy to pour a plastic bag full of water over his head. The homeless guy started yelling obscenities at the teenager, but the teenager just laughed. Then, as the homeless guy walked slowly away, the teenager re-filled the bag and poured more water over the homeless guy's head. Now, since I've written this, the teenager has repeated the same scene at least four times. How sad. And what a shame. As I said, I'll be looking to leave Santa Cruz in the morning.
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
Samara, Costa Rica -- night
Today was another good day. I've really enjoyed having someone to talk with and spend time with.
After Ronald came back my room this morning to wake me up, we went to the ocean to swim. After I ate a breakfast of casado con chuleta, we decided to try to hike a hill near the town. Once we got there, we realized it was pretty heavy with undergrowth. But we decided to continue on into the jungle regardless. We slowly climbed down the steep slope, with gravel and rocks sliding past our feet constantly. At the bottom, I had to take off my sneakers and socks to get all the loose gravel out. We continued on down until reaching a dried-out creek bed, which we followed for about 50 meters farther. At that point, we turned right to climb the hill because it looked clearer and more passable there than at other sections. Pulling ourselves up from tree to tree, we eventually reached the top to find that we had made a nice circle as we had thought we would.
After walking away from our jungle adventure, we returned to the town to buy a couple of melons (cantaloupes) for 240 colones. We took them to sit on a log on the beach under some palms, where I cut the melons with my knife. How sweet and juicy the melon was!
The rest of the day was spent drinking lemonade, conversing, taking a nap on the sand, and conversing some more. In the evening, we walked around the town a little bit, stopping to watch a large soccer match in the only field in the town. Ronald explained some of the differences between European football (soccer) and Latin American football (soccer), namely that European football is more team- and pass-oriented, whereas Latin American football is more individual- and performance-oriented. However, he explained that the two styles are beginning to merge, with the greater numbers of Latino players playing in Europe.
Later, we played pool at a bar on the beach, while continuing our conversations. All in all, it was a good day. Tomorrow, I believe I will leave for Santa Cruz, and then from there go to Liberia for the carnaval there. I think Ronald will meet me in Liberia, and from there we may travel together into Nicaragua. We shall see. Either way, it shall be interesting and adventurous.
After Ronald came back my room this morning to wake me up, we went to the ocean to swim. After I ate a breakfast of casado con chuleta, we decided to try to hike a hill near the town. Once we got there, we realized it was pretty heavy with undergrowth. But we decided to continue on into the jungle regardless. We slowly climbed down the steep slope, with gravel and rocks sliding past our feet constantly. At the bottom, I had to take off my sneakers and socks to get all the loose gravel out. We continued on down until reaching a dried-out creek bed, which we followed for about 50 meters farther. At that point, we turned right to climb the hill because it looked clearer and more passable there than at other sections. Pulling ourselves up from tree to tree, we eventually reached the top to find that we had made a nice circle as we had thought we would.
After walking away from our jungle adventure, we returned to the town to buy a couple of melons (cantaloupes) for 240 colones. We took them to sit on a log on the beach under some palms, where I cut the melons with my knife. How sweet and juicy the melon was!
The rest of the day was spent drinking lemonade, conversing, taking a nap on the sand, and conversing some more. In the evening, we walked around the town a little bit, stopping to watch a large soccer match in the only field in the town. Ronald explained some of the differences between European football (soccer) and Latin American football (soccer), namely that European football is more team- and pass-oriented, whereas Latin American football is more individual- and performance-oriented. However, he explained that the two styles are beginning to merge, with the greater numbers of Latino players playing in Europe.
Later, we played pool at a bar on the beach, while continuing our conversations. All in all, it was a good day. Tomorrow, I believe I will leave for Santa Cruz, and then from there go to Liberia for the carnaval there. I think Ronald will meet me in Liberia, and from there we may travel together into Nicaragua. We shall see. Either way, it shall be interesting and adventurous.
Monday, February 24, 2003
Samara, Costa Rica -- night
I got a room for 2000 colones per night as soon as I got off the bus from Nicoya. And I changed into my bathing suit immediately to go into the ocean. These solitary dips into the ocean are becoming a bit routine, as sad as that may be. So I didn't stay in for too long, but sat on the beach for a while afterwards.
While sitting there, I noticed a young guy come to the beach as I do: taking off his sandals, then placing his t-shirt on top of the sandals to mark his spot before going into the ocean. I wondered to myself whether he was also travelling solo around Costa Rica, like me. When he came out of the ocean, he came directly up to me to start a conversation, just like that! It was a good example of what I may do in the future. We ended talking for a little bit before joining in a game of soccer on the beach; it was the Ticos versus the Europeans & North Americans. The Ticos kicked our ass. For having practically no experience with a soccer ball, I played pretty well, tending more toward the defensive end of the field to use my speed.
Afterwards, I went into the ocean to cool off and wash off the loose sand. I got into a conversation there with a guy named Tony from Montreal, Canada, who's here for three months to learn Spanish. He's only been here two weeks. He's a total stoner, but not of the long-hair, hippie variety, so it's cool. He's a nice guy.
After that, I went back to the cabin to shower up and get changed for dinner. When I walked out, I happened to see Ronald, the Dutch/German guy I had talked with earlier, I invited him to come with me to dinner to continue our conversations on travelling, culture, and politics. After taking a good old time at dinner (we were the last ones there), we walked to a bar recommended by Tony earlier. The group of Europeans was there, including one guy from the Netherlands, a guy from Germany, and a guy from Switzerland. Tony came by later on. I talked among the Europeans, but later talked mostly with Ronald. At the end of the night, Tony joined Ronald and I at a table to talk about all sorts of things.
My experience here in Samara has been good so far. I think I'll stay for at least one more night. Now, time to read another chapter or two of Lord Jim, and then lights out.
While sitting there, I noticed a young guy come to the beach as I do: taking off his sandals, then placing his t-shirt on top of the sandals to mark his spot before going into the ocean. I wondered to myself whether he was also travelling solo around Costa Rica, like me. When he came out of the ocean, he came directly up to me to start a conversation, just like that! It was a good example of what I may do in the future. We ended talking for a little bit before joining in a game of soccer on the beach; it was the Ticos versus the Europeans & North Americans. The Ticos kicked our ass. For having practically no experience with a soccer ball, I played pretty well, tending more toward the defensive end of the field to use my speed.
Afterwards, I went into the ocean to cool off and wash off the loose sand. I got into a conversation there with a guy named Tony from Montreal, Canada, who's here for three months to learn Spanish. He's only been here two weeks. He's a total stoner, but not of the long-hair, hippie variety, so it's cool. He's a nice guy.
After that, I went back to the cabin to shower up and get changed for dinner. When I walked out, I happened to see Ronald, the Dutch/German guy I had talked with earlier, I invited him to come with me to dinner to continue our conversations on travelling, culture, and politics. After taking a good old time at dinner (we were the last ones there), we walked to a bar recommended by Tony earlier. The group of Europeans was there, including one guy from the Netherlands, a guy from Germany, and a guy from Switzerland. Tony came by later on. I talked among the Europeans, but later talked mostly with Ronald. At the end of the night, Tony joined Ronald and I at a table to talk about all sorts of things.
My experience here in Samara has been good so far. I think I'll stay for at least one more night. Now, time to read another chapter or two of Lord Jim, and then lights out.
Nicoya, Costa Rica -- afternoon
Today is Monday; a new week is starting. In just a little bit, I will take the hour and a half bus ride to Samara to spend the evening and night. From Samara then, either tomorrow or Wednesday, I'll hitch a ride up to a gas station about five kilometers out to catch a bus for Nosara, where I'll then spend an afternoon, evening and night. From there I should be able to get a bus to Santa Cruz, and then on Friday I'll travel in bus from Santa Cruz to Liberia for the weekend fiestas. At the conclusion of the weekend, I'll head north to Nicaragua. These are my short-term plans.
Well, I don't have much time to write, so I will now quickly finish my account of yesterday's journey from just past that fancy hotel in Punta Islita. I hadn't walked more than about 200 meters when a blue Kia came up from behind me and actually stopped to offer me a ride before I even stuck out my thumb. Of course I hopped in. We travelled about four kilometers and reached the Rio Ora, where the couple stopped to bath for only half an hour. They offered to carry me on to Samara if I was willing to wait. But I felt restless and I declined, putting faith in being able to catch another ride, or at worst, walking until they caught up to me.
Feeling re-charged, as much from the human interpersonal contact as from the physical break, I made amazing time walking over two kilometers in about twenty to thirty minutes. At that point, I decided to stop into a home on the roadside to ask for a glass of water. I got into a decent conversation with the old man of the house, and I made a couple of jokes that managed to make him laugh. However, during the conversation, I saw the couple in the Kia drive by, without having any idea of my whereabouts.
Leaving the home, I had to walk another two kilometers to Playa Carrillo, where I was surprised to see the couple sitting at a table waving at me. I walked over, and they offerred me some coca-cola along with that ride to Samara, still seven kilometers to the north. When we arrived in Samara, we drove around looking for the bank, but could find none. I jumped out to ask a man whether Samara had a bank; he replied "no." The next town with a bank was either Nosara, on the coast, or Nicoya, inland, which is where the couple were driving. I told them that I didn't want to inconvenience them, but they offerred to take me the nearly forty kilometers inland to Nicoya.
But first, they wanted to go to Playa Barco Quebrado, a tiny hidden beach, to watch the sunset. I said I had no problem with that. After all, beggars can't be choosers. While they went off on their romantic walk, I cut up watermelon with my knife and ate it voraciously. Unlike my other car-rides with them earlier in the day, I remained silent on the ride back to Nicoya; I had read that they were quiet people, and I respected that, as I respected the solitude of the sunset and its decreasing twilight.
And so that's how I got to Nicoya, when it was nowhere in my original plans. But this morning, I woke up on my own at 7:30am to eat a nice breakfast, go to the bank to cash a traveller's check, and go to an internet cafe to catch up on my correspondences. I took photos of the colonial church here in the town center plaza. And I just ate a good lunch.
Now I'm sitting in the park in the plaza in 90*F weather, but in the shade with an occasional breeze. Compared to my journeys in the sun the past week or so, this is quite comfortable. Now, before it gets too late, I'm going to get my things to catch the bus.
Well, I don't have much time to write, so I will now quickly finish my account of yesterday's journey from just past that fancy hotel in Punta Islita. I hadn't walked more than about 200 meters when a blue Kia came up from behind me and actually stopped to offer me a ride before I even stuck out my thumb. Of course I hopped in. We travelled about four kilometers and reached the Rio Ora, where the couple stopped to bath for only half an hour. They offered to carry me on to Samara if I was willing to wait. But I felt restless and I declined, putting faith in being able to catch another ride, or at worst, walking until they caught up to me.
Feeling re-charged, as much from the human interpersonal contact as from the physical break, I made amazing time walking over two kilometers in about twenty to thirty minutes. At that point, I decided to stop into a home on the roadside to ask for a glass of water. I got into a decent conversation with the old man of the house, and I made a couple of jokes that managed to make him laugh. However, during the conversation, I saw the couple in the Kia drive by, without having any idea of my whereabouts.
Leaving the home, I had to walk another two kilometers to Playa Carrillo, where I was surprised to see the couple sitting at a table waving at me. I walked over, and they offerred me some coca-cola along with that ride to Samara, still seven kilometers to the north. When we arrived in Samara, we drove around looking for the bank, but could find none. I jumped out to ask a man whether Samara had a bank; he replied "no." The next town with a bank was either Nosara, on the coast, or Nicoya, inland, which is where the couple were driving. I told them that I didn't want to inconvenience them, but they offerred to take me the nearly forty kilometers inland to Nicoya.
But first, they wanted to go to Playa Barco Quebrado, a tiny hidden beach, to watch the sunset. I said I had no problem with that. After all, beggars can't be choosers. While they went off on their romantic walk, I cut up watermelon with my knife and ate it voraciously. Unlike my other car-rides with them earlier in the day, I remained silent on the ride back to Nicoya; I had read that they were quiet people, and I respected that, as I respected the solitude of the sunset and its decreasing twilight.
And so that's how I got to Nicoya, when it was nowhere in my original plans. But this morning, I woke up on my own at 7:30am to eat a nice breakfast, go to the bank to cash a traveller's check, and go to an internet cafe to catch up on my correspondences. I took photos of the colonial church here in the town center plaza. And I just ate a good lunch.
Now I'm sitting in the park in the plaza in 90*F weather, but in the shade with an occasional breeze. Compared to my journeys in the sun the past week or so, this is quite comfortable. Now, before it gets too late, I'm going to get my things to catch the bus.
Sunday, February 23, 2003
Nicoya, Costa Rica -- night
Before I go over today's events, I will finish the events of 'anteayer.'
So, after leaving the restaurant at Playa Coyote, I continued walking north along the seashore for only about 100 meters before reaching Rio Coyote, which was high and brisk, as high tide was soon approaching. After looking at the current at its most passable point, I decided it appeared too fast and too deep to ford.
Fortunately, I saw a parked canoe on the other shore, and there was a man and a teenager walking towards it at that very moment. As they got in the boat, and before they pulled the cord to start the motor, I yelled across to ask them - in Spanish of course - whether they could take me across to the other shore. The man fired up the motor, and as they came toward my side of the river, he pointed to a point just a few paces inland, which was a better place to pull up. I was about to take off my sneakers but realized when they landed that there was no need; I could jump from the sand onto the boat. They carried me back to the other side of the river while I made some small talk about the Costa Rican national soccer team, "La Sele," short for "la seleccion." When I jumped off the boat on the other shore, I thanked them and continued on my way.
I walked on the beach for just a bit before I noticed a road right along the beach. It was a one-lane dirt road; a country lane if you will. I walked that for at least two kilometers. It was by either humble guanacasteco dwellings or abandoned high-class summer homes of the San Jose elite. In both cases, it felt very lonely as I sauntered along, kicking up dust in the coming twilight of dusk.
At this point, I was really feeling tired, near the point of exhaustion. I continued, patiently waiting for a car to pass to hitch a ride. Eventually, after a couple of energy-consuming kilometers, a beat-up pick-up truck approached me from my back; I turned to stick out my thumb and was accepted. The man was a butcher making his evening door-to-door delivery run, after the morning and afternoon task of fresh butchering. He promised to take me to a cheap room at the next beach, Playa San Miguel, but first I had to accompany him on his evening run.
I was happy to be sitting, and no longer walking. But all through his run, I was dying of thirst; I had to re-hydrate. I would have entered one of his clients' home, but I felt too exhausted to even leave the passenger seat of his pick-up truck. My upper trapezius muscles were shot to the point of pain just trying to raise my arms from resting on my thighs. The weight of my twenty-pound backpack had caught up with me.
But eventually we reached the house where I would sleep for the next two nights. When I arrived I drank a few glasses of water, then showered, then very nearly passed out. So that was that.
Now, as for today, I woke up in that house in Playa San Miguel, of which I was just speaking, at about 9:30am. After organizing my backpack and plastic bag, then eating breakfast of "pinto con huevos," and conversing with Emilio, a native resident of Playa San Miguel, I finally set off at 12 noon.
I walked the 50 meters to the north to the intersection where the bus from San Jose was to arrive. I got there just ten seconds before it arrived, just in time! I rode that bus for half an hour to Pilas de Bejuco, the last, and northernmost, stop on the ride before the bus turned around to make the return trip immediately back to San Jose. As I was told, Samara was the next town to the north with a bank, and so that was my destination.
From Pilas de Bejuco, I was still about 25 kilometers south of Samara, realistically too far to walk. And since there were no more buses in that part of the country and on those roads between those towns, I realized that I was to be dependent on hitchhiking, and hence the trust and generosity of others.
From Pilas de Bejuco, I must have walked nearly eight kilometers on that one-lane dirt road up and down some very steep grades. I began that walk at 12:30pm, so the sun was brutal, but fortunately there was an almost steady sea-breeze from a more northerly direction.
Upon rounding a bend very high up in the hills (mountains?) overlooking the Pacific, I came upon a startling scene: a motorcycle was lying rider-less on its side, and its rider was sitting/lying in the dirt with a gruesomely deep gash just below his right knee. I quickly realized he was foolishly drunk. A young man, his wife, and two children were already there, having been passing by on his motorcycle; they were trying to give assistance. I asked if I could help in any way, but I got no straight answer.
Just a minute later, a land rover came around the bend from the south (the first automobile from that direction during my long trek). The driver stopped and dismounted, but the drunkard insisted on re-mounting his bike to continue riding south, instead of riding in the back of the land rover to get medical attention. With the loose dirt of the road, the thinness of the road, the sharpness of many turns, the sheer cliffs dropping off immediately from the edge of the road, and - most gravely - the total drunkeness of the injured rider, I would be surprised if he is alive this very minute. At the moment, I didn't consider any form of protest worthwhile, and so I took no direct action. In retrospect, I may have been too passive, but who is to say whether any action would have changed anything. At least it wouldn't have hurt to try. I could only hope now against the odds that the drunkard reached his destination with no further mishaps.
The driver of the land rover gave me a ride about one or perhaps two kilometers to Punta Islita, where he had to go to work at a fancy, high-class hotel. I got out to resume my journey on foot.
I will stop here before beginning the description of the next part of my journey, which is one whole bringing me here to Nicoya, interestingly enough. As you may recall, Samara was still my destination at this point in the journey.
Right now it is getting late, and I should turn off the lights in hopes of waking early to go to the bank to cash my next traveller's check. I realize that I'm getting in the habit of continuing my story into the next entry. This is not intentional; it is purely circumstances in every case. But hey, a little drama and suspense never hurt the ratings. Until my next appearance in ink, pura vida!
So, after leaving the restaurant at Playa Coyote, I continued walking north along the seashore for only about 100 meters before reaching Rio Coyote, which was high and brisk, as high tide was soon approaching. After looking at the current at its most passable point, I decided it appeared too fast and too deep to ford.
Fortunately, I saw a parked canoe on the other shore, and there was a man and a teenager walking towards it at that very moment. As they got in the boat, and before they pulled the cord to start the motor, I yelled across to ask them - in Spanish of course - whether they could take me across to the other shore. The man fired up the motor, and as they came toward my side of the river, he pointed to a point just a few paces inland, which was a better place to pull up. I was about to take off my sneakers but realized when they landed that there was no need; I could jump from the sand onto the boat. They carried me back to the other side of the river while I made some small talk about the Costa Rican national soccer team, "La Sele," short for "la seleccion." When I jumped off the boat on the other shore, I thanked them and continued on my way.
I walked on the beach for just a bit before I noticed a road right along the beach. It was a one-lane dirt road; a country lane if you will. I walked that for at least two kilometers. It was by either humble guanacasteco dwellings or abandoned high-class summer homes of the San Jose elite. In both cases, it felt very lonely as I sauntered along, kicking up dust in the coming twilight of dusk.
At this point, I was really feeling tired, near the point of exhaustion. I continued, patiently waiting for a car to pass to hitch a ride. Eventually, after a couple of energy-consuming kilometers, a beat-up pick-up truck approached me from my back; I turned to stick out my thumb and was accepted. The man was a butcher making his evening door-to-door delivery run, after the morning and afternoon task of fresh butchering. He promised to take me to a cheap room at the next beach, Playa San Miguel, but first I had to accompany him on his evening run.
I was happy to be sitting, and no longer walking. But all through his run, I was dying of thirst; I had to re-hydrate. I would have entered one of his clients' home, but I felt too exhausted to even leave the passenger seat of his pick-up truck. My upper trapezius muscles were shot to the point of pain just trying to raise my arms from resting on my thighs. The weight of my twenty-pound backpack had caught up with me.
But eventually we reached the house where I would sleep for the next two nights. When I arrived I drank a few glasses of water, then showered, then very nearly passed out. So that was that.
Now, as for today, I woke up in that house in Playa San Miguel, of which I was just speaking, at about 9:30am. After organizing my backpack and plastic bag, then eating breakfast of "pinto con huevos," and conversing with Emilio, a native resident of Playa San Miguel, I finally set off at 12 noon.
I walked the 50 meters to the north to the intersection where the bus from San Jose was to arrive. I got there just ten seconds before it arrived, just in time! I rode that bus for half an hour to Pilas de Bejuco, the last, and northernmost, stop on the ride before the bus turned around to make the return trip immediately back to San Jose. As I was told, Samara was the next town to the north with a bank, and so that was my destination.
From Pilas de Bejuco, I was still about 25 kilometers south of Samara, realistically too far to walk. And since there were no more buses in that part of the country and on those roads between those towns, I realized that I was to be dependent on hitchhiking, and hence the trust and generosity of others.
From Pilas de Bejuco, I must have walked nearly eight kilometers on that one-lane dirt road up and down some very steep grades. I began that walk at 12:30pm, so the sun was brutal, but fortunately there was an almost steady sea-breeze from a more northerly direction.
Upon rounding a bend very high up in the hills (mountains?) overlooking the Pacific, I came upon a startling scene: a motorcycle was lying rider-less on its side, and its rider was sitting/lying in the dirt with a gruesomely deep gash just below his right knee. I quickly realized he was foolishly drunk. A young man, his wife, and two children were already there, having been passing by on his motorcycle; they were trying to give assistance. I asked if I could help in any way, but I got no straight answer.
Just a minute later, a land rover came around the bend from the south (the first automobile from that direction during my long trek). The driver stopped and dismounted, but the drunkard insisted on re-mounting his bike to continue riding south, instead of riding in the back of the land rover to get medical attention. With the loose dirt of the road, the thinness of the road, the sharpness of many turns, the sheer cliffs dropping off immediately from the edge of the road, and - most gravely - the total drunkeness of the injured rider, I would be surprised if he is alive this very minute. At the moment, I didn't consider any form of protest worthwhile, and so I took no direct action. In retrospect, I may have been too passive, but who is to say whether any action would have changed anything. At least it wouldn't have hurt to try. I could only hope now against the odds that the drunkard reached his destination with no further mishaps.
The driver of the land rover gave me a ride about one or perhaps two kilometers to Punta Islita, where he had to go to work at a fancy, high-class hotel. I got out to resume my journey on foot.
I will stop here before beginning the description of the next part of my journey, which is one whole bringing me here to Nicoya, interestingly enough. As you may recall, Samara was still my destination at this point in the journey.
Right now it is getting late, and I should turn off the lights in hopes of waking early to go to the bank to cash my next traveller's check. I realize that I'm getting in the habit of continuing my story into the next entry. This is not intentional; it is purely circumstances in every case. But hey, a little drama and suspense never hurt the ratings. Until my next appearance in ink, pura vida!
Saturday, February 22, 2003
Playa San Miguel, Costa Rica -- night
So I indeed do have a chance to write again tonight.
Returning to my account of yesterday's events, I left the Rio Bongo damp and just a bit tired, but still in very good spirits. The next stretch of my journey, though, would prove to be quite solitary. Since cars and automobiles do not and cannot have passage across the Bongo, the beach on the northern side of the river was totally devoid of tire tracks. Also, for whatever reason, there were no beachfront settlements or evidence of any kind of human habitation. The only exception was what appeared to be a makeshift, temporary settlement, located probably just over a kilometer from the Bongo.
After passing the settlement, about two hundred meters farther on, I saw a girl lying face-down, sun-bathing, facing away from the ocean. When I was on her right-hand side, I exclaimed "Buenas!" and waved a hand; she looked up and back and waved. Then, a few steps later, when I had reached her left-hand side, I decided to approach her to start a conversation. Although I didn't expect the conversation to be anything substantial, I started it one, to have human contact, and two, to break up the loneliness of my walk. Those two reasons being separate, although superficially the same. I asked some brief questions about my location and the distance to the visible Punto Coyote. She answered in a beautiful British accent, while looking directly at me with beautiful blue eyes. Nevertheless, I ended the conversation with a brief joke about the showers at Playa Coyote, and I continued on my way.
About 150 meters farther up the coast, I stopped to take a photo of a large pelican flying low over the coastline. From there, I continued toward my next goal, Punto Coyote. When I reached it, the time was probably about 11am. I realized when I reached it that it was all rock. The tide was still on its way out, but only until 11:57am. I continued moving over the rocks, quite happy that the traction was so much better than the sand, feeling that I was covering more ground at a faster pace. Then, quite suddenly, I came upon a break in the rocks. I had reached a point where the rocks suddenly stopped as a steep cliff to a floor of sand about eight to ten feet below. To the right of that floor of sand was a cave carved out by sea-water at high tide. The width of the floor was about ten feet, where another cliff rose up to begin the rock structure again. I surveyed the landscape carefully to come up with a plan, keeping in mind (as if I could forget) that I was carrying my twenty-pound backpack and my plastic bag with boots and sandals. I was wearing a short-sleeve t-shirt, long jeans, and trail-running sneakers.
Climbing down the first wall did not prove too difficult as I had found a route where the descent was comparatively more steady, less steep. I was able to descend with the pack on my back; I had tossed the plastic bag to the floor.
Climbing up the second wall was to prove a bit more difficult. First, I tossed the plastic bag up to the rocks. Then, with the bag on my back, I climbed a steep (but not vertical) route up the rocks, with careful deliberation. The bag on my back effected my equilibrium, making the climb more difficult than it would have been without it. I was relieved to reach the top.
I must also admit being afraid of the attack, or even the sight, of an animal. This is because I realized two points. First, I was in pure wilderness, near no human habitation, and on ground very rarely traversed (if ever) by humans. Second, Punto Coyote must carry that name for a reason. So when I landed on the floor, I had my hand on my knife as I looked first toward and into the cave, and then all around me.
Now, upon reaching the other side, I strapped my bag again and continued walking. No sooner had I felt proud of my achievement, I arrived at another depression, this one being much more imposing. Upon surveying the land, I quickly felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I ascertained that there was no way to descend the ten-foot wall without jumping from a respectable height; that is, I could only descend a few feet to a steady foothold before having to jump.
First, I descended to the foothold and tossed the plastic bag to the floor. Then, I ascended again to carry my backpack in hand back down to the foothold. I stooped down as low as possible to reduce the height as much as possible before tossing the backpack. Then, I simply jumped down myself. That first part was not too bad. Now, mind you, before I embarked on the task of overcoming this second obstacle, I had already mapped out, not just the descent, but the ascent up the other wall. It was this other wall which would prove most difficult, and required the most courage.
As I saw it, the most passable route began up some rocks which were already above water; to reach the base of the wall at that point, I had to hop from rock to rock, about five or six rocks. Allow me to clarify the rock wall: the path up ran from left at bottom to right at top, but at the bottom, or foot, of the route, there was about one to perhaps two feet of water. And I could not take off my sneakers to wade in the water to reach the base of the route because I needed my sneakers to scale the wall, which consisted of jagged and irregular rock structures.
As with the descent, I dealt with the plastic bag first, while leaving the backpack on the floor closer to the entrance of this depression's cave. Even without the plastic bag, the climb would have been difficult. But I managed to make it a few feet up the wall to reach a position to toss the bag over the top. This was not easy though since I could not see what was on the top. I could not be certain that there was not another chasm just a few feet from the edge of this wall, so I could not toss the bag too hard. Nor could I toss it lightly lest it not reach the top and fall back down into the water below, from which I would have to fetch it. So, in essence, I had to measure my toss exactly. Fortunately, I calculated perfectly.
Now, I descended and hopped the rocks back to the floor to retrieve my backpack. This was to prove a definite challenge for several reasons. First, this wall was nearly, if not definitely, vertical, so I could not wear the pack on my back; it would have made equilibrium most likely impossible. Second, the highest foothold to toss the bag was too low to toss the backpack, or in other words, the backpack was too heavy to toss up the distance from the foothold to the top. Third, the risk of dropping the backpack into the water below added pressure to the whole situation. And lastly, and most important, if I fell backward, I would have landed on sharp, jagged rocks among shallow water, a serious risk of injury if I were to fall. So I proceeded with caution with the backpack on my back as I hopped from rock to rock to reach the base of my route. When I reached the base, I carefully removed the backpack and held it in my left hand as I began to slowly climb to the foothold. I arrived. So far so good. Now the hard part was to devise a method to get the pack to the top. I determined, as I had believed, that there was absolutely no way to toss the pack; it was sure to fall to the rocks and water below. I also determined that it was not possible to wear the pack on my back and continue climbing - I would not be able, according to laws of physics regarding the center of gravitation. And I surely needed both hands to get myself to the top, regardless of having the pack or not. So I was left pondering while holding the pack in my left hand. I urged myself to think fast since my left arm was beginning to feel the strain. I decided to raise myself up on my tiptoes to gain as much height as possible, then I moved the pack to eye-level, with the top facing down and the back against the wall. Using one hand I slowly pushed it up the steep grade of rocks until it reached a precariously secure position. Then, I quickly yet deliberately scaled the wall using my two hands. This was very difficult as I had to reach for safe hand-holds. Several times, I had to take time to find a more secure hand-hold, i.e. one with a better grip. As soon as my upper torso, and the center of gravitation, was lying prostrate on some of the rocks, I reached over with my left hand to drag the pack a few inches farther up, to a safer position. Then I dragged myself up to a safer position, from which I was able to crawl several feet to a location where I could stand upright with no risk or fear of falling. I pulled my pack and my bag to a totally safe spot, then just stood there: exhausted physically yet relieved, exhausted mentally yet ecstatic.
After several minutes of catching my breath (and after taking a photo of the wall), I picked up my pack and my bag, and continued to head north over the rocks, hoping not to find any more rock walls to overcome. Fortunately there were not. I needed about ten or twelve minutes more to walk across the rest of Punto Coyote before reaching the sand of Playa Coyote. I walked directly to the first (and only) restaurant on the beach to drink a Tropical pina and a couple glasses of water. Then, I asked to lie in a hammock, in which I took a nap.
I had arrived at the restaurant in Playa Coyote at 12:30pm, after leaving the rancho in Manzanillo at 9:15am. It had been a long and exhausting morning. I probably should have remained there for the night, but when I woke up from my nap, I decided to eat lunch to re-fuel to continue my journey. I ate a casado of chuleta, which was quite filling.
Ok, I'm tired of writing now, so I'll stop. Next time I write, I will have to re-count my trip across the Rio Coyote later that afternoon, and then my journey with the meat-man to arrive here in Playa San Miguel. As for today, there is little to re-count. Due to my understandable exhaustion, I stayed in bed until 12:30pm. After eating a late breakfast, I spent the afternoon at the beach and in the ocean. Relaxing.
Returning to my account of yesterday's events, I left the Rio Bongo damp and just a bit tired, but still in very good spirits. The next stretch of my journey, though, would prove to be quite solitary. Since cars and automobiles do not and cannot have passage across the Bongo, the beach on the northern side of the river was totally devoid of tire tracks. Also, for whatever reason, there were no beachfront settlements or evidence of any kind of human habitation. The only exception was what appeared to be a makeshift, temporary settlement, located probably just over a kilometer from the Bongo.
After passing the settlement, about two hundred meters farther on, I saw a girl lying face-down, sun-bathing, facing away from the ocean. When I was on her right-hand side, I exclaimed "Buenas!" and waved a hand; she looked up and back and waved. Then, a few steps later, when I had reached her left-hand side, I decided to approach her to start a conversation. Although I didn't expect the conversation to be anything substantial, I started it one, to have human contact, and two, to break up the loneliness of my walk. Those two reasons being separate, although superficially the same. I asked some brief questions about my location and the distance to the visible Punto Coyote. She answered in a beautiful British accent, while looking directly at me with beautiful blue eyes. Nevertheless, I ended the conversation with a brief joke about the showers at Playa Coyote, and I continued on my way.
About 150 meters farther up the coast, I stopped to take a photo of a large pelican flying low over the coastline. From there, I continued toward my next goal, Punto Coyote. When I reached it, the time was probably about 11am. I realized when I reached it that it was all rock. The tide was still on its way out, but only until 11:57am. I continued moving over the rocks, quite happy that the traction was so much better than the sand, feeling that I was covering more ground at a faster pace. Then, quite suddenly, I came upon a break in the rocks. I had reached a point where the rocks suddenly stopped as a steep cliff to a floor of sand about eight to ten feet below. To the right of that floor of sand was a cave carved out by sea-water at high tide. The width of the floor was about ten feet, where another cliff rose up to begin the rock structure again. I surveyed the landscape carefully to come up with a plan, keeping in mind (as if I could forget) that I was carrying my twenty-pound backpack and my plastic bag with boots and sandals. I was wearing a short-sleeve t-shirt, long jeans, and trail-running sneakers.
Climbing down the first wall did not prove too difficult as I had found a route where the descent was comparatively more steady, less steep. I was able to descend with the pack on my back; I had tossed the plastic bag to the floor.
Climbing up the second wall was to prove a bit more difficult. First, I tossed the plastic bag up to the rocks. Then, with the bag on my back, I climbed a steep (but not vertical) route up the rocks, with careful deliberation. The bag on my back effected my equilibrium, making the climb more difficult than it would have been without it. I was relieved to reach the top.
I must also admit being afraid of the attack, or even the sight, of an animal. This is because I realized two points. First, I was in pure wilderness, near no human habitation, and on ground very rarely traversed (if ever) by humans. Second, Punto Coyote must carry that name for a reason. So when I landed on the floor, I had my hand on my knife as I looked first toward and into the cave, and then all around me.
Now, upon reaching the other side, I strapped my bag again and continued walking. No sooner had I felt proud of my achievement, I arrived at another depression, this one being much more imposing. Upon surveying the land, I quickly felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I ascertained that there was no way to descend the ten-foot wall without jumping from a respectable height; that is, I could only descend a few feet to a steady foothold before having to jump.
First, I descended to the foothold and tossed the plastic bag to the floor. Then, I ascended again to carry my backpack in hand back down to the foothold. I stooped down as low as possible to reduce the height as much as possible before tossing the backpack. Then, I simply jumped down myself. That first part was not too bad. Now, mind you, before I embarked on the task of overcoming this second obstacle, I had already mapped out, not just the descent, but the ascent up the other wall. It was this other wall which would prove most difficult, and required the most courage.
As I saw it, the most passable route began up some rocks which were already above water; to reach the base of the wall at that point, I had to hop from rock to rock, about five or six rocks. Allow me to clarify the rock wall: the path up ran from left at bottom to right at top, but at the bottom, or foot, of the route, there was about one to perhaps two feet of water. And I could not take off my sneakers to wade in the water to reach the base of the route because I needed my sneakers to scale the wall, which consisted of jagged and irregular rock structures.
As with the descent, I dealt with the plastic bag first, while leaving the backpack on the floor closer to the entrance of this depression's cave. Even without the plastic bag, the climb would have been difficult. But I managed to make it a few feet up the wall to reach a position to toss the bag over the top. This was not easy though since I could not see what was on the top. I could not be certain that there was not another chasm just a few feet from the edge of this wall, so I could not toss the bag too hard. Nor could I toss it lightly lest it not reach the top and fall back down into the water below, from which I would have to fetch it. So, in essence, I had to measure my toss exactly. Fortunately, I calculated perfectly.
Now, I descended and hopped the rocks back to the floor to retrieve my backpack. This was to prove a definite challenge for several reasons. First, this wall was nearly, if not definitely, vertical, so I could not wear the pack on my back; it would have made equilibrium most likely impossible. Second, the highest foothold to toss the bag was too low to toss the backpack, or in other words, the backpack was too heavy to toss up the distance from the foothold to the top. Third, the risk of dropping the backpack into the water below added pressure to the whole situation. And lastly, and most important, if I fell backward, I would have landed on sharp, jagged rocks among shallow water, a serious risk of injury if I were to fall. So I proceeded with caution with the backpack on my back as I hopped from rock to rock to reach the base of my route. When I reached the base, I carefully removed the backpack and held it in my left hand as I began to slowly climb to the foothold. I arrived. So far so good. Now the hard part was to devise a method to get the pack to the top. I determined, as I had believed, that there was absolutely no way to toss the pack; it was sure to fall to the rocks and water below. I also determined that it was not possible to wear the pack on my back and continue climbing - I would not be able, according to laws of physics regarding the center of gravitation. And I surely needed both hands to get myself to the top, regardless of having the pack or not. So I was left pondering while holding the pack in my left hand. I urged myself to think fast since my left arm was beginning to feel the strain. I decided to raise myself up on my tiptoes to gain as much height as possible, then I moved the pack to eye-level, with the top facing down and the back against the wall. Using one hand I slowly pushed it up the steep grade of rocks until it reached a precariously secure position. Then, I quickly yet deliberately scaled the wall using my two hands. This was very difficult as I had to reach for safe hand-holds. Several times, I had to take time to find a more secure hand-hold, i.e. one with a better grip. As soon as my upper torso, and the center of gravitation, was lying prostrate on some of the rocks, I reached over with my left hand to drag the pack a few inches farther up, to a safer position. Then I dragged myself up to a safer position, from which I was able to crawl several feet to a location where I could stand upright with no risk or fear of falling. I pulled my pack and my bag to a totally safe spot, then just stood there: exhausted physically yet relieved, exhausted mentally yet ecstatic.
After several minutes of catching my breath (and after taking a photo of the wall), I picked up my pack and my bag, and continued to head north over the rocks, hoping not to find any more rock walls to overcome. Fortunately there were not. I needed about ten or twelve minutes more to walk across the rest of Punto Coyote before reaching the sand of Playa Coyote. I walked directly to the first (and only) restaurant on the beach to drink a Tropical pina and a couple glasses of water. Then, I asked to lie in a hammock, in which I took a nap.
I had arrived at the restaurant in Playa Coyote at 12:30pm, after leaving the rancho in Manzanillo at 9:15am. It had been a long and exhausting morning. I probably should have remained there for the night, but when I woke up from my nap, I decided to eat lunch to re-fuel to continue my journey. I ate a casado of chuleta, which was quite filling.
Ok, I'm tired of writing now, so I'll stop. Next time I write, I will have to re-count my trip across the Rio Coyote later that afternoon, and then my journey with the meat-man to arrive here in Playa San Miguel. As for today, there is little to re-count. Due to my understandable exhaustion, I stayed in bed until 12:30pm. After eating a late breakfast, I spent the afternoon at the beach and in the ocean. Relaxing.
Playa San Miguel, Costa Rica -- evening
The music of Marco Antonio Solis is playing while I sit at this table writing these words. I just got back from a couple of hours at the beach, and I'm dripping clean shower water onto the floor. There is a thin, pervasive cover of clouds, which doesn't appear to be moving until after sunset, which should take place in about an hour. I wanted to take advantage of the remaining (albeit weakened) daylight to write. But before writing of my day yesterday, I will ask for a glass of water to accompany my sweet bread ("pan dulce") as a substitute for a late lunch.
Upon my request, I was awakened by a shout from Michelle; I'll guess that the hour was approximately 7:30am. However, I was already lying awake, almost certainly due to an internal clock rousing me to rise for a long day of travel (which in fact it was). I showered, got dressed, and ate breakfast, along with all other normal morning rituals and preparations to depart on my journey.
After breakfast, I sat with Joe for several minutes, so as to prevent my departure from seeming too curt. Also, I wanted to drink a glass of water to hydrate myself a bit before my expected loss of liquid in the form of sweat. Toward the end of my glass of water I raised the issue of payment with Joe. I told Joe that I had a 5000 colon bill and would only ask for 2 "rojos" (i.e., 2 - 1000 colon bill, which are the color red) as change to meet the original asking price of "15," which I had interpreted to mean 15 hundred colones per night. When I had first arrived, Joe had asked for 15, but I had negotiated down to 12, saying that I was on a budget. So yesterday morning, after the great food and lodging, along with the friendly and informative conversations, I had decided to pay the original asking price of 15 per night, which would put the total bill at 3000 colones. Well, Joe flipped out, asking me incredulously if I was serious. My immediate reaction was one of confusion, but then Joe quickly clarified that he had agreed to the rate of 12 dollars per night, thereby putting the final, total bill at just over 18,000 colones for the two nights. I told Joe that this was money that I simply could not afford to pay. He was furious, saying how much of a shame it had to end on such a sour note after we had had such a good time. I felt a bit ashamed at my apparently false assumption of the meaning of "15" and "12." But I kept silent for a minute or two, while Joe fumed. He eventually pulled out a calculator to multiply 380 by 12 (the exchange rate of colones per dollar by dollars of room rental) to arrive at 9180 colones total. I went into my backpack to pull out an extra 5000 colon bill to give in addition to another 5000 colon bill already in my wallet. I told him to keep the change, that it was not much, but it was the least I could do. Then, I went off on a monologue of my own, explaining that I would not apologize for the misunderstanding since it was not in any means intentional, but that I was certainly in agreement that it was a shame to end such a good time on a somewhat bitter note. I told Joe that the misunderstanding would not take away from the good time I had, and I hoped that the same would hold true for him too. I told him that, when all was said and done when the sun set, he would have the 10,000 colones in payment for my time and that that was something. Then, I'm sure I reiterated the first part again: that the unintentional misunderstanding was as shame, but that I would not apologize for it. I believe my rationality and firmness, coupled with my still-expressed gratitude cooled him off.
I thanked him again and offered my hand for a hand-shake; he accepted and told me to keep in touch by email. I picked up my backpack and plastic bag, and walked out of the rancho. As I passed the bathroom, I yelled 'thank you' and 'good-bye' to Michelle; she returned the 'good-bye' and wished me luck.
From there, I walked down to the beach and left Manzanillo. My long walk had begun. I walked two, three, or more kilometers before I heard a truck coming down the beach from behind me. Since I was already beginning to feel tired, I turned to stick out my thumb. The guy took me in and drove me only about 500 to 800 meters, near the edge of where the Rio Bongo empties into the Pacific. I had left Joe and Michelle's rancho at about 9:15am and low tide (to cross the river) was scheduled for 11:57am; however, due to my fast walking and the ride; I arrived at 10am. The river was on its way out, but there was not yet a dry passage. Surveying the scene, I determined that it looked shallow enough at its shallowest to be forded. I took off my sneakers and socks and rolled up my jeans to above my knees. At its lowest point, there was an islet in the Rio Bongo. First, I crossed from the southern shore to the islet. I did this with little problem, all the while my twenty-pound backpack on my back and my plastic bag held up in the air. Now I had to cross the wider and deeper portion from the islet to the northern shore. I set off immediately. Upon entering, it seemed easy enough as the first crossing. But then I reached the deep section, where the river current was its swiftest. The riverbed was not solid, and in fact gave way very easily, as if walking on the surface of mushy oatmeal. As a result, the water level reached to above my navel. I tried bending forward to prevent the bottom of my backpack from getting wet, but it was useless. I even tried walking on my tiptoes, to gain any extra height, but I'm sure that too was useless. Also in the process, the legs of my jeans had fallen back down to my ankles. When I reached the north shore, I was soaked from my abdomen down to my pinky toes, and the bottom of my pack was wet too. Worst of all, I had forgotten to take my wallet out of my back, left pocket. My wallet is still damp this very minute.
Anyway, I sat down on a dry, dead log to begin to dry off. I also put the black bottom of my pack in the direction of the very strong sun to dry quickly. After several minutes, I walked back to the river's edge to rinse my feet and then walked back again to the log as carefully as possible to enable minimal surface contact with sand and dirt. When I got the log, I propped my feet up to dry in the sun. After nearly ten minutes, I brushed off the sand and dirt in order to put on my socks and sneakers again. Once that was taken care of, I set off again on my grueling beach hike.
Well, the time has come for me to take a shower. I'll stop here. When I write again (perhaps tonight), I'll pick up the story on the other side of the Rio Bongo, explaining especially my episodes at Punto Coyote and Rio Coyote.
Upon my request, I was awakened by a shout from Michelle; I'll guess that the hour was approximately 7:30am. However, I was already lying awake, almost certainly due to an internal clock rousing me to rise for a long day of travel (which in fact it was). I showered, got dressed, and ate breakfast, along with all other normal morning rituals and preparations to depart on my journey.
After breakfast, I sat with Joe for several minutes, so as to prevent my departure from seeming too curt. Also, I wanted to drink a glass of water to hydrate myself a bit before my expected loss of liquid in the form of sweat. Toward the end of my glass of water I raised the issue of payment with Joe. I told Joe that I had a 5000 colon bill and would only ask for 2 "rojos" (i.e., 2 - 1000 colon bill, which are the color red) as change to meet the original asking price of "15," which I had interpreted to mean 15 hundred colones per night. When I had first arrived, Joe had asked for 15, but I had negotiated down to 12, saying that I was on a budget. So yesterday morning, after the great food and lodging, along with the friendly and informative conversations, I had decided to pay the original asking price of 15 per night, which would put the total bill at 3000 colones. Well, Joe flipped out, asking me incredulously if I was serious. My immediate reaction was one of confusion, but then Joe quickly clarified that he had agreed to the rate of 12 dollars per night, thereby putting the final, total bill at just over 18,000 colones for the two nights. I told Joe that this was money that I simply could not afford to pay. He was furious, saying how much of a shame it had to end on such a sour note after we had had such a good time. I felt a bit ashamed at my apparently false assumption of the meaning of "15" and "12." But I kept silent for a minute or two, while Joe fumed. He eventually pulled out a calculator to multiply 380 by 12 (the exchange rate of colones per dollar by dollars of room rental) to arrive at 9180 colones total. I went into my backpack to pull out an extra 5000 colon bill to give in addition to another 5000 colon bill already in my wallet. I told him to keep the change, that it was not much, but it was the least I could do. Then, I went off on a monologue of my own, explaining that I would not apologize for the misunderstanding since it was not in any means intentional, but that I was certainly in agreement that it was a shame to end such a good time on a somewhat bitter note. I told Joe that the misunderstanding would not take away from the good time I had, and I hoped that the same would hold true for him too. I told him that, when all was said and done when the sun set, he would have the 10,000 colones in payment for my time and that that was something. Then, I'm sure I reiterated the first part again: that the unintentional misunderstanding was as shame, but that I would not apologize for it. I believe my rationality and firmness, coupled with my still-expressed gratitude cooled him off.
I thanked him again and offered my hand for a hand-shake; he accepted and told me to keep in touch by email. I picked up my backpack and plastic bag, and walked out of the rancho. As I passed the bathroom, I yelled 'thank you' and 'good-bye' to Michelle; she returned the 'good-bye' and wished me luck.
From there, I walked down to the beach and left Manzanillo. My long walk had begun. I walked two, three, or more kilometers before I heard a truck coming down the beach from behind me. Since I was already beginning to feel tired, I turned to stick out my thumb. The guy took me in and drove me only about 500 to 800 meters, near the edge of where the Rio Bongo empties into the Pacific. I had left Joe and Michelle's rancho at about 9:15am and low tide (to cross the river) was scheduled for 11:57am; however, due to my fast walking and the ride; I arrived at 10am. The river was on its way out, but there was not yet a dry passage. Surveying the scene, I determined that it looked shallow enough at its shallowest to be forded. I took off my sneakers and socks and rolled up my jeans to above my knees. At its lowest point, there was an islet in the Rio Bongo. First, I crossed from the southern shore to the islet. I did this with little problem, all the while my twenty-pound backpack on my back and my plastic bag held up in the air. Now I had to cross the wider and deeper portion from the islet to the northern shore. I set off immediately. Upon entering, it seemed easy enough as the first crossing. But then I reached the deep section, where the river current was its swiftest. The riverbed was not solid, and in fact gave way very easily, as if walking on the surface of mushy oatmeal. As a result, the water level reached to above my navel. I tried bending forward to prevent the bottom of my backpack from getting wet, but it was useless. I even tried walking on my tiptoes, to gain any extra height, but I'm sure that too was useless. Also in the process, the legs of my jeans had fallen back down to my ankles. When I reached the north shore, I was soaked from my abdomen down to my pinky toes, and the bottom of my pack was wet too. Worst of all, I had forgotten to take my wallet out of my back, left pocket. My wallet is still damp this very minute.
Anyway, I sat down on a dry, dead log to begin to dry off. I also put the black bottom of my pack in the direction of the very strong sun to dry quickly. After several minutes, I walked back to the river's edge to rinse my feet and then walked back again to the log as carefully as possible to enable minimal surface contact with sand and dirt. When I got the log, I propped my feet up to dry in the sun. After nearly ten minutes, I brushed off the sand and dirt in order to put on my socks and sneakers again. Once that was taken care of, I set off again on my grueling beach hike.
Well, the time has come for me to take a shower. I'll stop here. When I write again (perhaps tonight), I'll pick up the story on the other side of the Rio Bongo, explaining especially my episodes at Punto Coyote and Rio Coyote.
Friday, February 21, 2003
Playa San Miguel, Costa Rica -- night
I am absolutely exhausted, so I'll keep this entry short. Right now, my head hurts, my stomach is still recovering from being upset last night, and my upper trapezius muscles are so sore from carrying my backpack that they are barely functional. All of these conditions were effected adversely by dehydration; throughout the afternoon and evening I felt faint. I had been sweating bullets all day long. Although my money situation is getting dangerously low, I am considering staying here (at 2500 colones per night) for tomorrow night as well; my physical recuperation may very well outweigh the pressing need to keep moving, to reach the next town with a bank, Samara, located about thirty kilometers to the north.
In my next entry, I will explain in more detail my journey on foot from Manzanillo to Playa Coyote, and the subsequent hitchhiker's ride from Playa Coyote to my present location of Playa San Miguel. I'll be sure to re-count the mix-up with Joe and Michelle in Manzanillo before leaving, the very short hitchhiker's ride along the beach up until the Rio Bongo, my subsequent fording of the Rio Bongo, and my scaling of ten- to twelve-foot rock walls at Punto Coyote when the tide was out. Mind you I did all this with an approximately twenty-pound backpack strapped to my shoulders and a plastic bag in hand carrying my boots and sandals.
Today was truly a grueling and trying day in my journey, not just for my body, but for my mind as well. I will write again tomorrow if I have an opportunity.
In my next entry, I will explain in more detail my journey on foot from Manzanillo to Playa Coyote, and the subsequent hitchhiker's ride from Playa Coyote to my present location of Playa San Miguel. I'll be sure to re-count the mix-up with Joe and Michelle in Manzanillo before leaving, the very short hitchhiker's ride along the beach up until the Rio Bongo, my subsequent fording of the Rio Bongo, and my scaling of ten- to twelve-foot rock walls at Punto Coyote when the tide was out. Mind you I did all this with an approximately twenty-pound backpack strapped to my shoulders and a plastic bag in hand carrying my boots and sandals.
Today was truly a grueling and trying day in my journey, not just for my body, but for my mind as well. I will write again tomorrow if I have an opportunity.
Thursday, February 20, 2003
Manzanillo, Costa Rica -- evening
So I ended up staying here in Manzanillo with a guy who writes under the pen name of j. guevara, and his wife, Michelle, who runs a hamburger/lemonade shack at the bottom of the hill on the roadside of the shore-line dirt road.
Up here at the top of the hill they live in an open-air rancho with a thatch roof. There are also two thatch-roofed ranchos for guests; they cabinas are all-inclusive, meaning that they're feeding me too (and damn good food at that).
J has travelled all around the world, claiming to have travelled the length of the Himalayas, and hence also claiming to speak three dialects of Nepalese. He does some interesting reading, and so he has some interesting, nearly outlandish in some cases, viewpoints on a whole range of topics. He is fervently anti-Christian fundamentalist. He believes the bible is just another book, some of which may be fact or based in fact, and much of which is just a plagiarism of other previous religions or mythologies. He is a stated feminist, claiming that women have been "getting the shaft" for many years, ever since the bible was written and there was a division of labor between the two genders.
Politically speaking, (and in the realm of current events), his views are a bit radical to the point of being nearly foolish. However, he does raise some striking points on occasion. He believes the apparently impending war against Iraq is part of a geopolitical chess manuever, a "pincer movement" to trap Iran between the recently conquered Afghanistan to the east, Turkey to the north, and soon-to-be Iraq to the west. Only time will tell if his suspicions are well-founded.
He also believes the Columbia shuttle tragedy appears to be too much of a coincidence: an Israeli man and a Hindu woman aboard, both enemies of Muslim extremists; and the explosion took place over "Bush's backyard," Texas. He believes it was a message of sorts.
As far-fetched as some of his viewpoints may be, I did write down a recommended reading list. At the very least, it will open my mind to different points-of-view, and likely stimulate my thinking to new, wider horizons.
Now, as to what I did today, I did just a little work here to earn a free lunch. I used a machete to cut up a fallen banana tree into smaller pieces to toss down the hill. Then, I dug a small hole to serve as a compost ditch.
To cool myself off, I headed down to the ocean, where I went snorkeling for the first time ever. I was there for over an hour, and it was absolutely great. I saw several different types of fish: a tiny, bright blue one; a larger yellow-and-black, vertically striped one; a small, thin camouflage (with green and brown spots) one; and a large, flat gray one, among others. It was fascinating. By the time I reached shore again, I realized I had done a large loop and had covered a surprisingly good deal of ground (or sea, to be more appropriate).
I came back to eat a delicious hamburger and cantaloupe cubes, along with lemonade, cooked and served by Michelle at the shack down below. After paging through an issue of The Economist (I would like to subscribe when I return to Philly), I came up to the deck looking out over the Pacific to read a chapter of Lord Jim. Afterwards, I went back into the ocean to swim, float, and relax, until just before the sunset, when I came back up the hill to take a couple of photos.
And now here I am writing in the journal in the meantime before dinner is served. Before I put it off any longer (and while I have the time), I should go over a few quick stories from Puntarenas.
One of my afternoons there, I decided to hop into the ocean to cool off. While there I soon noticed three guys near me in the waves, but one looked peculiarly out of sorts. At first I thought he was mentally challenged, but then realized quickly that he was simply piss-drunk. His two friends had brought him into the ocean to shock him back to a greater degree of sobriety. The purpose seemed to be failing, though, since waves were smacking the drunk-ass right in his face. Furthermore, he couldn't remain standing still without the support of one or both of his friends.
A few minutes later, when he was on the beach, his friends let him walk on his own. He was carrying one sandal in each hand. Suddenly he dropped one sandal, and I saw what was coming. He bent over to try to pick it up, but instead went reeling out-of-control in a totally reckless manner; he landed face-first in the sand. During and after this whole scene, I was laughing hysterically amongst the waves.
Another episode which was pretty amusing was right after I had boarded the ferry in Puntarenas to go to Paquera. I, along with a sizeable crowd, was standing at the back of the ferry while it was being disconnected from the mooring on the dock. As the ferry slowly began drifting away from the dock, a young woman came running with her bag up the dock. Her two friends had just boarded and were yelling at her, urging her to run faster. At the last moment, she leaped from the dock and just barely landed on the lower deck of the ferry. At that instant, the whole crowd burst out in a combinations of applause and laughter. The whole scene was absolutely riotous; again, I laughed pretty good from that one.
Anyway, the stars are out now. And I'm really hoping that dinner will be ready and served soon. I hope to sleep well tonight because tomorrow I plan on resuming my pedestrian journey to the north at an early hour. I feel that urge to be on the road again.
Up here at the top of the hill they live in an open-air rancho with a thatch roof. There are also two thatch-roofed ranchos for guests; they cabinas are all-inclusive, meaning that they're feeding me too (and damn good food at that).
J has travelled all around the world, claiming to have travelled the length of the Himalayas, and hence also claiming to speak three dialects of Nepalese. He does some interesting reading, and so he has some interesting, nearly outlandish in some cases, viewpoints on a whole range of topics. He is fervently anti-Christian fundamentalist. He believes the bible is just another book, some of which may be fact or based in fact, and much of which is just a plagiarism of other previous religions or mythologies. He is a stated feminist, claiming that women have been "getting the shaft" for many years, ever since the bible was written and there was a division of labor between the two genders.
Politically speaking, (and in the realm of current events), his views are a bit radical to the point of being nearly foolish. However, he does raise some striking points on occasion. He believes the apparently impending war against Iraq is part of a geopolitical chess manuever, a "pincer movement" to trap Iran between the recently conquered Afghanistan to the east, Turkey to the north, and soon-to-be Iraq to the west. Only time will tell if his suspicions are well-founded.
He also believes the Columbia shuttle tragedy appears to be too much of a coincidence: an Israeli man and a Hindu woman aboard, both enemies of Muslim extremists; and the explosion took place over "Bush's backyard," Texas. He believes it was a message of sorts.
As far-fetched as some of his viewpoints may be, I did write down a recommended reading list. At the very least, it will open my mind to different points-of-view, and likely stimulate my thinking to new, wider horizons.
Now, as to what I did today, I did just a little work here to earn a free lunch. I used a machete to cut up a fallen banana tree into smaller pieces to toss down the hill. Then, I dug a small hole to serve as a compost ditch.
To cool myself off, I headed down to the ocean, where I went snorkeling for the first time ever. I was there for over an hour, and it was absolutely great. I saw several different types of fish: a tiny, bright blue one; a larger yellow-and-black, vertically striped one; a small, thin camouflage (with green and brown spots) one; and a large, flat gray one, among others. It was fascinating. By the time I reached shore again, I realized I had done a large loop and had covered a surprisingly good deal of ground (or sea, to be more appropriate).
I came back to eat a delicious hamburger and cantaloupe cubes, along with lemonade, cooked and served by Michelle at the shack down below. After paging through an issue of The Economist (I would like to subscribe when I return to Philly), I came up to the deck looking out over the Pacific to read a chapter of Lord Jim. Afterwards, I went back into the ocean to swim, float, and relax, until just before the sunset, when I came back up the hill to take a couple of photos.
And now here I am writing in the journal in the meantime before dinner is served. Before I put it off any longer (and while I have the time), I should go over a few quick stories from Puntarenas.
One of my afternoons there, I decided to hop into the ocean to cool off. While there I soon noticed three guys near me in the waves, but one looked peculiarly out of sorts. At first I thought he was mentally challenged, but then realized quickly that he was simply piss-drunk. His two friends had brought him into the ocean to shock him back to a greater degree of sobriety. The purpose seemed to be failing, though, since waves were smacking the drunk-ass right in his face. Furthermore, he couldn't remain standing still without the support of one or both of his friends.
A few minutes later, when he was on the beach, his friends let him walk on his own. He was carrying one sandal in each hand. Suddenly he dropped one sandal, and I saw what was coming. He bent over to try to pick it up, but instead went reeling out-of-control in a totally reckless manner; he landed face-first in the sand. During and after this whole scene, I was laughing hysterically amongst the waves.
Another episode which was pretty amusing was right after I had boarded the ferry in Puntarenas to go to Paquera. I, along with a sizeable crowd, was standing at the back of the ferry while it was being disconnected from the mooring on the dock. As the ferry slowly began drifting away from the dock, a young woman came running with her bag up the dock. Her two friends had just boarded and were yelling at her, urging her to run faster. At the last moment, she leaped from the dock and just barely landed on the lower deck of the ferry. At that instant, the whole crowd burst out in a combinations of applause and laughter. The whole scene was absolutely riotous; again, I laughed pretty good from that one.
Anyway, the stars are out now. And I'm really hoping that dinner will be ready and served soon. I hope to sleep well tonight because tomorrow I plan on resuming my pedestrian journey to the north at an early hour. I feel that urge to be on the road again.
Wednesday, February 19, 2003
Manzanillo, Costa Rica -- afternoon
Well, I would've continued writing last night but the power went out. I chilled out for a little while under the nearly full moon, but eventually headed to bed earlier than expected.
Once again I slept in late (I had been sneezing quite a bit the last two days so I decided to rest as much as possible; in addition, I had no pressing appointments, of course); I got going at about quarter to noontime.
The sun was brutally strong today, and there were only a few clouds in the sky. I decided to head north as already planned, already knowing that there was no transportation but my own two feet. I walked for about fifteen to twenty minutes before I stopped to fuel up at a local soda. I ate pinto con huevos picados, and a slice of toast with a pineapple juice Tropical, and a glass of water.
From there I walked for probably about an hour, sweating my balls off and toasting the exposed skin on my arms and face (I was wearing a cut-off white t-shirt, long jeans, and sneakers). I was sweating bullets when I finally gave in to get two pineapple Tropicales at a tiny beach-side soda; I also rinsed my arms and face with water from a hose. The girl there was in no mood to talk or to be friendly. Which was quite surprising, because during my walk from Mal Pais through Santa Teresa to the soda in San Martin, every car or pedestrian that passed waved in salutation. The friendly atmosphere definitely made the walk a lot easier.
So from the soda, I continued walking north along the one-lane dirt track that ran parallel to the shore. I had been told at the soda that the next beach, Manzanillo, was located about three kilometers to the north. Well, after walking for only another half-hour, and just entering the outskirts of Manzanillo, I saw a sign for information and free lemonade. I needed the latter more than the former, and so I stopped. I talked to the woman, an American from Alaska, who has been living here for six years. Her husband has been living here for seven years. He's an interesting character to say the least. I'm soon to eat dinner with them so the conversation should prove entertaining; he has a lot of interesting views on the world situation. I'll probably write again after dinner to re-count that story and to finally write about a few funny episodes in Puntarenas.
Just before writing this entry, I took a dip in the ocean. I didn't like it that much; the beach was part gravel and the waves broke way too close to shore.
Once again I slept in late (I had been sneezing quite a bit the last two days so I decided to rest as much as possible; in addition, I had no pressing appointments, of course); I got going at about quarter to noontime.
The sun was brutally strong today, and there were only a few clouds in the sky. I decided to head north as already planned, already knowing that there was no transportation but my own two feet. I walked for about fifteen to twenty minutes before I stopped to fuel up at a local soda. I ate pinto con huevos picados, and a slice of toast with a pineapple juice Tropical, and a glass of water.
From there I walked for probably about an hour, sweating my balls off and toasting the exposed skin on my arms and face (I was wearing a cut-off white t-shirt, long jeans, and sneakers). I was sweating bullets when I finally gave in to get two pineapple Tropicales at a tiny beach-side soda; I also rinsed my arms and face with water from a hose. The girl there was in no mood to talk or to be friendly. Which was quite surprising, because during my walk from Mal Pais through Santa Teresa to the soda in San Martin, every car or pedestrian that passed waved in salutation. The friendly atmosphere definitely made the walk a lot easier.
So from the soda, I continued walking north along the one-lane dirt track that ran parallel to the shore. I had been told at the soda that the next beach, Manzanillo, was located about three kilometers to the north. Well, after walking for only another half-hour, and just entering the outskirts of Manzanillo, I saw a sign for information and free lemonade. I needed the latter more than the former, and so I stopped. I talked to the woman, an American from Alaska, who has been living here for six years. Her husband has been living here for seven years. He's an interesting character to say the least. I'm soon to eat dinner with them so the conversation should prove entertaining; he has a lot of interesting views on the world situation. I'll probably write again after dinner to re-count that story and to finally write about a few funny episodes in Puntarenas.
Just before writing this entry, I took a dip in the ocean. I didn't like it that much; the beach was part gravel and the waves broke way too close to shore.
Tuesday, February 18, 2003
Mal Pais, Costa Rica -- night
I've made it to Mal Pais. This morning, out of pure preference, I lied in bed for at least two hours just thinking. I finally got up out of pure guilt for feeling that it was late in the morning. But I found out soon enough that it was only a quarter to ten, just enough time to check-out of the room and walk to the town center of Montezuma to catch the ten o'clock bus back to the town of Cobano, to transfer to a bus to reach Mal Pais.
Well, upon arriving at Cobano, I decided that I had to eat breakfast, because I felt like I was starving. By opting for breakfast, I missed the ten-thirty bus to Mal Pais, and later found out that the next bus was not until two-thirty in the afternoon.
After eating my breakfast, I remained in my seat and just lounged and observed; the restaurant was located right at one of the four corners of the only major intersection in Cobano.
Afterwards I walked up the block, past the bus stop, and found an open, empty pavilion with benches. I entered and sat down to do a little reading but quickly became sleepy. So I just laid back on the thin metal bench (not very comfortable) and fell asleep. I'll guess I slept for about thirty to forty minutes, after which I woke up and finished reading the chapter I was on in Lord Jim.
From there, I walked to a restaurant right by the bus stop to await the bus. I ordered a lemonade and milked it for all it was worth; from that point, I only had to sit waiting for about fifteen more minutes.
After getting to Mal Pais, I was on a mission to get in the ocean as quickly as possible. I rented a room at the first spot with a vacancy, at 3000 colones per night, and quickly changed into my bathing-suit to check out the ocean. Mal Pais is the southernmost beach on the Nicoya Peninsula which looks directly out onto the Pacific. The waves are a bit irregular, and crest a bit farther out to sea and a decent height of about four, to perhaps five, feet. The foam of the wave then still maintains form and becomes a second line of waves closer to shore, formidable still with a height of two to three feet, this in addition to the water depth, which put most waves over one's head. Nearly every wave I had to jump or dive under. And they came in such rapid succession that left very little time to swim or to float. This place is very popular with surfers, and for good reason.
But I think I'll be moving north tomorrow, to either the next town of Santa Teresa - which is pretty close by - or farther north if possible.
Well, upon arriving at Cobano, I decided that I had to eat breakfast, because I felt like I was starving. By opting for breakfast, I missed the ten-thirty bus to Mal Pais, and later found out that the next bus was not until two-thirty in the afternoon.
After eating my breakfast, I remained in my seat and just lounged and observed; the restaurant was located right at one of the four corners of the only major intersection in Cobano.
Afterwards I walked up the block, past the bus stop, and found an open, empty pavilion with benches. I entered and sat down to do a little reading but quickly became sleepy. So I just laid back on the thin metal bench (not very comfortable) and fell asleep. I'll guess I slept for about thirty to forty minutes, after which I woke up and finished reading the chapter I was on in Lord Jim.
From there, I walked to a restaurant right by the bus stop to await the bus. I ordered a lemonade and milked it for all it was worth; from that point, I only had to sit waiting for about fifteen more minutes.
After getting to Mal Pais, I was on a mission to get in the ocean as quickly as possible. I rented a room at the first spot with a vacancy, at 3000 colones per night, and quickly changed into my bathing-suit to check out the ocean. Mal Pais is the southernmost beach on the Nicoya Peninsula which looks directly out onto the Pacific. The waves are a bit irregular, and crest a bit farther out to sea and a decent height of about four, to perhaps five, feet. The foam of the wave then still maintains form and becomes a second line of waves closer to shore, formidable still with a height of two to three feet, this in addition to the water depth, which put most waves over one's head. Nearly every wave I had to jump or dive under. And they came in such rapid succession that left very little time to swim or to float. This place is very popular with surfers, and for good reason.
But I think I'll be moving north tomorrow, to either the next town of Santa Teresa - which is pretty close by - or farther north if possible.
Monday, February 17, 2003
Montezuma, Costa Rica -- evening
Earlier today, I caught the ferry from Puntarenas to arrive at Paquera, a town in the province of Guanacaste. The trip across the Gulf of Nicoya lasted about forty-five minutes; the sun was very strong, as was the wind, and there were only a few clouds in the sky.
Upon arriving in Paquera, I immediately hopped a bus for the forty-five minute ride south toward the tip of the Nicoya Peninsula. And so here I am in the town of Montezuma, which I have quickly discovered is really an American/European colony; I've actually been surprised to see a Tico here. Going along perfectly with the population here are the prices: everything is expensive. Considering I have been looking forward to a more proletarian and a more "tico" experience, I don't plan on staying here long. In fact, I've already asked several locals how to get to the town of Mal Pais. I've been told that I must backtrack by bus to the town of Cobano in order to catch a different bus back south to Mal Pais. And supposedly I must do this early, which may prove to be a problem since I still don't have an alarm of any kind.
Tonight's experience has been pretty shitty. Besides the heavy prices, everyone here is either honeymooners or stoners looking for weed and waves. For me, its been a while since I've even had a drink of alcohol. And this even despite three nights at Carnaval in Puntarenas, where at the end of each night there were guys passed out on the sidewalks, on the beach, and even in the middle of the street, el Paseo de los Turistas. Furthermore, at the end of each night, there was trash everywhere and the place smelled like the aftermath of a rowdy frat party.
Now to re-cap my time in Puntarenas. I slept in the same cheap hotel room on Friday night, for the same price of 2500 colones. But, upon a sudden knock on my door on Saturday late morning, I was told that the room had already been rented for that night. Considering it was the height of Carnaval, I had little choice but to leave Puntarenas. I figured my only other option was to visit the Soda Macareno, where I had befriended a porteno and two Colombians, one more time. I had promised to go there for una sopa de mariscos that Saturday afternoon.
So I saw Enrique, the Colombian from Cali, and I explained to him my situation. Luckily for me, he invited me to stay to sleep on the floor of his humble room. It certainly was humble, but that of course didn't bother me a bit. In fact, I stayed there both Saturday and Sunday (yesterday) night. Also staying there with Enrique was a Nicaraguan girl named Lili, who had lived in Puntarenas for a year but is now living in La Carpio, San Jose. I spent most of my time with her since Enrique had to work at a burger stand during Carnaval. She was very nice and she felt comfortable enough with me to ask me for advice; so my work as a type of advisor/counselor continues yet. Since I plan to continue north to Nicaragua, I asked for her address and phone number in Managua; she expects to be there by the end of the week. I told her that I hoped to be there in about two weeks, give or take.
Before leaving, I also got Enrique's email address. He plans on going to Seattle, Washington this July. I told him he is welcome in Philadelphia. A bat just flew over my head, as I sit here growing a bit tired of writing. Typing is just so much faster (and neater too, I'm sure)!
The full moon is high over my head, visible through palm leaves. And not too far in the distance (perhaps 100 meters), the tumble of the Pacific can be heard. The juxtaposition of my time in Puntarenas with the disappointment of Montezuma has slightly disillusioned me. To cure that, I must simply hit the road. With the hope that the next town will bring new adventures and even happiness.
I absolutely must recount a couple of funny stories from my time in Puntarenas, but I'll save that for my next entry. Now I'll got back to reading Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad, and then hit the sack to rest for a new day.
Upon arriving in Paquera, I immediately hopped a bus for the forty-five minute ride south toward the tip of the Nicoya Peninsula. And so here I am in the town of Montezuma, which I have quickly discovered is really an American/European colony; I've actually been surprised to see a Tico here. Going along perfectly with the population here are the prices: everything is expensive. Considering I have been looking forward to a more proletarian and a more "tico" experience, I don't plan on staying here long. In fact, I've already asked several locals how to get to the town of Mal Pais. I've been told that I must backtrack by bus to the town of Cobano in order to catch a different bus back south to Mal Pais. And supposedly I must do this early, which may prove to be a problem since I still don't have an alarm of any kind.
Tonight's experience has been pretty shitty. Besides the heavy prices, everyone here is either honeymooners or stoners looking for weed and waves. For me, its been a while since I've even had a drink of alcohol. And this even despite three nights at Carnaval in Puntarenas, where at the end of each night there were guys passed out on the sidewalks, on the beach, and even in the middle of the street, el Paseo de los Turistas. Furthermore, at the end of each night, there was trash everywhere and the place smelled like the aftermath of a rowdy frat party.
Now to re-cap my time in Puntarenas. I slept in the same cheap hotel room on Friday night, for the same price of 2500 colones. But, upon a sudden knock on my door on Saturday late morning, I was told that the room had already been rented for that night. Considering it was the height of Carnaval, I had little choice but to leave Puntarenas. I figured my only other option was to visit the Soda Macareno, where I had befriended a porteno and two Colombians, one more time. I had promised to go there for una sopa de mariscos that Saturday afternoon.
So I saw Enrique, the Colombian from Cali, and I explained to him my situation. Luckily for me, he invited me to stay to sleep on the floor of his humble room. It certainly was humble, but that of course didn't bother me a bit. In fact, I stayed there both Saturday and Sunday (yesterday) night. Also staying there with Enrique was a Nicaraguan girl named Lili, who had lived in Puntarenas for a year but is now living in La Carpio, San Jose. I spent most of my time with her since Enrique had to work at a burger stand during Carnaval. She was very nice and she felt comfortable enough with me to ask me for advice; so my work as a type of advisor/counselor continues yet. Since I plan to continue north to Nicaragua, I asked for her address and phone number in Managua; she expects to be there by the end of the week. I told her that I hoped to be there in about two weeks, give or take.
Before leaving, I also got Enrique's email address. He plans on going to Seattle, Washington this July. I told him he is welcome in Philadelphia. A bat just flew over my head, as I sit here growing a bit tired of writing. Typing is just so much faster (and neater too, I'm sure)!
The full moon is high over my head, visible through palm leaves. And not too far in the distance (perhaps 100 meters), the tumble of the Pacific can be heard. The juxtaposition of my time in Puntarenas with the disappointment of Montezuma has slightly disillusioned me. To cure that, I must simply hit the road. With the hope that the next town will bring new adventures and even happiness.
I absolutely must recount a couple of funny stories from my time in Puntarenas, but I'll save that for my next entry. Now I'll got back to reading Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad, and then hit the sack to rest for a new day.
Thursday, February 13, 2003
Puntarenas, Costa Rica -- night
Right now, its halftime of a soccer match between Costa Rica and Guatemala; Costa Rica's up 1-0. Also right now, I'm sitting at an open-air restaurant on the beach-side of the Paseo de los Turistas.
I got here earlier this afternoon, probably at about 2:30 pm, after which time I walked around for a couple of hours bargain-shopping for a room to sleep in tonight. After a ton of walking (along with a ton of patience), I finally found a room for 2500 colones, which amounts to about 7 dollars, not too bad. However, its literally just a bed in a room, with barely enough extra floor space even for my bag. Also in the negative column is the fact that the guy who showed me the room -- a guy by the name of Albie -- seemed really sleazy. I guess that's what I should expect when searching for the cheapest room in town.
When I checked in, I tried as best as possible to pass off for a tico. I told him my name was "Tay Fallas Quiros" and then I had to give him a cedula number. Luckily I remembered that cedula numbers are made up of seven digits, the first one signifying the province of birth. I told him my cedula number was 1-581-677; first the "1" meaning I was born in San Jose, the "5" being my date of birth, the "81" being my football jersey number at Shawnee, the "6" being my historically (but not necessarily any more) favorite number, and the "77" being my year of birth. I figured it would be easy to remember, but then again I screwed it up writing just now, so maybe not.
The second half of the soccer match has now started. Man, I've gotta say there are so many beautiful women here. Trouble is I'm pretty sure almost all of them are under eighteen years of age. Guatemala just scored to tie the match at 1-1.
After checking into my room, and leaving most of my things there, I've been doing nothing but walking around to get a feeling for Puntarenas. I've easily walked at least a few kilometers, considering I've walked the length of the Paseo de los Turistas at least four times, if not more.
During the bus ride here from San Jose, I struck up a decent conversation with a girl from just outside Puntarenas. She was a marketing major at the Universidad Latina, but was actually studying some worksheets of English on the bus ride. I was kinda surprised to hear that she was studying English of her own volition on her own free time. I was also fairly impressed when she pronounced most of the words without much of an accent at all. We probably talked for at least half an hour, but I fucked up when I didn't ask for her phone number before she suddenly got off the bus. And I've paid for it tonight since I really haven't talked with anyone during my steady perambulations.
But oh well. I look forward to getting up early tomorrow to go swimming in the Pacific, as well as finishing my current book, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn; that is, if I don't finish it tonight when I get back to the room.
I just asked some guy for the time, and was really surprised to hear that it is only 9:30 pm. I thought it was nearly midnight. I'm still so surprised that I think I'm gonna double-check with someone else in a few minutes. It's really a bitch that I left my wristwatch back in the states. Even if it really is that early, its fine with me; I plan on going to bed early in order to get up early as I said. Now I'm thinking maybe I should get a bite to eat before heading back to the room. Anyway, I'm feeling tired now. Perhaps I'll write again tomorrow.
I got here earlier this afternoon, probably at about 2:30 pm, after which time I walked around for a couple of hours bargain-shopping for a room to sleep in tonight. After a ton of walking (along with a ton of patience), I finally found a room for 2500 colones, which amounts to about 7 dollars, not too bad. However, its literally just a bed in a room, with barely enough extra floor space even for my bag. Also in the negative column is the fact that the guy who showed me the room -- a guy by the name of Albie -- seemed really sleazy. I guess that's what I should expect when searching for the cheapest room in town.
When I checked in, I tried as best as possible to pass off for a tico. I told him my name was "Tay Fallas Quiros" and then I had to give him a cedula number. Luckily I remembered that cedula numbers are made up of seven digits, the first one signifying the province of birth. I told him my cedula number was 1-581-677; first the "1" meaning I was born in San Jose, the "5" being my date of birth, the "81" being my football jersey number at Shawnee, the "6" being my historically (but not necessarily any more) favorite number, and the "77" being my year of birth. I figured it would be easy to remember, but then again I screwed it up writing just now, so maybe not.
The second half of the soccer match has now started. Man, I've gotta say there are so many beautiful women here. Trouble is I'm pretty sure almost all of them are under eighteen years of age. Guatemala just scored to tie the match at 1-1.
After checking into my room, and leaving most of my things there, I've been doing nothing but walking around to get a feeling for Puntarenas. I've easily walked at least a few kilometers, considering I've walked the length of the Paseo de los Turistas at least four times, if not more.
During the bus ride here from San Jose, I struck up a decent conversation with a girl from just outside Puntarenas. She was a marketing major at the Universidad Latina, but was actually studying some worksheets of English on the bus ride. I was kinda surprised to hear that she was studying English of her own volition on her own free time. I was also fairly impressed when she pronounced most of the words without much of an accent at all. We probably talked for at least half an hour, but I fucked up when I didn't ask for her phone number before she suddenly got off the bus. And I've paid for it tonight since I really haven't talked with anyone during my steady perambulations.
But oh well. I look forward to getting up early tomorrow to go swimming in the Pacific, as well as finishing my current book, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn; that is, if I don't finish it tonight when I get back to the room.
I just asked some guy for the time, and was really surprised to hear that it is only 9:30 pm. I thought it was nearly midnight. I'm still so surprised that I think I'm gonna double-check with someone else in a few minutes. It's really a bitch that I left my wristwatch back in the states. Even if it really is that early, its fine with me; I plan on going to bed early in order to get up early as I said. Now I'm thinking maybe I should get a bite to eat before heading back to the room. Anyway, I'm feeling tired now. Perhaps I'll write again tomorrow.
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
Guapiles, Costa Rica -- afternoon
I realize that this is my first entry outside of San Jose. Since reading my book is my only steady measure of progress, I have made the decision to remain in Guapiles until I finish the book. At this point, I have approximately 160 pages left. I hope to finish the book by Thursday night in order to travel to Pital de San Carlos on Friday morning.
I also realize that the supposed date for my return to the United States, February 7, is quickly approaching. And hence the need to make a decision as to whether I will go or not is becoming increasingly prominent.
My mother called me here at the home of Tia Sula this past Sunday night (today is Tuesday), but I wasn't here. I had gone with Carlos to the bar he is managing to translate their menu from Spanish to English. My mother will call again this Sunday to speak with me. I'm interested to see what she will say; almost undoubtedly her words and thoughts will influence my decision. As liberated as I am from a wife or girlfriend, mortgage or rental payments, I am still tied to my mother. I am very cognizant of the fact that she needs support, namely emotional support, and that I have been and am her primary source of support. My love for my mother denies me the liberty to ignore her wishes. To re-state that from another angle, however, I am fully aware that the responsibility of that choice lies completely with me; I don't proclaim to deny my own self-accountability.
As for my own thoughts, I realize that I must live a purposeful life. The purposes of my time in Costa Rica were varied. First, I intended to re-connect with family by spending valuable time. After nearly two months here, I feel confident that I have fulfilled that purpose.
Secondly, I intended to refresh my contact with a culture and a life different from that which I was living and experiencing in Philadelphia. During my time here, including presently, I have been and am sufficiently fulfilling that purpose.
Thirdly, I intended to take advantage of more free, leisure time to devote to my self-education. As I will soon have finished the 1069-page book, Atlas Shrugged, during my two months here, I have been fulfilling that purpose.
Fourth, I intended to enjoy a brief, but solid vacation from the routine of a steady job. With my several trips to each ocean, I have fulfilled that purpose.
Fifth, and perhaps most personal, I intended to provide a definite separation from the chapter of my life in which I was with Heather and subsequently my period of loss after ending the relationship. I intended to use my trip to Costa Rica as a clean break from that part of my life, to use this trip almost as a form of catharsis, so that I could begin anew. Very much connected with that separation, I intended for this trip to de-sexualize me. Partly due to the culture in the United States, but mostly due to my feeling of needing to enact new sexual experiences to perhaps 'convincing' myself of moving on from my relationship, I had been quite sexual in my desires while in Philadelphia. I predicted that this trip to a different, less-sexual culture, which naturally included a much different social life, as well as daily lifestyle, would serve to de-sexualize me. I can say with full confidence that my predictions and intentions have been fulfilled.
In some ways it is ironic that I set the date for my return to the United States at just over two months here in Costa Rica. I say this because, as I just explicated, I have sufficiently fulfilled the purposes and intentions with which I came. This necessarily leads me to re-evaluate my situation, spatially-temporally and, for lack of a better word, professionally, and decide in what direction I will go. I must now re-evaluate to determine a new set of purposes, according to those goals and desires which I value. This is the crux of my present dilemma.
My heart impels me to set off on journeys of my own. The pro's in this are maturation, self-(in)dependence, a still greater improvement in my Spanish language abilities, a wider experience of other cultures/countries/peoples. Following this path would take advantage of my largely-liberated current position in life. The potential con's are the perception of a loss of time/energy during a valuable point in my life, as well as a loss of the stable lifestyle I had been living in Philadelphia. But, as just implied in previous sentence, the con's may only be recognized if perceived as such.
Oftentimes, life is a matter of perception. For instance, the more conservative majority of society in the United States would perceive a decision to travel extensively as a waste of time and energy, as I already stated. In fact, I'm sure that a certain number of my friends and acquaintances believe this, even just for my two-month hiatus. And this opinion despite the fact that my employer is holding my position for me.
Now, to examine the option of the mind as opposed to that of the heart. I can return to my job at Philadelphia Legal Assistance on February 10. At that point, I would continue to work as a paralegal for at least another year, up to another year and a half. I would likely apply for admission to law school for fall 2004. For the next year or more, I would return to the life and lifestyle I had been living before this trip. As for a pro, this plan would provide stability and a well-laid-out course. As a con, it would signify a return to a life which would present few or no challenges, considering my past experience at the job and in that life.
Perhaps at first glance the option of the mind would seem the more rational, since it would imply little or no risk and each step would be clearly logical. It would also bring an almost certain comfort, if not luxury, in financial terms. However, the option of the heart would come with a certain degree of risk or even danger. Depending on perception, this may be a con, or as I see it, as a thrilling challenge. And it is that latter which is beautiful. I will be challenging myself.
Furthermore, the purpose of life is to live, affirm life, and produce for the constructive betterment of oneself and also society as a whole. If I embark of the option of the heart, while constantly maintaining that purpose in life, through self-education, in reading and experience, I will be affirming a rational decision. Although not necessarily accepted by society in general, I can and will maintain faith in the purpose and direction of my decision, while maintaining confidence while enacting the decision until reaching my next crossroads.
I believe, as one can most clearly see I'm sure, that my decision is all but final. The only other factor/influence to consider will be my conversation with my mother this coming Sunday. We shall see what the final result is. In the meantime, I'll continue to enjoy "pura vida"!
I also realize that the supposed date for my return to the United States, February 7, is quickly approaching. And hence the need to make a decision as to whether I will go or not is becoming increasingly prominent.
My mother called me here at the home of Tia Sula this past Sunday night (today is Tuesday), but I wasn't here. I had gone with Carlos to the bar he is managing to translate their menu from Spanish to English. My mother will call again this Sunday to speak with me. I'm interested to see what she will say; almost undoubtedly her words and thoughts will influence my decision. As liberated as I am from a wife or girlfriend, mortgage or rental payments, I am still tied to my mother. I am very cognizant of the fact that she needs support, namely emotional support, and that I have been and am her primary source of support. My love for my mother denies me the liberty to ignore her wishes. To re-state that from another angle, however, I am fully aware that the responsibility of that choice lies completely with me; I don't proclaim to deny my own self-accountability.
As for my own thoughts, I realize that I must live a purposeful life. The purposes of my time in Costa Rica were varied. First, I intended to re-connect with family by spending valuable time. After nearly two months here, I feel confident that I have fulfilled that purpose.
Secondly, I intended to refresh my contact with a culture and a life different from that which I was living and experiencing in Philadelphia. During my time here, including presently, I have been and am sufficiently fulfilling that purpose.
Thirdly, I intended to take advantage of more free, leisure time to devote to my self-education. As I will soon have finished the 1069-page book, Atlas Shrugged, during my two months here, I have been fulfilling that purpose.
Fourth, I intended to enjoy a brief, but solid vacation from the routine of a steady job. With my several trips to each ocean, I have fulfilled that purpose.
Fifth, and perhaps most personal, I intended to provide a definite separation from the chapter of my life in which I was with Heather and subsequently my period of loss after ending the relationship. I intended to use my trip to Costa Rica as a clean break from that part of my life, to use this trip almost as a form of catharsis, so that I could begin anew. Very much connected with that separation, I intended for this trip to de-sexualize me. Partly due to the culture in the United States, but mostly due to my feeling of needing to enact new sexual experiences to perhaps 'convincing' myself of moving on from my relationship, I had been quite sexual in my desires while in Philadelphia. I predicted that this trip to a different, less-sexual culture, which naturally included a much different social life, as well as daily lifestyle, would serve to de-sexualize me. I can say with full confidence that my predictions and intentions have been fulfilled.
In some ways it is ironic that I set the date for my return to the United States at just over two months here in Costa Rica. I say this because, as I just explicated, I have sufficiently fulfilled the purposes and intentions with which I came. This necessarily leads me to re-evaluate my situation, spatially-temporally and, for lack of a better word, professionally, and decide in what direction I will go. I must now re-evaluate to determine a new set of purposes, according to those goals and desires which I value. This is the crux of my present dilemma.
My heart impels me to set off on journeys of my own. The pro's in this are maturation, self-(in)dependence, a still greater improvement in my Spanish language abilities, a wider experience of other cultures/countries/peoples. Following this path would take advantage of my largely-liberated current position in life. The potential con's are the perception of a loss of time/energy during a valuable point in my life, as well as a loss of the stable lifestyle I had been living in Philadelphia. But, as just implied in previous sentence, the con's may only be recognized if perceived as such.
Oftentimes, life is a matter of perception. For instance, the more conservative majority of society in the United States would perceive a decision to travel extensively as a waste of time and energy, as I already stated. In fact, I'm sure that a certain number of my friends and acquaintances believe this, even just for my two-month hiatus. And this opinion despite the fact that my employer is holding my position for me.
Now, to examine the option of the mind as opposed to that of the heart. I can return to my job at Philadelphia Legal Assistance on February 10. At that point, I would continue to work as a paralegal for at least another year, up to another year and a half. I would likely apply for admission to law school for fall 2004. For the next year or more, I would return to the life and lifestyle I had been living before this trip. As for a pro, this plan would provide stability and a well-laid-out course. As a con, it would signify a return to a life which would present few or no challenges, considering my past experience at the job and in that life.
Perhaps at first glance the option of the mind would seem the more rational, since it would imply little or no risk and each step would be clearly logical. It would also bring an almost certain comfort, if not luxury, in financial terms. However, the option of the heart would come with a certain degree of risk or even danger. Depending on perception, this may be a con, or as I see it, as a thrilling challenge. And it is that latter which is beautiful. I will be challenging myself.
Furthermore, the purpose of life is to live, affirm life, and produce for the constructive betterment of oneself and also society as a whole. If I embark of the option of the heart, while constantly maintaining that purpose in life, through self-education, in reading and experience, I will be affirming a rational decision. Although not necessarily accepted by society in general, I can and will maintain faith in the purpose and direction of my decision, while maintaining confidence while enacting the decision until reaching my next crossroads.
I believe, as one can most clearly see I'm sure, that my decision is all but final. The only other factor/influence to consider will be my conversation with my mother this coming Sunday. We shall see what the final result is. In the meantime, I'll continue to enjoy "pura vida"!
Monday, January 20, 2003
San Jose, Costa Rica -- afternoon
Well, I haven't written back here as soon as I had expected. I'm back in San Antonio de Desamparados, San Jose, after nearly a week in Pital de San Carlos, Alajuela.
Just a few minutes ago, I got back from the grave of my maternal grandmother and of my cousin, Johanna, daughter of Tia Zahyra and sister of Yorlen. Tia Zahyra and I went there to scrape the loose paint and dirt off the grave in preparation for re-painting it tomorrow morning. While holding the scraper in my right hand and scraping vigorously, I eventually looked down to realize that blood was dripping down from my thumb. Due to my grip on the scraper, I had actually been scraping my own skin more than loose flakes of paint. I switched hands and oddly enough committed the same mistake with the left hand. So, in the end, I was left with two bloody, throbbing thumbs. As best as I could, I continued with the work, careful not to let any blood drip on to the tomb.
As I finished the scraping several minutes later, with the blood beginning to dry on my thumbs, and standing there next to the tomb, I looked up to see the two ends of a rainbow low on the horizon with the mountains serving as a backdrop. It was a sight and a scene exceptionally beautiful.
Earlier today I sent an email to Stephanie, my supervisor at Philadelphia Legal Assistance, recommending that they begin searching for someone to fill my position. I left it open that I may still return as expected, but that, at this point, I still had not reached a decision. The truth, however, is that more and more I am decided on staying in Latin America for an extended period of time. I believe I will soon make an excursion to Nicaragua; on the way back I will stop in Liberia, the capital of the province of Guanacaste, as well as visit the beaches of Guanacaste. My current, short-term plan is to leave tomorrow for Guapiles to pass some time with Abuelo; also, this Saturday there will be a party for the fiftieth birthday of Tia Sula.
Now, to give a quick update on my progress in a few different areas. First, my Spanish is slowly, but steadily improving. My improvements come largely in the area of vocabulary. However, I feel that I need greater improvements yet in the area of verbs, namely the conjugation of them. Although I'm not quite fluent by any stretch of the imagination in informal conversation of the street, I am confident in my conversational skills of the more conventional Spanish. For the most part, I can express all my basic thoughts and ideas, as well as some more complex. As much as I would love to be fluent tomorrow, I must be realistically content with my current progress.
In the area of my dancing skills, I have the basic movements of both salsa and meringue pretty much down. I need to learn how to lead the woman through spins and turns. And just as important, I've got to relax with it all so that every movement appears fluid and natural. As with the language, dance will come with extended, repeated practice. I'm thinking my time in Guapiles should present sufficient opportunities.
Lastly, in the area of reading, I now have less than 300 pages left in the book, Atlas Shrugged. As I approach the end of the book, I am more and more eager to finish it. Likewise, I am more and more looking forward to receiving my next book by personal delivery from the United States. The next book should provide me solid theory to one day put into practice.
Just a few minutes ago, I got back from the grave of my maternal grandmother and of my cousin, Johanna, daughter of Tia Zahyra and sister of Yorlen. Tia Zahyra and I went there to scrape the loose paint and dirt off the grave in preparation for re-painting it tomorrow morning. While holding the scraper in my right hand and scraping vigorously, I eventually looked down to realize that blood was dripping down from my thumb. Due to my grip on the scraper, I had actually been scraping my own skin more than loose flakes of paint. I switched hands and oddly enough committed the same mistake with the left hand. So, in the end, I was left with two bloody, throbbing thumbs. As best as I could, I continued with the work, careful not to let any blood drip on to the tomb.
As I finished the scraping several minutes later, with the blood beginning to dry on my thumbs, and standing there next to the tomb, I looked up to see the two ends of a rainbow low on the horizon with the mountains serving as a backdrop. It was a sight and a scene exceptionally beautiful.
Earlier today I sent an email to Stephanie, my supervisor at Philadelphia Legal Assistance, recommending that they begin searching for someone to fill my position. I left it open that I may still return as expected, but that, at this point, I still had not reached a decision. The truth, however, is that more and more I am decided on staying in Latin America for an extended period of time. I believe I will soon make an excursion to Nicaragua; on the way back I will stop in Liberia, the capital of the province of Guanacaste, as well as visit the beaches of Guanacaste. My current, short-term plan is to leave tomorrow for Guapiles to pass some time with Abuelo; also, this Saturday there will be a party for the fiftieth birthday of Tia Sula.
Now, to give a quick update on my progress in a few different areas. First, my Spanish is slowly, but steadily improving. My improvements come largely in the area of vocabulary. However, I feel that I need greater improvements yet in the area of verbs, namely the conjugation of them. Although I'm not quite fluent by any stretch of the imagination in informal conversation of the street, I am confident in my conversational skills of the more conventional Spanish. For the most part, I can express all my basic thoughts and ideas, as well as some more complex. As much as I would love to be fluent tomorrow, I must be realistically content with my current progress.
In the area of my dancing skills, I have the basic movements of both salsa and meringue pretty much down. I need to learn how to lead the woman through spins and turns. And just as important, I've got to relax with it all so that every movement appears fluid and natural. As with the language, dance will come with extended, repeated practice. I'm thinking my time in Guapiles should present sufficient opportunities.
Lastly, in the area of reading, I now have less than 300 pages left in the book, Atlas Shrugged. As I approach the end of the book, I am more and more eager to finish it. Likewise, I am more and more looking forward to receiving my next book by personal delivery from the United States. The next book should provide me solid theory to one day put into practice.
Tuesday, January 7, 2003
San Jose, Costa Rica -- night
All my previous entries had been written in the home of my cousins, Carlos and Marlen, located in Moravia, a suburb of San Jose, the capital city. As I write this I am sitting in the living room of my Tia Zahyra and her daughter my cousin, Yorlen. They live in San Francisco, another suburb of San Jose.
Today was a somewhat productive/constructive day. In the morning, after breakfast, I spent an hour and a half in an internet cafe, one hour of which I needed to write an email to my father. I hadn't communicated with him in any way since my conversation with him from Paul's cell phone from an Italian restaurant right by Times Square on the night of December 2, 2002. Hence, I typed for one hour non-stop to relay my activities and to express my thoughts. After that, I killed another half-hour by checking some music and football websites.
Later, after lunch, I took a solo trip by bus to San Jose, centro, to visit the Museo del Oro. Since there is a difference in payment depending on whether one is a national or a foreigner, I played it off as if I was a national by immediately offering the 1000 colones entrance fee for nationals. As the girl in the ticket windown handed me my ticket, she asked whether I was a national. Truthful as always, I told her that I was half-Tico, half-Gringo, explaining that my mother was a Tica by birth from Guapiles. The girl told me to go ahead in, but I might have to pay the difference in case someone else found out. I thanked her and knew I was in.
I spent the next two and a half hours reading every sign and poster in the whole museum. I learned that the largest tropical rain forest in Costa Rica is the Corcovado, located in the southwest. It is also in this same region that much metallurgy in gold took place. The indigenous people of the region derived artisan and artistic influences from the region of northwest Colombia by way of the Isthmus of Panama. Similar to the Museum of Jade, the artifacts were mostly zooanthropomorphic, using especially the figures of alligators, jaguars, and birds as symbols of power and authority. I learned that the shamans were not only spiritual leaders, but by virtue of their spiritual wisdom, they were also the political leaders as well. Pre-Columbian society was largely agricultural and trade did exist among various tribes. The most advanced settlements were in the Southwest region already mentioned.
After the conquest and in more recent history, I learned that banana was the dominant product and international export from the 1820s until the 1970s. Prior to this time, coffee and sugar cane had been the primary exports. Nevertheless, coffee remained an important export.
Based on the brief knowledge I gained, it seems that a primary factor in Costa Rica not having a strong socialist movement in the 1960s and 1970s was due largely (and strangely enough) to its two-crop export economy. Throughout those decades, and in the decades prior, the revenue from exportation of coffee and banana was steady and stable. However, a drop in the international market for coffee in the 1970s, coupled with the 1979 international oil crisis, dramatically impacted the Costa Rican economy in a negative manner. The 1980s were a decade of high inflation, but the international atmosphere for socialist movements was already past. Focusing specifically on the Costa Rican economy, it only began to rebound significantly in the 1990s when tourism, specifically eco-tourism, replaced agricultural exports as the nation's primary source of revenue. Connected with that last point, the centimo disappeared in the latter years of high inflation, leaving the colon as the only form of currency. Currently the exchange rate is 377 colones to 1 North-American dollar.
Now, to re-cap my days from January 3rd to January 5th. I spent that time in Puerto Viejo, a town in the province of Limon. My cousin Yorlen accompanied me, or perhaps I accompanied her, I'm not quite sure which. Either way, it was a good experience. I was happy to have some one-on-one time with someone so that my slower Spanish was not deflected from the conversation. That is, she had no choice but to speak to me, and on the flip-side, I was forced to engage in conversation with her. It was a necessary challenge, and I can say that I feel more confident with my Spanish after those three days. I am very grateful for that time and I am happy to have gotten to know Yorlen much better. I am sure she has no idea how grateful I am to her.
Well, on to a description of Puerto Viejo. First of all, it is very caribeno. Most of the local population is of African descent. I ate several dishes of "rice and beans," which is exactly what it says, only it is cooked with coconut milk. It was absolutely delicious.
Our first night, Friday, we went to a pizzeria, where we nearly finished a large pizza along with splitting a container of one liter of red wine. Afterwards, we went to a beachfront club called "Bambu" which was packed to the rim with people dancing to reggae roots music. It was a cool scene. And definitely a lot of second-hand cheeba smoke.
On both Friday and Saturday days, I went into the Atlantic Ocean, which was quite energetic. Once on Saturday, a wave took me and slammed my ass onto the floor of the ocean. I guess nature put me in my place. I had fun though.
Saturday night was top-notch, though. Yorlen and I brought a bottle of red Chilean wine to sit on the beach under the starlight and facing the incessant waves of the Caribbean. As we drank the bottle of wine, we shared a habano. The whole mood and the whole atmosphere was just so pristine, so tranquil. It was the kind of night where the beauty of life was so palpable that one could not help feeling both happy and thankful.
The next day, Sunday, we walked along the beach and then sat for a while on a log, where I actually fell asleep for a short while. Before that, though, I should mention that we went to a butterfly garden. However, it was not that impressive so it is not worth any further explication. After our repose on the beach, we checked out of our room to catch the bus back to San Jose. It was a wonderful weekend.
And so now, here I am. Tomorrow I plan on visiting the campus of the Universidad de Costa Rica (U.C.R.) with my cousin Andrea. I think I will speak with the director of international relations. More simply, though, I just want to see the campus. I'll be sure to write again soon.
Today was a somewhat productive/constructive day. In the morning, after breakfast, I spent an hour and a half in an internet cafe, one hour of which I needed to write an email to my father. I hadn't communicated with him in any way since my conversation with him from Paul's cell phone from an Italian restaurant right by Times Square on the night of December 2, 2002. Hence, I typed for one hour non-stop to relay my activities and to express my thoughts. After that, I killed another half-hour by checking some music and football websites.
Later, after lunch, I took a solo trip by bus to San Jose, centro, to visit the Museo del Oro. Since there is a difference in payment depending on whether one is a national or a foreigner, I played it off as if I was a national by immediately offering the 1000 colones entrance fee for nationals. As the girl in the ticket windown handed me my ticket, she asked whether I was a national. Truthful as always, I told her that I was half-Tico, half-Gringo, explaining that my mother was a Tica by birth from Guapiles. The girl told me to go ahead in, but I might have to pay the difference in case someone else found out. I thanked her and knew I was in.
I spent the next two and a half hours reading every sign and poster in the whole museum. I learned that the largest tropical rain forest in Costa Rica is the Corcovado, located in the southwest. It is also in this same region that much metallurgy in gold took place. The indigenous people of the region derived artisan and artistic influences from the region of northwest Colombia by way of the Isthmus of Panama. Similar to the Museum of Jade, the artifacts were mostly zooanthropomorphic, using especially the figures of alligators, jaguars, and birds as symbols of power and authority. I learned that the shamans were not only spiritual leaders, but by virtue of their spiritual wisdom, they were also the political leaders as well. Pre-Columbian society was largely agricultural and trade did exist among various tribes. The most advanced settlements were in the Southwest region already mentioned.
After the conquest and in more recent history, I learned that banana was the dominant product and international export from the 1820s until the 1970s. Prior to this time, coffee and sugar cane had been the primary exports. Nevertheless, coffee remained an important export.
Based on the brief knowledge I gained, it seems that a primary factor in Costa Rica not having a strong socialist movement in the 1960s and 1970s was due largely (and strangely enough) to its two-crop export economy. Throughout those decades, and in the decades prior, the revenue from exportation of coffee and banana was steady and stable. However, a drop in the international market for coffee in the 1970s, coupled with the 1979 international oil crisis, dramatically impacted the Costa Rican economy in a negative manner. The 1980s were a decade of high inflation, but the international atmosphere for socialist movements was already past. Focusing specifically on the Costa Rican economy, it only began to rebound significantly in the 1990s when tourism, specifically eco-tourism, replaced agricultural exports as the nation's primary source of revenue. Connected with that last point, the centimo disappeared in the latter years of high inflation, leaving the colon as the only form of currency. Currently the exchange rate is 377 colones to 1 North-American dollar.
Now, to re-cap my days from January 3rd to January 5th. I spent that time in Puerto Viejo, a town in the province of Limon. My cousin Yorlen accompanied me, or perhaps I accompanied her, I'm not quite sure which. Either way, it was a good experience. I was happy to have some one-on-one time with someone so that my slower Spanish was not deflected from the conversation. That is, she had no choice but to speak to me, and on the flip-side, I was forced to engage in conversation with her. It was a necessary challenge, and I can say that I feel more confident with my Spanish after those three days. I am very grateful for that time and I am happy to have gotten to know Yorlen much better. I am sure she has no idea how grateful I am to her.
Well, on to a description of Puerto Viejo. First of all, it is very caribeno. Most of the local population is of African descent. I ate several dishes of "rice and beans," which is exactly what it says, only it is cooked with coconut milk. It was absolutely delicious.
Our first night, Friday, we went to a pizzeria, where we nearly finished a large pizza along with splitting a container of one liter of red wine. Afterwards, we went to a beachfront club called "Bambu" which was packed to the rim with people dancing to reggae roots music. It was a cool scene. And definitely a lot of second-hand cheeba smoke.
On both Friday and Saturday days, I went into the Atlantic Ocean, which was quite energetic. Once on Saturday, a wave took me and slammed my ass onto the floor of the ocean. I guess nature put me in my place. I had fun though.
Saturday night was top-notch, though. Yorlen and I brought a bottle of red Chilean wine to sit on the beach under the starlight and facing the incessant waves of the Caribbean. As we drank the bottle of wine, we shared a habano. The whole mood and the whole atmosphere was just so pristine, so tranquil. It was the kind of night where the beauty of life was so palpable that one could not help feeling both happy and thankful.
The next day, Sunday, we walked along the beach and then sat for a while on a log, where I actually fell asleep for a short while. Before that, though, I should mention that we went to a butterfly garden. However, it was not that impressive so it is not worth any further explication. After our repose on the beach, we checked out of our room to catch the bus back to San Jose. It was a wonderful weekend.
And so now, here I am. Tomorrow I plan on visiting the campus of the Universidad de Costa Rica (U.C.R.) with my cousin Andrea. I think I will speak with the director of international relations. More simply, though, I just want to see the campus. I'll be sure to write again soon.
Thursday, January 2, 2003
San Jose, Costa Rica -- afternoon
I'm really not writing as often as I had expected I would. Oh well, nothing ever goes according to plan. Anyway, I guess I've got to get used to writing "2003" now.
I spent New Year's Eve on the white sand of Manuel Antonio under a star-lit sky, with palm trees at my back and the cool breeze off the Pacific Ocean on my face. I toasted the new year with a healthy swig of Chilean red wine.
I have now been here in Costa Rica for a month. My immersion is continuing; my Spanish has improved, due mainly to the steady acquisition of a larger, wider vocabulary. My salsa and my meringue are coming a bit more slowly. I think the latter isn't so much due to a lack of skill as it is a lack of courage. I'll get it down though.
I'm really looking forward to this new year. In many ways, it's symbolic, but I had been ready for a fresh start. This will be a year of fresh experiences, of living life to the fullest. This will be a year to take risks, because that is the flavor of life.
But it's interesting to set forth so alone. And technically speaking, I'm homeless. I have no permanent home. Viewed with a certain lens, that may seem pathetic or dangerous, but as I see it, it is a form of liberty. But again, living such a transient life may make it hard to set down roots. That security is the objective of so many people the world over. At this point in time, that objective does not necessarily attract me. In fact, settling down may actually be an aversion for me; I equate it with monotony, which is just a waste of life.
I'm really beginning to itch to set off solo. There are just three considerations before acting on that impulse. First, I want to be confident of my proficiency in Spanish. Although I don't expect to be fully fluent any time soon, I want to attain a high level of proficiency, namely in my speaking skills. Right now, my listening/understanding skills are almost peak.
The second consideration is cultural. Here in Costa Rica, and surely throughout much of Latin America, dance is fundamental to the nightlife. My meringue is not doing too bad, but I feel that my salsa needs some help. All that spinning and turning takes a lot of practice. I'm looking to bring my dancing to at least a decent level before hitting the road.
Finally, my third consideration is psycho-mental. Very simply, I must have the courage and determination to take that first step on the path toward my dreams. With faith in God and faith in myself, anything is possible. But it must be the strain of faith that is absolutely unshakeable. May this new year be a fulfilling one.
I spent New Year's Eve on the white sand of Manuel Antonio under a star-lit sky, with palm trees at my back and the cool breeze off the Pacific Ocean on my face. I toasted the new year with a healthy swig of Chilean red wine.
I have now been here in Costa Rica for a month. My immersion is continuing; my Spanish has improved, due mainly to the steady acquisition of a larger, wider vocabulary. My salsa and my meringue are coming a bit more slowly. I think the latter isn't so much due to a lack of skill as it is a lack of courage. I'll get it down though.
I'm really looking forward to this new year. In many ways, it's symbolic, but I had been ready for a fresh start. This will be a year of fresh experiences, of living life to the fullest. This will be a year to take risks, because that is the flavor of life.
But it's interesting to set forth so alone. And technically speaking, I'm homeless. I have no permanent home. Viewed with a certain lens, that may seem pathetic or dangerous, but as I see it, it is a form of liberty. But again, living such a transient life may make it hard to set down roots. That security is the objective of so many people the world over. At this point in time, that objective does not necessarily attract me. In fact, settling down may actually be an aversion for me; I equate it with monotony, which is just a waste of life.
I'm really beginning to itch to set off solo. There are just three considerations before acting on that impulse. First, I want to be confident of my proficiency in Spanish. Although I don't expect to be fully fluent any time soon, I want to attain a high level of proficiency, namely in my speaking skills. Right now, my listening/understanding skills are almost peak.
The second consideration is cultural. Here in Costa Rica, and surely throughout much of Latin America, dance is fundamental to the nightlife. My meringue is not doing too bad, but I feel that my salsa needs some help. All that spinning and turning takes a lot of practice. I'm looking to bring my dancing to at least a decent level before hitting the road.
Finally, my third consideration is psycho-mental. Very simply, I must have the courage and determination to take that first step on the path toward my dreams. With faith in God and faith in myself, anything is possible. But it must be the strain of faith that is absolutely unshakeable. May this new year be a fulfilling one.
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