Travelogue Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica

Here is a chapter-style start to finish of my experiences in Costa Rica..

I decided to set this page up separate to the Post section for the simple reason that the original intention of this Blog was to tell a story which has now been covered over with post after post of rants, goof, tales from the past, cartoons, and daily hurrumphings of a disgruntled working joe… I realized the other day that I began writing all this junk at the year anniversary of my trip as a way to keep the Costa Rica experience fresh in my mind… Not to post blab and blurb that comes to my mind.

So this is my feeble attempt to re-preserve the original intent of the blog… I also am thinking of revisiting the time and begin writing about more of the people, the culture, and the daily life experiences.

I don’t want to lose it.

Although I never intended to add photographs to the stories, I’ve since decided since posting cartoons and the likes that these could really help enhance this crazy thing. So I’m going to begin adding some photographs in the next few days to these chapters.

1. ) This is me Leaving…

I am a disillusioned graduate. I am one of many. 

I graduated from college in May, 2008, and the outlook was grim. The economy was in the toilet and Bachelor Degrees were about as useful and sought after as snowtires in Texas. I am part of the generation for advanced education…Where young people with a college education are some of the most in-debt and in-experienced.

After graduating from the college my parents paid for, I packed up my shit my parents paid for, loaded it into the car that my parents paid for, and moved back into the home my parents paid for. The following day, I put my Psychology degree to the side and took up my previous position of house painter.

For the next 5 months, I sent out my resume to businesses, set up interviews, and kept hoping for a break. At every interview, I was told the same thing, “Unfortunately, with the way the economy is, we are in an employment freeze… We will keep your resume on file and contact you at a later date if a position opens up.” So, in the meantime, I bought myself a piece of shit Jeep and scraped, sanded, and painted homes in Southern Maine. Every day, I would put together grand ideas of world travel; Australia, Thailand, South Africa, US road trip, etc… and every morning, my parents would ask, “so, what are you going to do? where are you going to go?” Until one fine day in late August, my father finally said, “don’t even bother asking him anymore, you know he’s going to end up living at home with us until he’s 25 anyway.”

With these words ringing in my ears, I walked upstairs and bought a ticket- destination Costa Rica.

Needless to say, my folks were shocked and upset with me. I booked a 2 month trip on a whim- I was leaving in a month, I didn’t know where I was going, or where I was staying, or really, what I was thinking.

2.) “Backpackers”

My mindset is not the same as that of many college graduate travellers, or “backpackers,” as they prefer to be called. A “backpacker” wants to put as many Countries under his belt and into his passport as quickly as possible… If he’s lucky he’ll come back with a really scraggly beard and a story about sleeping with a blonde sweedish skiier.

They will usually try to pull out obscure useless information about one of the countries they’ve visited once they’re back home with friends drinking at the bar, “you know, in Madagascar, you can only drink with your right hand.” (this is just an example, and its not even real, but you get the picture.)

So many kids I’ve met rattle off all the countries they’ve been to in flowing streams of arrogance, “Well, where do I begin… I landed in France and took a train to Germany and a bus to Brussels, and flew over to Prague; of course I had to go to Amsterdam to get stoned, and back to Germany for Oktoberfest, then up to Finland… ”  They all come back feeling worldly, wise, and condemning America.

Apparently, the greatest evil of the world is their home and it only took a 2-week trip, and 15 countries to come to this revelation.  “Go to Zimbabwe if you really want to see what the world is like man… the people are beautiful there… not like in America, everyones fat and stupid.. and the people in Sweden are so smart… not like Americans, so stupid and arrogant.” It is amazing to me how these people come back from their trip “knowing” how the people of a particular country are when the 24 hours they spent there were split between bing drinking in popular bars and visiting a tourist hot spot for souveniers, like a whitty t-shirt that says “I got stoned in Jerusalem.”

One thing I wanted to commit myself to on this trip was to be completely and utterly stationary. I wanted to know the area and people, so well that they did not even notice me when I walked by. I did not want to be jumping busses and trains, boats and planes in seach of the place every world-tripper was talking about that week. I didn’t want to see 6 countries and 20 cities in 2 months. I wanted to become entrenched in 1 small town.

3.) Graduated Traveler

My simple goal of entrenchment in a foreign area is something that most every backpacker I met during my trip labeled as lazy… either that, or they just completely could not understand it… Time after time, when I would meet another band of backpackers who were stopping into town for a day or two as a quick pit-stop until their next destination, they would ask me, “you’ve been here for a month and you haven’t even ventured out of town? What have you been doing?”They looked at Puerto Viejo as a great place to kill a day or two swinging in some hammocks. I saw a place where I could finally withdraw… walk coastlines, read all day, lie on hot sand, swim in cool water, stare at stars, and listen to the world.

 I realize now that, although I am not really too much of “a man of action,” I can be a man of reaction. I have lots of splendiferous idea and very little follow-through… The only reason I impulsively bought a plane ticket to Costa Rica was because I got called out. I had done absolutely no research on the country and it had never really popped up on my travel screen before that morning.

 My date of departure was October 31^st; Halloween morning. My arrival city was the Costa Rican capital of San Jose. A polluted, congested, dirt pit; basically, somewhere I wanted to spend as little time as possible. I knew I wanted to be on the coast and since I have always dreamed of living in the Caribbean, I hit Lonely Planet for beach towns on the Eastern coast. After cruising websites, googling random Costa Rican terms, and hunting for long term rentals for a few days, I found my destination and residence. I would be staying at the Chimuri Beach Cottages on the outskirts of Puerto Viejo de Talamanca.

I would have no agenda, no engagements, no requirements, or time tables.

For two whole months, my morning commute into town would be twenty minutes of barefoot walking along a volcanic black sand beach.

4.) The Truly Great Jobs

In my last job interview, the interviewer asked me, “If you could do anything for a living for the rest of your life, what would it be.”Now, keep in mind that the job I was interviewing for was that of Forensic Case Manager for a Mental Health Facility… This job was intensive; working with a severely impaired population suffering from psychotic mood disorders. A majority of the population was also struggling with severe drug addictions and all were homeless offenders. This interview was the first real shot I had at possibly getting a job within my area of college studies! Even though I had virtually no previous experience, I knew they wanted me for the job. I could easily nail this interview. All I could think in my head was, “sling some bull. Do the monkey dance. Tell them you want to go to Grad School. Just get the job!”

But I couldn’t help it. My response was immediate, honest, and simple; “if I could be anything, I would be a professional house painter… or own my own bar in the Caribbean!”

Now, you’d imagine that an interviewer for a Mental Health Facilitiy would be looking for someone whose career aspirations might reach a little bit higher than properly caulking windows, cutting lines, and running ladders… or serving up cocktails to sun burnt tourists. And for a long time, I convinced myself that being a painter was a bad thing… I felt like it was a noble job but that I had to play it off like it was my segway-to-my-real-career.

But really, this was a truly great job… Every morning, I would wake up at the crack of dawn, bust my ass until the sun went down, and could stand back at the end of every single day, see my progress, and see how I have improved a strangers home and life.

Honestly, I can’t believe I stopped.

For a long time, I shamed myself out of embracing this as a great job because it didn’t come with a tie, health insurance, a desk, and all that bullshit. But one thing I do know is that I was more proud of the work I did while I was a house painter than in the eight months I have been a Forensic Case Manager. Yea, I got the job. But it was my job as a house painter that gave me the chance to travel to Costa Rica.

The truly great jobs are few and far between. They can manifest themselves in so many different ways… after all, not every kid wants to be a rich surgeon driving a Ferrari.

For most people, the overwhelming fear of financial instability leads them to the tragic consequence of the dreaded 40 hour work week at the mundane desk job. These cubicled people have calendars tacked to their walls with palm-treed islands, Spanish fortresses, and Tuscan Villas. With hundreds of hours of vacation time banked, they will sit at their desks and daydream of the beautiful places that they have never gone to and never will get to.

Living in Vermont for four years, I met more people than I can count whose dream job paid jack-shit and there was no medical, dental, or vision plan… but the benefits were exactly what they were looking for; they traded their college diploma for lift tickets, they groomed trails, worked lifts, and taught kids how to ski. They rented winter condos with friends and loved their life.  They were working a job because they loved to do it- there was no end to work towards. How often do you get paid to do something you love?

5.) Aviophobia

I would do just about anything to be jumping on an airplane tonight…

I love that feeling on takeoff of being pressed back into your seat; everythings shaking around you, gasping when the plane dips a little bit, and that sigh of relief when you level off.  Then comes the beverage-cart.

When I was younger I was not so excited to be flying.

I have a vivid recollection of being a little kid on a trans-Atlantic flight with my family, running down the aisle with my brother to the back of the plane to ask for another mini-can of Sprite from the Stewardess. This was back in the day when they actually fed you on airplanes, you could go up and visit the pilot, and I wouldn’t get funny looks for asking for an airplane wing pin. I remember on this particular trip, this image of having melty, smeared chocolate all around my mouth and on my fingers from blowing through a family sized Kit-Kat bar. My brother runs up to me and says, “The lady’s going to let us see the pilot!”

The only way I can explain how I remember feeling at that moment was like that fat kid in the Matilda movie, Brucie, after The Trunchbull makes him pound an entire chocolate cake. You know what I’m talking about… Like how you feel after that 3^rd helping of Thanksgiving Dinner… Like you know you made a mistake.

Now, I can’t tell you for certain if that was the 1^st time I ever booted on an airplane, but I can say that for years to come, I would become violently ill every single time I flew.

This was a big problem, considering that my family would typically do two fairly long trips a year with flight times ranging from 4 to 7 hours… each way.

Let me clarify- I do not get motion sickness. Dramamine had no effect… I always blamed the smell of the jet fuel.

I remember once being taken to my pediatrician who suggested slicing up a bag full of lemons and limes to take on the flight with me and breath into the bag so I didn’t smell the jet fumes… Needless to say, I looked a little odd; sticking my head into a giant bag of sliced citrus fruit in between hurlings.

Pretty much, I was the kid on the plane that would turn your flight into a nightmare. This self-induced-airsickness got so bad that I was puking hours before even getting to the airport. Quickly I had full on aviophobia; I was terrified of flying.

 The major problem for me is that I loved to travel. I mean, I would be the kid in the family begging my parents to take us on vacation to some far away land, even though I knew that, when the time came to get on the plane, I was going to go through hell, and I’d be taking my poor parents with me.

Can you imagine bringing your kid on vacation knowing the scene that was about to unfold at the airport? My father used to throw me on luggage carts and dolly me through the terminals because I’d be passed out from exhaustion…

I remember tossing up hot-dog on the hot tarmac of the St. Thomas Airport in the Virgin Island…

That one was actually kind of funny though… I was right at the front of the line, so every other passenger had to walk through it.

6.) Thanksgiving

Thaaaanksgiving!

It’s the one holiday when you wake up late, sit around on the couch in your sweatpants, watch the parade, drink beer and wine all day, prepare amazing food, and sit with your family and friends for the best meal of the entire year.

There is no gift-giving or any real commericial value to Thanksgiving- it’s just all about family. Basically, the only thing you have to worry about doing on Thanksgiving is being thankful for what you have and to take the day nice and slow. I never truly appreciated the subtle importance of such a low key, laid back, delicious holiday until I went to college.

Last year was the most depressing Thanksgiving that I can recall… I was alone in a foreign country that didn’t have turkey.

After spending that morning on the beach, I went to the local internet boutique to Skype my family who were nice enough to put the webcam right on the table with a perfect shot of all the delicious food my mother had prepared…To the left of the screen was a mound of turkey that almost blocked out my sister’s face, next to it was the bowl of cranberry sauce, lumpy mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw, and two different types of stuffing… needless to say I was bumming.

After scouring the town, I found the only restaurant that was importing turkey for all the expats… It was either this, or go to another location which was offering a Thanksgiving banquet of sausages infused with turkey broth… nah. So, I ordered my 2 for 1 mai-tai(s) that I sat sipping by myself while I was surrounded by families of Americans who were all laughing and hollering, telling stories of “that one Thanksgiving that we got snowed in in Michigan!” I realized very quickly just how important Thanksgiving was to me and just how important my family was to me.

7.) Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

When I landed in San Jose I was, well, hammered. Not good when landing in a Spanish speaking country.

My friend Meesh had decided to make the spur of the moment decision to join me for the inital week of my trip, which worked out pretty well for my drunk ass… I probably wouldn’t have made it out of the airport without getting shanked and robbed if  it weren’t for her.

After stumbling through immigration, me and Meesh were swarmed by seemingly friendly, harmless little Costa Ricans who wanted to carry our bags, call for taxis, and get some of our recently converted Costa Rican monopoly money which we had no idea what the exchange rate was.

Now, I had read on the internet about these little fuckers before arriving– From all the horror stories I had read, these people steal your bags, demand tips, and are generally sketchy- Which I found was not the case at all. They were helpful and friendly and I regret not giving them a chance and instead chosing to act like a prick to them. But I digress..

We were lucky enough to be in and out of San Jose in less than 24 hours and on our way to Puerto Viejo.  The bus ride was a 4 hour rollocking ride through mountain passes, scrubbed towns, banana plantations, painted palmtrees, and heaps of burning garbage until arriving in town.

The cottage was off a pot-holed rock road on the outskirts of town. It was, quite litereally, a wooden box. There was a mini-fridge and two hot plates, a wood bench and table, bed and bug-net, toilet and cold-water shower, and a hammock on the front porch. At night, the only thing I would hear is the crashing of waves and the chirping of the crickets.

I would wake up every morning with black tea and cigarettes, read books, run on the beach, draw, drink, swim, and swing in hammocks. I would wander into town every day to shoot out an email, find my barstool, and write.

When I graduated from college, my folks gave me a journal as a gift- a gift that went unused for seven months. I decided to throw it in my luggage just in case it got bored while I was in Costa Rica and, for the first week, I didn’t even think about it- Me and Meesh were too busy doing nothing on the beach or drinking in town for me to write and when at the cottage, I’d just go on my laptop and listen to music or jump on the internet.

On the seventh day of my trip, I walked Meesh back to town, we had one more beer for the road at Tex Mex, and we bade each other adios… I was about to have my first official day alone on my adventure and my first official night alone in the jungle.

After drinking in town for several hours, I stumbled back to my cottage for the night. I fired up my computer, popped on some reggae and jumped onto the internet to kill some time. Then suddenly, my computer was toast. The screen was black. I’d push the power button over and over again. nothing. I’d give it a second, try again. nothing. I started freaking out. I was drunk and panicking. I remember actually standing in my kitchen talking to a geko because I did not know what else to do. I have no music! I have no internet! What am I going to do? How am I going to make it?

Suddenly, I was untterly alone. I no longer had the luxury of being able to kill time and disconnect from this experience. I began writing that day.

8.) Technology

When was the last time you went more than 24 hours without sending an e-mail, using a telephone, even driving a car? When my computer died on me, I had forgotten that things like computers and cell phones were accessories; they had become such a staple of everyday living that when they disappeared, it was shocking…

Its embarassing to look back on, but when it happened, I kept trying to get it to work because I was so scared of being all by myself… I’d pace around the room hoping it would work the next time I tried. Sometimes it would fire up for a split second and go off again. It took days before I finally tossed the laptop under the bed and was actually happy that it was gone.

It was such a foreign feeling walking around all day without a telephone in my pocket. Infact, I didn’t even carry a wallet. I would tie the key to my cottage to the drawstring on my bathing suit, throw a couple coins in my pocket and would walk all day. Soon enough I was more than happy with having a technology free lifestyle…

While I was at my cottage, I would putter and think, I would write and read, and I would play game after game of solitaire.. I got reaaal good at solitaire.

I used to pluck around on my guitar for a few hours in the morning before having breakfast and taking a nap in the hammock. Afterwards I would trot around in the surf for a few hours and get burnt by the Caribbean sun.

In a day, I would typically be looking at a television or computer screen for maybe 5 minutes and I would be outside from the time I woke up until I fell asleep… I guess it didn’t hurt that my favorite bar was completely outdoors with a beautiful view of the Caribbean sea (that counts right?). 

Nowadays, I’ll have my television on while being on my computer while waiting for a phone-call. I’ll sit inside for hours doing nothing. I’ll make time to go for a walk or have to have a reason to go outside. Instead of a 3o minute walk to the store, I’ll chose a 5 minute drive. It’s so disappointing to look back at how simply I was allowed to live for such a short amount of time in my life.

These things that were originally privelaged accessories became daily necessities. It was great to lose them all.

9. ) All are Welcome

As soon as I had nailed down when and where I was going, I jumped on the horn and put out the invitation to virtually every friend I had to “drop what you are doing a come travel!”

There were no conditions placed on when you must arrive or how long you were allowed to stay. Nor was there any financial support requested. I was so excited about the trip and hopeful that this would be an important life experience that I wanted to be able to share it with anybody that was willing to go for it.

One thing that I did not count on was that a majority of my friends whom I had just graduated college with back in the spring had already begun “career jobs” and they were either unable or unwilling to put their career on hold to gallivant on a beach for even a week or two, regardless of how appealing it sounded. Most of them would respond, “Oh that sounds amazing! Let me know when your going.. maybe I’ll come down for a few days… Keep me posted!” I would tell them, “I just told you when I’m going! I’m telling you right now!”

I will admit, I thing a big reason I was inviting any and everyone I knew was that I was quite nervous about doing this alone… Soon after I settled in, I was utterly relieved that virtually every person I had asked had declined to come down. It was great having Meesh come down with me for the initial part of my journey because it helped me feel settled in a very new environment.. I think it would certainly have been a whole lot more difficult if I had started off by myself- probably a lot less relaxing and whimsical. But after she left, I really settled into a routine of recluse… It was nice for me to know that, if I wanted to interact with people, I could walk on into town; but my cottage was for me. I could spend all day there in quiet, and many days, I did just that.

Several weeks into my stay, I had another friend come down to visit me for a couple days… I remember how excited I was to have a friend coming to town. I could show him around, we’d whoop it up at the bars… it’ll be great! What was very surprising to me was that I quickly felt uneasy having other people with me in my cottage- it had become my safe house where I could escape the world. But with someone else in it, there was always noise. If I were still, I could feel the cottage floor wobble and waiver whenever the visitor would walk. I couldn’t spend hours in the hammock because we had to see the town.  We had to synchronize our time so that when he was ready to go, so must I be.

I will say though, that I was very lucky that one of the only friends who decided to visit me was one of the most extremely laid back that I had… He did not mind doing some things on his own, and did not seem bothered when I would part ways for a little while to do my own thing…

He had already planned a voyage to Panama before even setting out for Central America, so after a few days relaxing at the beach, he became a little restless, and decided to make the move to Panama for some excitement… I opted to remain in Puerto Viejo, but thanked him for the offer.

And so just as I did with Meesh, I walked him to town, and after a farewell beer, bade him adios and was once again alone.

10.) The Bad Decision that Changed My Life

I can appreciate how my friends may have felt when I told them to quit their jobs or blow their savings accounts to come with me to Costa Rica. It sounds like a terrible, reckless, bad idea. But sometimes what someone considers a bad idea turns out to be the one thing that changes your entire life.

Since I was a little kid, I played basketball. I played it in elementary school, middle school, and high school. I remember how much I loved playing when I was real young, when it was just a good time playing. Slowly it became more and more serious.

My freshman year of High School, I didn’t get off on the right foot with the coach… I forgot to pack my basketball shoes before our first away game of the season and, even though another player offered me his extra pair of shoes which were the same size, I decided that I’d just sit this one out… at home.

So I wished them luck and waved bon voyage from the passenger side seat of my brothers Volvo, heading back home to relax and shoot hoops outside and eat dinner.

The next game, I showed up in the locker room a little later than everyone else and a lot more care free… And there was the head coach of the varsity team. He was the type of coach that would yell, humiliate, belittle, and demean players in an attempt to establish his dominance as a man and scare them into being good little basketball players. This pig faced prick took me in front of the whole team and reamed me out real good. Needless to say, after this little speech of his, I didn’t really get another opportunity to play that entire season… Under his masterful coaching, the entire basketball program was a complete failure and embarassment. His favoritism splintered each teir of teams, and fatigued every players desires. He was fired, sorry… I mean he resigned… after one year.

My sophomore year was the most enjoyable year of basketball I had played since I was a little kid. The coach just let us play. We would have fun and laugh during practice and in the games and it turns out, we were a good team… Who’da thunk it… the same group of  players from the prior year who were terrible- who were demeaned by the head coach-had now flourished under a new, more supportive organization. Shocking..

Junior year I made varsity, though the extent of my contribution to the team was of being a dummy for the stars of the team to bash up on and being one of the shameful 5 subbed in with 30 seconds left on the clock in the 4^th quarter so that the starters could get their last round of applause from the crowd… I used to pretend I was sick so that I wouldn’t have to suit up just to be humiliated by my coach, playing for 30 seconds every game.. He seemed to feel like we should be appreciative of the opportunity to play in the game. I don’t like charity, so fuck that.

I despised everything about being apart of that team. I didn’t like the players, I didn’t like the competitiveness, and I especially didn’t like the hypocritical nature of the coach… I think everyone’s had the coach who will say at the beginning of the season, “I don’t play favorites… Whoever plays the best in practice will play in the games. I don’t have a set starting 5.” It’s bullshit and everyone knows it… But a coach can’t be honest and say, “you 5 will be playing, you 5 might sometimes, and you 5… hah! well, you 5 are never going to play.” A coach says that, he looses his 5 grunts, and he knows it.

The only positive to this misery was that my best friend was also an unappreciated tackling dummy for the starting 5 so at least we could goof off behind the coaches’ backs at practice and on the bench… he used to throw balls full speed at the assistant coaches head when it was turned… and then make him go get it for him.

I remember I had even made a calendar that counted down every practice and game that year until I was rid of that horrible activity. Any time I contemplated quitting, family, friends, and everyone around me would tell me that “that would be the biggest mistake of your life… you will regret this in the future.” People warned that I would be a Quitter and a Loser and a Burnout.

Throughout that entire year, I swore I would not return to play senior year… But I let the advice (or warnings) from others get the better of me and, come Summer League, there I was- 5 days a week, all summer long. Camps, games, trainings… like I’m planning on getting a full scholarship to a D1 school.

Me and my once tackling dummy best friend had become two of the big leaders on the teams and it looked like this season might be a big one for us.

Between August and November, we had a bit of a break before try-outs; however the team was pretty much established…

Until I walked into the coaches office, 3 hours before try-outs.  He was, flabbergasted.

My decision to quit basketball senior year as a returning varsity player ended up being the bad decision that changed the path of my life in the best possible way… 

I had the best winter I had had in a very long time; I woke up early every Saturday to go snowboarding, I had fun with my friends, and I was happy… I even went to a few of the games.

Before quitting I was thinking about going to a graphic design school on Staten Island in New York. After quitting and getting back into snowboarding, I decided to go to a school in upper state Vermont that offered a seasons pass to a local mountain; I decided to major in Psychology, I studied philosophy and religious studies, I took poetry and art classes, and, I believe that I graduated a stronger, wiser, more well rounded individual there than I would have at Wagner College. It was the education and environment of St. Michael’s College that helped fuel my desire to explore and create instead of setting my sights on a high paying job in a big city.

I can’t say for certain who or where I would be today, or what I would be doing, if I had decided to play basketball my senior year of High School… But I can say quite certainly that I would not be in the NBA, nor would I have done many things that I have been lucky enough to do, and I would certainly not be where I am today.

11.) The Travel Bug

Every morning, I wake up wishing I was about to begin a trip. Most days during work I am either looking up ticket prices, looking at maps of equatorial destinations, or reading articles on Lonely Planet… plotting my next escape.

Life wouldn’t be so shitty if there was another great getaway somewhere on the horizon… Something exciting and new to look forward to, you know? But lately, the only thing I’ve been looking forward to is getting out of work in the afternoons and opening a bottle of wine with pretty company… that and flying back east for the holidays. But somehow that doesn’t have the same type of excitement and intrigue as going to a far off land… Seeing something you didn’t think even existed…. or seeing something you’ve seen ten thousand times from ten thousand miles away from home. Like a crystal clear night sky free of any light pollution.

I was once in Yosemite National Park with a great friend of mine. After spending full days outside climbing rock faces and diving into glacier pools, we would finish every night by sitting in the rocks of a riverbed, staring at the night sky speckled with starlights. We would agree not to hit the tent until we had counted a dozen or so shooting stars… Same sky, different experience.

For me, there is something particularly impressing about the night sky, regardless of location… whether it’s the brilliance of the  stars from the Yosemite Valley; tunnelvisioned in by the sheer black cliff faces on all sides of you focusing your attention, or sitting on a beach south of the equator with a 270˚ view of perfectly clear sky… maybe a storm so far off in the distance that somewhere on the other side of the horizon, a bolt of lightning flashes… doesn’t that sound nice?

Stargazing from the floor of the Yosemite Valley tends to lead the viewer’s eyes directly up, above the mountain precipice. It may inspire a, “space, the final frontier…” type of dialogue between compatriots.

Sitting on a tropical beach, looking directly out over the vast Caribbean sea with waves lapping against slowly cooling sand may lead to an inward reflection, a feeling of sereneness and satisfaction… usually followed up with a ‘clink’ of beer bottles between amigos.

Standing outside the back door in Kent, Washington, staring into the dark with light pollution stabbing so deep into the black night that barely a star can be seen, well… usually the only thing I can think of is, “Well, this blows…”

Just the other day, I was talking to a good friend of mine who just returned from an adventure of his own. He’d just come back from Thailand after stopping in Dubai and road tripping through New Zealand. We began discussing this mutual feeling of emptiness and restlessness… this “what comes next” feeling that is all consuming after returning from a whirlwind experience… The withdrawals from being astonished. The depressive stagnation of being on familiar turf.

The fresh bite of the travel bug, still swollen and irritated; like that week old mosquito bite on your left middle knuckle that you just can’t stop scratching, you can’t let it go.

It will skew your perception on life and lead to a reprioritization of goals.

12.) Tall Tales and Local Legends

Besides the obvious benefit of removing you from your normal environment and allowing you to experience foreign and exotic locations, travelling also takes you out of your social comfort zone and virtually forces you to expand your circle of comfort. It only seems fitting that it is in foreign, unknown, wild locations you will find kind, interesting, twisted, idealistic, dangerous, beautiful people who may turn out to be, in one way or another, so ingrained in the culture that they have become something of a tall tale, a local legend, or a folklore.

I once drank rum with a telemarking ski-bum in a British Columbian hostel common-room who turned out to be an ex-professional snowboarder. He was a relic from the infant days of snowboarding… A perfect reflection of his environment- with a head of wild hat hair and an icicled beard; his face permanently wind-burned from too much exposure, the universally recognizable raccooned eyes of a diehard mountain freak.

He ran the hostel with his wife and child, welcoming travellers to sit around the kitchen table for a late night drink or a mid-day toke. He’d pull out the stacks of faded 80’s shredder magazines to show me clippings of him tweaking a grab from a tour he did in Japan, when he first met his to-be bride. He would reminice of being one of the first people to ride down Whistler on a piece of plywood with a string bolted to the tip and being one of the areas original mohawked-hellians. He told jokes about “that party with Jake Burton,” and between cap-shots of Captain Morgans and balcony sessions to smoke B.C. Bud in the freezing Canada night. He was the his own Keeper of the History of Snowboarding. The Encyclopedia of the Revolution, he spoke like an apostle.

Just like in the snowdrifts of British Columbia, I met some of the most interesting and intriguing people from all parts of the spectrum while staying in Puerto Viejo… from the 24-hour 1st timer, to the ”I was here before this place got popular,” local, all they way back to the old timer, “I remember when there was one road, no cars, and all we did is fish,” born and raised, local… and of course, a smuggler or two…

One of the more interesting characters I met was an old, scrawny, bald-headed man in a tattered Hawaiian shirt who would frequently ride up to me on his bicycle. Every time, asking, “hey man, you speak english? I’m trying to get to Limón… want to buy some grass off me?” He would introduce himself as Patrick. However I later learned that his real name was Christopher, though he was more well known as Captain Zero, smuggler.

Turns out there is actually a book written about him and his escapades called “In Search of Captain Zero,” as well as a High Times article that came out in November/December of 2008 titled “We Found Captain Zero.” 

Zero’s story was a classic… A child of the Revolution, Vietnam veteran turned degenerate surfer who turned to smuggling hullfulls of marijuana in high-speed motorboats to fund his Endless Summer. He decided to remove himself from the game and flee the U.S. of A,  leaving no trace or hint of where he was going until a postard from Costa Rica landed on his best friends doorstep signed Captain Zero. Coincidentally, he found solice in the same town as me to Puerto Viejo.
He’s been there ever since… Long since retired from the smuggling game, he spends his days being followed by the packs of stray beach-dogs, peddling around town  on his 1 speed bike, selling dime-bags to backpackers, and, giving personal tours of “the things the tourguides don’t know about.”

Living the Dream.

13.) Hostels

I think everyone remembers a few years ago when the glorified Hollywood snuff film Hostel came out… The backlash from this movie did to fresh-off-the-campus college backpackers what Jaws did for upper-middle-class families who would vacation on Cape Cod during Labor Day weekend.

I remember when I booked the trip to British Columbia… When I mentioned to my friends that I was set to stay four nights in a hostel, the first thing that popped into peoples heads and fell out of their mouths was, “oh my God! have you seen that movie Hostel? aren’t you nervous? that’s scary, being in a place with other people you don’t know…”

It was my first to-be-experience with hostels and, to be honest, yea, I’d seen Hostel, and yea, I was a bit nervous… I had been able to find the place on HostelWorld.com and seen a few pictures, which were about as large as an AIM buddy Icon, and well, lets just say this really didn’t put my fears to rest… from what I could make out through the pixelation reminded me of what I thought a prison cell might look like- 2 metal bunk beds angainst the wall and a community bathroom… it looked raw. it looked dirty. and a little sketchy… yea, I was a little nervous.

Since nobody I knew had yet to stay in a hostel, there was nobody to tell me just how amazing they actually are. How much better than any classy hotel they are. How, what they may lack in amenities, they make up for in pure, uncomparable awesomeness.

It was the opposite of the movie; sure, there was no polished oak doors, spas, queen beds, and quiet reading areas full of supermodels (who may or may not lure you to your death). The hostel was a dirty, grimey, discheveled buildings of rusted pipe, plaster, and brick, a wall of mosiac signatures from other wanders, graveyards of wounded soldiers on windowsills… The hallways crawling with life. The lingering smell of stale beer, cigarettes and marijuana. It was perfect.

These places are used and abused; experienced fully. Whether you are solo or part of a roaming herd of degenerates, a hostel will provide you with far more than just a bed, blanket, hammock, or recliner for a night. Because it’s chock-a-block full of people, just. like. you.

These are neutral sites to congregate and reconnect with the freak in all of us; a place to get wierd. Nights are a little more mischievous and possibilities seem endless… Like when you were a kid at a sleepover at the kids house with “the cool parents..” you  know, the ones that would let you set off fireworks, smoke bombs, and M90’s down in a church parking lot at 3am in the morning after you’ve all gotten wired on Jolt cola and Mountain Dew.

They are established by people who know what its like to be degenerate and unwelcomed by overpriced hotels because managment knows exactly what is going to happen when they hand over the keys to one of their plush rooms. And as for the “lack of privacy,” in hostels… sure, you might not get four walls to yourself, but really? is that that important? Do you really need a tv with on-demand?  all you’re going to end up doing is raiding that minibar and watching television all night. Don’t do that. Instead of thinking “lack of privacy,” you should be thinking “the opportunity to meet strange and exotic people from distant parts of the globe, full of knowlege, fantastic stories, perverted humor, sage-like wisdom, terrible reccomendations and alcohol thinned blood; all colliding around a bonfire. 

You never seem to know what might happen or who you might meet when your staying at a hostel… I shared a room a snoring Canadian Poet Laureat. Met a man who looked like Hunter S. Thompson and wouldn’t go anywhere with out his chiuaua, Rat Dog. The retired pro-snowboarder. A sailor who survived a tsunami…

Really, why would you every want to stay in a hotel when you could stay in a hostel?

14.) Making Friends and Rocking J’s

After Meesh’s departure, I found that I was completely content to walk quietly on the beach all day. After I accepted the fact that my dead computer was about as obsolete as a swimsuit in the desert, I accepted and quickly grew accostomed to the silence, and I thoroughly enjoy the seclusion.

I would wander into the town to use the internet boutique, send my folks and friends an email to assure them I am alive, and would proceed to the bar… I found my barstool at an outdoor cantina called TexMex; a rectangular wooden bar in the heart of the town with ocean views, pretty bartenders, and amazing food.. This would also come to be the place where many a friend was made, both locals and travellers alike.

I would frequently arrive at TexMex soon after breakfast and relax here with a beer and a book for much of the remainer of the day. I quickly became a staple both with the morning, afternoon, and evening bartenders. A brit named Roger owned the joint and the two primary bartenders where Marr in the morning, and Danny in the evenings.

Marr was a beautiful girl from the Northern part of the country. She was usually the 1st person I’d speak to each day- she’d offer me my morning cup of coffee and I’d usually be having my first beer of the day by the time she was punching out. We’d frequently have chats about art and literature, what snow looked like, and why people come to Costa Rica.

Danny was my homeboy.. He had moved from Limon to Puerto Viejo and started working at TexMex at just about the same time I came to town so we were both getting to know the place at the same time. He was an iPod Rasta; a graduated digital photography student, religious scholar. We used to talk about art, culture, and religion.. I’ll never forget the one day when I was sitting on my barstool and two stray dogs began to attack each other out of the blue… Nobody tried to stop it, noone was bothered. Danny turned to me and said, “that’s what travellers don’t understand about this place… the people are like the dogs.. this life may look wonderful, but we are all just trying to survive.”

I had met a wanderer named Lee while Meesh was still in town with me. The two of us were drinking Imperial Beer at TexMex and he seemed to just appear out of smoke…We spent the rest of the night debauching ourselves with him and in the morning he was gone.  The previous night he had told me that he was on his way to Panama, to the place all the backpackers were talking about, Bocas Del Toro. He had assured me he would be stopping back in Puerto Viejo before heading back to the cloudforest in Monteverde where he volunteered at a butterfly garden. Sure enough, he returned several days later and so I offered him my front porch hammock while he was attempting to collect a rare species of spider to take back with him to Monteverde. We ended up drinking and chilling for several days and together; played a lot of cards, talked philosophy, explored the jungle for spiders… and it was during  one evening at TexMex that Lee and I were approached by the three Seattlites; Jme, Meg, and Liz.

Lee and I had gotten to the bar quite early in the day for a session of bombing Cacique Guaro and guzzling Pilsen, chainsmoking Derby cigarettes and eating mexican food when I was approached by a girl asking for a light and before we knew what had happened, the two of us were walking back to the Seattlites’ hostel for live music, excessive drinking, and general debauchery. This was the night that I was first introduced to Rocking J’s Hostel, or backpacker paradise. I would frequently return to J’s after I was first introduced to it to meet the fresh influx of movers and shakers taking a break on the in-between of their travels.

The following three days, I spent virtually every hour with the Seattlites; fresh fruit and coffee in the mornings, lazing on the beach all afternoon, drinks at Tex Mex, hammocks and rum at Rocking J’s….Meanwhile, the sun was always shining. 

But like all the backpackers I met during my stay, their time in Puerto Viejo was transitionary, and three days after giving one a light one hazy night, the three of them were on that cursed bus back to San Jose…  Jme was off to the noth to volunteer at some farm and Meg and Liz were going back home to Seattle with no particular agenda… I acutually almost had Megan convinced to stay with me at Chimuri for another month, however she said her sister would have never forgiven her if she had stayed behind in Puerto Viejo and made her go to San Jose by herself. I guess I could understand…

On my way beach walk back to Chimuri, I looked out at the vast Caribbean Sea and, on the horizon, saw the black clouds rolling in…

 I had been warned this was the off-season before I had arrived in Puerto Viejo. I had been lucky so far.. 16 days of sunshine and fun.. but my luck was about to run out.

15.) Storm Clouds

On November 17th, 2009, the weather changed in Puerto Viejo. Dramatically. I had been in Costa Rica since October 31st and there had been skies full of sunshine and reggae music in the air.. I knew before I left that this was the wet-season, however I had my fingers crossed that this lucky weather would continue.

Now, I’ve experienced some pretty gnarly weather growing up in the North East all my life. I remember being a kid when Hurricane Bob blew in and threw barreled waves on the coast. I remember the devistation the 1998 Ice Storm caused over the entire state of Maine. I’ve seen 3 feet of snow fall out of the sky overnight and felt -30° windchills come screaming off of Lake Champlain in Northern Vermont. But until mid-November, I’d never felt an earthquake and never been in a flash flood.

Side Note:

I find it coincidental that I chose to write today on the beginning of my tough times in Costa Rica… I had planned on writing about the several weeks following the departure of the Seattlites and the arrival of the wet season. I was going to write about the time when I was constantly wet, exhausted, and depressed.. Well, I guess I still am… However the date and location will be different. Instead of this Costa Rican story, I’m going to tell you about my morning. This morning.

This morning, I arrived at my bus stop in Kent, WA at 6:55, right on time. The bus, however, was 7 minutes early for its 7:00am pickup. I missed my bus by 2 minutes. The temperature outside was a frosty 22°. I ended up waiting for 35 fucking minutes at that bus stop. When I arrived late at work, in the dilapidated slum apartment building that my company has put our team in, I began this wonderful December day by being cursed out and yelled at by a toothless old lady who, and i shit you not, looks exactly like The Mad Madam Mim from Disney’s Sword in the Stone. After she called upon God to smite me down, she stormed out of the building. Directly afterwards, a 68 year old help-rejecting complainer of a client who believes I am stealing his money arrived, and the second verbally harrassing experience of my day began. I ended up having to walk to the bank with this miserable individual while he spewed vulgarities at me through the streets of Seattle and later introduced me to the Bank of America manager as “the illustrious lying case manager.” We parted ways, but not before he informed me that I should be expecting a letter from his lawyer because he is going to sue me. I returned to my office where I proceeded to be cussed out by a young lady addicted to crack. This all occurred before 11 a.m… Now, it looks like I have to call the police to have someone trespassed from the building.

I hope it is beginning to sink in why I have created this blog and why all my entries are about escape.

Did I mention I hate my job?

16.) The Earthquake and the Rain

The earthquake arrived in the early morning hours while I was sound asleep. The rains had been pretty steady throughout the night with a strong breeze blowing in from the sea.

I had gotten used to the constant rock and sway of the cabina before even drifting off to sleep so I initially thought it odd that I would suddenly be woken up by this ebb and flow. There was something different about the undulation this time, something more violent. It was no longer that slow yawn of back and forth. The four posts that held the cabina in the ground felt like they were shaking in circles. Utensils began dropping from the countertop and the small piece of mirror in the bathroom dropped off its nail hook. It only lasted a maybe 20 seconds, and I drifted right back to sleep. At the time, I thought, “man… That wind’s really kicking up.” It wasn’t until I was in town the next day that I discovered I had just experience my 1^st earthquake. Turned out, businesses and homes with more to them than four walls and a tin roof took a little damage. Mostly just loose items… Liquor bottles, glasses, picture frames and the likes. Mostly, it was see as more of a mild inconvenience… turns out the real disaster was on its way.

Without any embellishment, I can say that it rained almost constantly, every hour of every day or every night, for over a week… probably closer to two. And when I say rain, I do not mean sprinkles. I mean torrential downpours. At first I was just was just a huge bummer because it meant no beach time and that my walk into town was guaranteed to end in me being soaking wet. Soon, it became downright aweful. The lawn around my cabina became a lake that was inches deep. The river next to the property had over covered the dirt road leading to town with three feet of water rushing right into the sea. The beach had been consumed by the ocean with barrel after barrel of rip-tiding waves that would thunder on top of each other. There were rolling blackouts. Every backpacker jumped busses south for Panama or north for Nicaragua.

On the fourth of fifth day, the concrete bridge, that allowed everything in and out of town, finally gave in to the torrent of water that relentlessly smashed into it.  The bridge became impassable by vehicle or bicycle. With balance and concentration, people could make it across the spine that stayed connected to the base and with a slight leap back onto the dirt, you were across. For several days, no supplies were able to get into the town. Not only because the bridge was collapsed, but also due to a severe mudslide further north in the mountainside that covered the road and bulldozed the valley’s banana plantations.

Because of the unrelenting rain, any repair or temporary replacement was impossible. The river below the broken bridge was surging so hard, fast, and, high that wading into it would mean being sucked into the sea.  I remember how scared I was on my first crossing…But I’d seen young Costa Rican boys hauling crates of beer, two at a time, back-and-forth across the bridge to ensure everyone stayed well lubricated during this time of crisis… so how hard could it be to cross?

I figured I’d be the person that would probably stumble and fall into the river while the entire town watched me be engulfed by the sea.  Luckily I made it across no problem.  And within a few quick crossing, I had gotten so proficient at this dangerous dance that I was even able to cross it at night, in the rain, while drunk. Not bad.

When the rain eventually subsided, bulldozers and crews of locals appeared on the beach and began constructing a makeshift with gigantic metal tubing to allow the river to flow freely, a solid framework of tangled driftwood and downed trees as a skeleton, and tons upon tons of sand, rock, and soil for the bumpy road. Over the next several weeks, professional construction crews began building a new steel suspension bridge that simply flopped over the crippled concrete relic. Progress was slow, but constant.

During these days of crisis, there was not much to do… Most of the day I spent swinging in my hammock all day at Chimuri, playing guitar, reading books, and writing. It was during this period that I actually began writing poetry and short stories. Anything to pass time I guess… If I wasn’t in my hammock, I was forging the floods to town to meet up with all the other travelers that had come to Costa Rica for the beaches and sunshine but instead were forced under canopied bars and tikki huts, drowning our mutual frustrations over a dozen or so Pilsens before trudging back out into the unexposed, cool deluge of rain. Our sun tanned skin was losing color and we were none too thrilled.

But, at the end of every day, I never forgot that I was still living the dream.

17.) Highway Robbery

When the rain subsided in Puerto Viejo, sun skeekers and backpackers returned. Now, since I had arrived in PV, I had been warned that, like any poor town teeming with outsiders comes frequent muggings. Many a friendly local had warned me to watch out for shady characters heading your way if you were walking down an uninhabited section of road in between the town and the beach. I had also been warned that an outsider should not find himself on the beach at night. Basically, watch your ass, day and night. I disregarded both of these, less because I wanted to, and more because I had no other choice; I was in town alone.

In the time I was there, I would hear a new mugging story every couple of days ciculating around the fresh influx of backpackers stopping in at Rocking J’s.  They would say they heard someone got their entire pack stolen. They heard that a girl got her purse stolen on her birthday. They knew a guy that got his camera snatched right from under his nose at the beach. They told me a german they knew got cut when he tried to stop a guy from taking his girlfriends bag. A tourist was knocked off his moped on the main road, robbed, and killed. A carload of youths robbed an entire restuarant at gunpoint.

These are all true event. Yes, people get robbed in Costa Rica. People get robbed everywhere. There is no reason why a traveller should feel it is okay to wander around a town they do not know, alone, intoxicated, with copious amounts of cash, electronics, or passports, and feel safe. Virtually every single mugging I heard about was completely preventable. They almost all involve young people who believe that they are in a safe place with no reason to take precaution.

I was in that town for two months and only lost a pen-knife… and that was my fault. I was alone, drunk, walking on the main road out of town back to my cabina, in the pitch dark. As I was nearing midway point bus stop, two large men approached me and wanted what I had in my possessions. I said hello, was congenial, and handed them what was in my pockets. I learned very early on to take what I was planning on spending with me into town when the sun was up and walk home with nothing. Even during the day, I would tuck my colones into my bandana. I would never put money in my pocket. I also learned very early on to be suspicious of people wearing sneakers. I know it sounds odd, but why would you need shoes in a beach town with no clocks? Planning on going somewhere quickly? Leaving in a hurry?

I would warn everyone I met not to be scared of this town but to treat it like any other tourist destination, and know you are a target.

My buddy who swung into town for a few days got robbed on the road by a kid wearing sneakers. We were about to head out of Chimuri so he packed a fannypack of goodies. I had warned him to take nothing, and this fanny pack was big. big. I remember walking down the dirt road with him. We had just been relaxing, enjoying the day, going to the beach, enjoying life. I vividly remembing walking by a young kid on the side of the road who was washing his shoes in a stream… Just seemed funny to me at the time.

About two minutes after walking by him, we heard “my friend my friend!” from behind us. We stopped and turned around. He pulled up on his bike next to my friend, pulled a nice big shiney knife, and started screaming, “Gimme Gimme Gimme!” before either of us could even react, the nylon belt was slit and he was gone with the pack.

My friend turned to me and said, “well thanks for helping!” I smiled and said, “tell you what, first beer’s on me.” We got really drunk that night and talked about all the things we wish we would have done if we knew it was coming. But then again, you never do.

18.) Highway Bribery

I knew that going to an impoverished country could mean that there was always the chance of getting my backpack stolen, losing valuables, or getting terribly lost. But I never expected to be robbed by the cops.

A buddy of mine from college had been travelling the coasts of Central America looking for waves with other drifters for several months in a big white Dodge van named The Red Phoenix. When we discovered that the other was somewhere in the country of Costa Rica, we coordinated a rendevous in Puerto Viejo. I eneded up bumping into him and a friend of his after stumbling out of the liquor store. I remember how odd it must have looked to them- I hadn’t seen him since graduating from college even though he lived a mere 35 minutes south of my home in Maine. The 1st time we see each other is in a backwater town near the Panamanian border, and here I am, soused. I was eating a popsicle and sipping on a cubra libre after a long night of drinking. We spent a couple hours together before a ambled home to Chimuri.

We met back up in the morning for breakfast and I suggested hitting Cocoles for some swimming and surfing. So I hopped shotgun in The Phoenix, we popped on some tunes, and slowly bumped our way down the rocky road along the shoreline. Halfway to the beach, we came upon a police road block. Seems the police were pulling over all vehicles, requesting proof of registration and documentation. No problemo, we thought. So my buddy pops the glove box and hands the officer proof of ownership and his identification.

Several minutes later, the police officer returned to the window and informed us that there was a serious problem. Apparently, the car was purchased by a friend who had headed back to the states the previous week and because he was not in the vehicle, we were in possession of possible stolen property. Of course, the police officer speaks only spanish, so communication was  a serious issue. There was a lot of “no’s” passed between us and the officer and seems neither side was about to conceed. But, at the end of it all, we were forced to follow the police back to the station and they in turn, refused to return my friends passport.

From what we could gather by combining our terrible comprehension of the spanish language, the police were planning on towing the Phoenix two and a half ours north back to Limon where it would be impounded until either the owner came back to Costa Rica to claim it, or someone paid $800 to get it out of the pound.

The three of us were at the police station for a good 2 hours trying to figure out what they were saying and what we were supposed to do. We kept kicking around the idea of bribery under our breath but we were all too nervous to attempt it… I remember reading online before my trip that in many parts of Central America, police bribery is a totally acceptable practice, however in Costa Rica it can land you in some real hot water.

We tried to round-about our way into having the officer bring it up in as many ways as possible, who seemed to be hinting that we might be able to pay a reduced impound fee right here… but wouldn’t say how much it would cost… there was no fucking way we could afford to pay hundreds of dollars, we knew it, and it looked like he was beginning to realize that we were broke-ass americans. No jackpot today.

All three of us dug into our pockets and pulled out some 20 colones… the equivalent of about $40.. not even close to the $800 “impound fee” the officer previously mentioned. But it was the only shot we had.

His eyebrow raised, a smile cracked, and the ticket was torn in two. The passport and proof of ownership were returned, and we were free to go.

19.) Even in Paradise, Money Runs Your Life: The Budget

Whenever I reread my journals entries, it always takes me right back to Chimuri… Virtually every entry was written in the cabina while I was swinging in that hammock on my front porch… Even just looking at that book gives me nostalgia. In most of the entries, I repetitivly talk about how beautiful the area is, how much fun I am having, how relaxed and mindful I feel, and how at ease the days are. The other re-occuring theme throughout the entire journal which totally contradicts these previous statements is my constant obsession of staying on top of my money situation… and thats so depressing. 

I feel that it is inevitable and undeniable; Its a bizarre paradoxical relationship work has to play- you want to play so you have to work so you can afford it. But when you start working, its hard to find time to play; you get stuck in the grind and you just can’t find the time to get off and out.

One of the most difficult things to figure out was: what it’s going to take to get me from here to there and allow me to not only survive, but enjoy my time. Flights, hostels, rentals, tours, drinks, dinners, souveniers, whatever. There’s a lot of variables involved in travel that seem so unkown, until you get there. While reading travelogues, I constantly read posted questions to the writer about, “I’m going to _______, how much money should I plan on taking with me to last a month?” or whatever the situation may be.

I was no different. I had no clue how much I needed.

I would love to say that while I was disconnected from my real world, I did not have a care in the world and for the most part that is the truth. But from the first page of my journal to the very last, I was constantly estimating and recalculating my financial situation… Its hillarious looking at my trip budget…

After purchasing my ticket, and paying off two months at Chimuri, I had $2,800 in the bank. I knew that the last thing I wanted to do was come back to Maine in the dead of winter flat broke, so I planned to have about $1000 upon return, leaving me around $1,800 to play with in Costa Rica for 2 months.

I got real intricate; breaking everything down- beers were about 2 bucks a piece… Cigarettes, a buck a pack. Lunch and dinners out, about $6 each.  Guaro, about $6 a fifth. My day to day budget was looking like $30-40 for optimal fun-idge..

This was the budget I set up after about a week… sounded do-able. However,by the end of my stay, this allowance had been crossed out to $ 20-30/day… which then got crossed out to $12/day… which was finally crossed off to $4/day. And it was really quite easy to live off $4 a day… Of course this meant no more 6 hour bar sessions… See, when it was raining, most of the day was spent at the bar with the other travellers, drinking the days away and ordering food 2-3 time per day… There was no other social events available, no beach time, no jungle exploration. Only sitting alone at home, or sitting in a bar with strangers…Even when cigarettes are a dollar, beers only $2, and $5 a dinner, it can add up real quick.

It was really funny to me towards the end of my trip when I started looking back at how much money I was initially spending.  I would originally walk into town with $40 in the pocket, ready to blow it all on booze and food, take a cab home and do it all again the following day. Very quickly, I became quite use to walking into town with my $4; buing some cigarettes, a couple minutes of internet time, a tomato and sausage, and a beer for the road.. It felt so much simpler and more enjoyable. I felt lighter.

20.) My Surfing Experience

I didn’t have many goals set for myself before I departed for Costa Rica. I was hopeful to do some of those fun little tours you can do- canopy, canyoning, rafting if I had enough cash laying around. Besides complete decompression, the only other thing I was interested in doing was learning how to surf. One of the reasons I chose Puerto Viejo was because I had read several blurbs about its surf scene which seems to accommodate all levels of people; from the rookie to the pro.

There were three primary spots of surfing around the town: Playa Negra, Cocoles, and Salsa Brava. Both Playa Negra and Cocoles were sandy beach breaks, Cocoles more predictable, constant, and popular than Playa Negra, which tended to break much shallower and more unpredictably. Most of the Surf Lessons and training programs revolved around Cocoles. The third was a specific reef break that was a bit of a paddle to; this was for experts only- awesome to watch from the bar with a beer in my hand… but put me out there? Don’t count on it.

Now, I first got on a snowboard when I was in 6^th or 7^th grade. I had to give it up for a couple years of High School because of my terrible decision to remain committed to playing for the basketball team for 3 years. But from Senior year of High School to Senior year of college, I rode as much as possible…

I was lucky enough to attend Saint Michael’s College in Vermont where they included a season’s pass to the local ski mountain right in your tuition.

We would always load down our 1^st semester schedule so that come winter, we’d be in class for 2 days, on the mountain for 4 or 5.

Around Junior year of College, I got into long-boarding during the summer and got addicted to bombing hills. If there wasn’t snow to snowboard, there was pavement to skate. Either way, I was riding.

I assumed that, because I had quite a bit of experience on boards and could handle moving at high speeds downhill, I could certainly surf.

I had been in a second hand surf store in Puerto Viejo and spotted a pretty cheap beater of a board that some local burnt out expat surfer named Danny was selling for $180. The board was no big, long, stable vessel-neither was it a tiny, snappy, little thing- so I figured it would give me a challenge to get a hang of but after a few attempts I’d be cruising. Danny even reassured me, “no problem man… you’ll be riding this guy in no time.” So I walked away with my new-used board.

I went to Playa Negra, outside my cabina for my first self-teaching. After kinda understanding the whole paddle, balance, and be patient thing… I wanted to see what this was all about. Within minutes, I had spotted a swell coming in; I turned, and started paddling. I paddled my ass off as that wave started pulling me back into its jaws, and right when I figured I was supposed to start standing I went to push up. And then, something strange happened, I couldn’t push myself up with the ease of doing a pushup on solid ground… how surprising.

After struggling to get myself partially up, into a real uncoordinated, unbalanced, and unsurfer-esq position, the nose plunged through the wave and hit sand as the wave finished its curl, like a fist clenching around a fly. I was bashed, tumbled and banged. A sharp pang went through my skull and upper neck and then I burst back to the surface.

I spotted my board in two places at once… the tail still attached to the leash, the nose, being sucked out to sea. My new-used board was toast.

I fought against the breaking swells to retrieve the nose and made my way in to shore. I was angry, embarrassed, frustrated, and exhausted. I sat on the beach for a good half hour with the pieces laid out in front of me, brooding and panting.

After regaining my senses, I headed back to Chimuri for a beer and cigarette. After inspecting the break, my mind flashed back to when I purchased the board (2 hours ago)….I noticed this “repair” Danny had made… A definite re- fiberglassing had been done… The board had previously been snapped in two and the core was broken… Knowing that I clearly knew nothing about surfing, I unknowingly got pantsed by Danny.

The next morning, I dragged my now waterlogged 2 piece surfboard back to Danny’s place. He lived at the farthest point on a dead end road on the outskirts of town. After the road ended, you had to duck around a bramble and make your way onto a dirt path. Several minutes of hiking would lead to a slow opening in the thick jungle cover and reveal Danny’s place. His compound-like home was sprawling. Exposed cement foundation, missing floorboards, rusted bicycles and old tools, broken light bulbs, tarps and wheelbarrows, sawdust and dirt… This place looked like a scene out of Apocalypse Now, where nobody would be around to hear you scream from the bottom of the deadfall. I hollered up for Danny. I hollered again. Finally a rustle. He called down, “I just got home from last night, come back later!” It was noon. I immediately knew there would be no cash refund. Danny went on a 24hour binge in town; he was drunk, stoned, and high as all hell; tweaked and twisted. His candle was a puddle and the wick was gone. I gambled that any stage of cocaine induced volatility had passed hours ago and now all he wanted was to be left alone to curl up in a ball and hate himself into going to sleep. I shouted again. Demanding we settle up.

He finally came down.

 We discussed what happened and how it happened, and although I admitted that I dug the nose into shallow water, he confessed to re fiberglassing an unsurfable board to me, hoping it would last until I moved out of town. After several minutes I walked away with another one of his refurbished board after he admitted there was no money to be gotten off him- it was all slowly making its way out of his system in several different chemical forms. This board, also severly re-fiberglassed, had no core break. Reluctantly, I took it back to Chimuri and again began my self-teaching sessions…

I went out on this board several times over the next week. I so desperately wanted that feeling that I’d heard surfing gives you. That in-tune-ness with the world. I never felt it. I would paddle out and sit up on the board, waiting for a wave, but never feeling that oneness. I just felt bored and anxious… I honestly did not like the feeling of just floating around in the ocean on that board; It really creeped me out. So, after several more days of failures at standing up, a handful more nosedives into the sand, constantly feeling exhausted from fighting against the inconsistent swells, anger at my own male-stubbornness at not taking a lesson, and being thrown underneath breaking waves and straight into the ocean bottom far too many. My piece of shit was retired.

I held onto if for several weeks, until late into my trip when I was almost broke. I decided to take the board into town to sell it back to another 2^nd hand store for the next wave of suckers.

On the way, I was about to cross paths with a young Costa Rican boy who eyed me as I approached- his wistful glance shifting between my face and the gigantic surfboard I had under my arm. I waved hello to him and he waved and smiled back.

I slowed my pace as our paths crossed and stopped in front of him. “Hola” he said. “Hola” I said.

I offered him my board. He looked at me and flashed a big smile. “Really? What you want for it?” I told him nothing.

“Really?” he said, louder, his smile growing.

I handed it to him but he back up.

“What you want for it really?”

I told him nothing, pushed the board into his arms, and smiled.
His smile grew wider and wider. “Thank you! Thank you!” He grasped the board, and I gave him knuckles.

He ran off to show his friends. I went home to drink a beer.

I lost about a hundred bucks on that board. But that kid… He was just so happy.

21.) UV OD

You know that SAD thing? That Seasonal Affective Disorder that people get during the dreary, cloudy winter months? I try very hard not to get that. It is certainly helpful for me that I can appreciate the beauty of snow and love winter activities. I lived for the winter during college- I remember watching the weather channel religiously in anticipation for the next big blizzard. 

Nowadays though, the thought of winter do not spark my enthusiasm like it used to… Infact, it is just plain old aweful. I am working a 40hr a week job in Seattle, WA. Not only is there is no snow in Seattle, WA… There is no sun. There is only drizzly, grey skies. And even if there was snow falling, I wouldn’t be able to be hitting the mountain 5 days a week like I used to; I’m stuck at work in the fucking city. A dirty, loud, miserable city full of wet, angry, depressed people. Hell, it’s probably better that it doesn’t snow here; the only thing worse than a winter without snow, is a winter in a city full of dirty shit colored snow and car accidents on every corner.

At times like this, even when I’m unable to travel and I’m stuck in the grey; I just imagine the sun, put on some reggae, close my eyes, and think of a beautiful beach. I love the sun. I love that warmth. I love the way your skin seems to tighten after a long day of beautiful clear sky.. I even love a good sunburn.. when you hop in the shower and the water feels like pin pricks.

I believe that along with the health benefits of the sun, another reason why people are so much happier when the sun is shining is because, when the sun hits your eyes, you have to squint. And whenever you squint, your mouth can’t help but crack a bit of a half-smile. Try it. Squint. See?

Although the sun is a wonderful drug, blasting happy particles of joy inside your body that go bouncing around your ribcage like hundreds of rubber bouncy balls dumped off the top of a building, richocheting off the pavement, those same particles can also do terrible things to a man… It can blind, poison, dehydrate, burn, cause cancer, and turn a sane man into a babbling idiot. I call this UV Overdose and I met a UV junkie in Puerto Viejo.

This man has no name, though he introduced himself to me many times during my stay. Whether its because he didn’t  give it to me or I because I was smart enough to know that storing his name in my brain was a waste of spare braincells, I can’t say. He was a California surfer brah. He walked around town all day without his shirt on and a big tribal tattoo on his shoulder of the sun. He would come up to every single traveller on the street to tell them, “if you’re interested in scuba diving or snorkeling, I can show you the best spots you’ve every seen in your life! its only gonna cost you eighty bucks, bro! You think about it and come find me.. I’m always around!”

Now, it was immediately clear to everyone that he was a complete moron. However, it wasn’t until one fateful day at @E’s bar inside of Rocking J’s Hostel that I realized it was far worse than being born a dumbass… His brain had been totally scorched. Naturally, this was not done by the sun alone; He admittedly tinkered with the psychedelics, the amphetamines, and more as well. But I believe that the cherry on his multilayered fruit cake of idiocy was spending every day from sunrise to sunset in the scorching Caribbean sun for a decade of so.

Let me paint the picture…

How it began:

He sat down next to me at the bar and asked me to buy him a beer. I said no. He asked the person to his left to buy him a beer. They said no. He asked the bartender to give him a beer. He said no. So he bought a beer. He asked if he could have 1 fish taco. The bartender told him the lunch order is for 3. He asked if he could pay 1/3rd the price. The bartender said no. He asked me if I would like to buy 2 fish tacos of him. I said no. He asked the person to my left if they would like to buy 2 fish tacos. They left. Reluctantly, he asked the Bartenter for an order of 3 fish tacos. Clearly, I was sitting next to an idiot.

The conversation that followed this interaction is something that I wish I could translate verbatim. However this will not be possible, so I will do my best to summarize…

He began asking me about my belief in aliens, conspiracy theories, and the likes. He told me how he was highly educated in the paranormal… In fact he has many friends who have personally met and experiement on/with aliens. You see, he informed me that there are dozens of underground bunkers all over the US being used for alien experimentation by scientists who are attempting to genetically engineer evil pig people. The goal is to condition these monsters to hunt and devour human beings.

These pig beings will eventually equal 1% of the world population and would consume the other 99% of the world and they were under the control of politicians and the Catholic church. Because of their affiliation with the church, they were part mystic and could view reality in both the physical and the spiritual world. Nobody could stop them. You cannot hide.

This was about the moment where his 3 fish tacos arrived. The bartender stood in front of him and demanded that he pay for the beer and the 3 fish tacos, and that he please stop harassing customers.

He put his hand into his board shorts, and then looked up at the bartender who glared back at him… I was getting the feeling this exchange had happened many times before.

Suddenly, he grabbed one of the taco’s, shoved it in his mouth, and sprinted out of the bar.

This was my first encounter with a person who had truly overdosed on the sun.

22.) In Your Dreams

When I was a little kid, I had this dream that would reoccur every so often… Don’t ask me why I remember it- it doesn’t seem to have any hidden meaning or importance at all, but its one particular dream that has stuck with me for a long long time.
The dream begins in a record store. I’m just wandering around the shelves upon shelves of music, taller than library stacks when suddenly the mellow atmosphere is shattered and the air all around me begins swirling like a cyclone! Before I know whats happening, all the other patrons have evacuated the store; only I was left behind, hiding crouched against the bargain cd rack. The cyclonic winds continue growing stronger, flinging debris around the store. Then, a dark vortex begins to form as the winds cycle in and out of it. Suddenly, a face appears in the center of the vortex and bellows out at me- calling out my name… But I’m too afraid to stand up to it.
I remain crouched, dipping and dodging amongst the music racks. I grab a stack of cd’s and begin frisbee tossing them at the giant screaming head. Suddenly, I am pulled off the ground as he opens his mouth, taking in a great inhale, and I disappear inside the void.

The next thing I realize, I’m sitting in an armchair that seems to be moving. Fast. I realize that the armchair is barely holding it’s balance; wobbling back and forth. As I look down, I find myself whizzing down the curvacious wooden banister of my houses staircase, banking a 270 degree turn right before taking a log-flume of a plunge towards the 1st floor hallway. As I hit the bottom of the handrail, I am jettisoned off, back into space. Then, the airplane lands and I deboard onto the hot airport tarmac.

I have always loved dreams. I never claim to understand them, though. They are just so much fun. I remember around freshman year of college, I heard a lot of people throwing around words like Dream Journaling and Lucid Dreaming. I think by now most young people have seen the film Waking Life and has desperately wanted to be able to realize, manipulate, and control their dreams. This is a Lucid Dream. Where, at some point within your dream, you actually stop, and think to yourself, “hold on… I’m dreaming right now!” Once you have been able to realize this, the possibilities are (possibly) endless. Many times, I have had this “hold on” realization while dreaming and thought, “let’s try flying!” This is just about the very moment when I wake up, frustrated at myself for taking it too far too fast.

For several months of my freshman year, after many discussions about Lucid Dreams, I finally too the advice of a friend of mine of keeping a Dream Journal, as silly as it sounded. So I taped several sheets of blank paper to the wall next to my bed and taped a pencil attached to a string next to it. Every time I would startle myself awake at night after a dream I would grab blindly around for the pencil and, with eyes still closed, I would scribble as many or as few words about the dream I had just had, as obscure as they may seem at the time, before drifting back off to sleep. I soon realized that I wake up quite a few times during the night after a dream has concluded, however I would typically just roll back over and fall asleep, losing the memory of that dream forever.

When I would wake up in the morning to see a whole page of random words and sribblings like, “cats, pickles, blue grass music.” I would stare blankly at this until suddenly an “ahha!” moment when I would remember the dream. Not fully of course, but gradually peices would return to me.

After some time of keeping these journals, it became easier to realize when I was dreaming. It was amazing. Sadly though, like many things in my life, I had little follow-through and discontinued my dream journal before I could truly get a grasp on what what happening. I’ve always wished I kept continuing to record my dreams…

While I was in Costa Rica, I had several dream experiences that have stuck in my head. They were not as bizzarre and obscure as the one I previously described to you; no indoor tornadoes, no gigantic floating heads. They were a little more realistic and made me think a little bit about what they might mean.

One particular dream I had in Costa Rica went something like this:

I was in the backyard of my home in South Portland, Maine. It was only me and a Native American man. We were playing  a ferocious game of ping-pong. The volleys were coming hard and fast; a real back and forth match like you see on tv. We were both so far back from the table, taking huge smashing hits with the ping-pong paddles. The ball richocheting off the table, over the net, and towards the opponent at faster and faster speeds until he slapped the tiny ball back at me. The ball skipped off the end of the table and into a pile of mud several yards away from the table.

Reluctantly, I walked back to retrieve the once pearly white ball now caked in dirt. I walked back to the table with ball and paddle in hand and looked at the Indian. With no expression on his dark face and no emotion in his voice, he said, “you’ve had a pretty tough year.”

I stared back at the tall Indian and said, “Shut the fuck up. Let’s play some ping-pong.”

I feel this dream was very insightful.

23.) My Final Entries from Costa Rica

Monday December 22nd, 2008.

I’m not sure how I feel about leaving… Anxious. That excited, but nervous feeling… I guess I wish I could get on the bus here and get dropped off right at the airport. I have no desire to be in San Jose.

Man, I’ve been packing, unpacking, and re-packing all afternoon. I’m freaked out that this is over, but I am so happy I’m going home.I think I just wish  I knew I was coming back here again. I don’t want this to be a story in a year about the wild trip I had right before I cave in and got a real job, though I do understand that I need to get some sort of income soon. Man, I gotta get rid of that Jeep!

So, its 5 o’clock- I guess I’ll go for my last evening in town. Probably be back here by 8:30 or 9. Depending on if I wake up early, I might try to catch the 9:00am bus. If not, 11:00 it is. And then, the big Puerto Viejo trip is done. In the books and onto these pages. Back to the winter. Back Home.

May last night IN PV-

Hit the sunrise, sent an email, checked the weather outlook at Logan and made my way to J’s. Last meal: Chicken sandwich. I made it to TexMex for the beginning of Star Wars, but just felt like going back to Chimuri. I’m glad I’m really tired. I just want to fall asleep tonight and wake up in my own bed in Maine- Just skip San Jose.

This, it would seem, concludes my Puerto Viejo experience. Next Stop San Jose…

Tuesday December 23rd.

This morning I found myself awake at 6:30am. After pacing around Chimuri for what seemed like hours, I found it was not even 8:00am. So, I returned my key, thanked Colocha and Mauricio, and went to the bus station in town where I waited for almost an hour for the 9:00am bus. I felt like going to J’s and TexMex to say goodbye to a few people, but like I’ve said before.. when it really comes down to it, I had no true friends there. To them, I was still a tourist.

The bus ride was full and easy. Getting to the Hostel Toruma was cheap and easy and I immediately missed Puerto Viejo. I really miss Rocking J’s too…

I think when I get home, I’m going to try to talk Drew into going with me for a month.. I think we could live off $500 a month, so we’d only need a grand in all!

Everything just feels so ugly here. So much traffic and cement. Too many rules and guidelines. I’ve seen my first traffic light today.. first one in 2 months.

Although I am depressed right now, I am overjoyed to be going home. I even get choked up thinking about it. But being so close still, it makes me hate this place to see how shitty it is here when, 4 hours south, is a pure tropical paradise.

I’m glad I’m really tired, because I don’t think I could sleep here otherwise. All I hear is traffic and trains and sirens and music and televisions. I can still hear the waves and crickets at Chimuri, but my hammock is already so far away.. how am I going to function with this shit after PV? I couldn’t even sit upstairs at the hostel to watch television because it wasn’t outside! So I came out here, to the bar. But now the cars are so loud I can’t stay mindful! I remember I was able to sit at Chimuri for hours and have a completely open mind. But here, the outside stimuli is already too much. It’s like the volume on my life got turned up too high! I’m also a little nervous about the climate change I’m about to experience- it’s cooler here in San Jose; more like a late August night in Maine- and I’m cold while wearing my pants and a fleece! Oh boy… Logan’s going to do me hypothermic!

Since getting here, I’ve felt trapped in- I’ve been pacing the compound (and it is a compound), going to the gated walls and locked doors, looking over the barb-wire onto the city and feeling sad… or disappointed. I don’t know. I do know that I’ll be asleep early tonight, awake early tomorrow, at the airport for 9:30am and ready to go home. I’ll see my family by 9:30pm. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I basically just have to get through this evening. Thats all.. It’s only 8am, but I’m pooched. I wonder who else is in my dorm room… I hope its not that old man I saw early. Though, with my luck, it will be… and he’ll be snoring all night.

December 24th.

Well, I was dead on. Not only did I have the old man in my room, but he woke me up snoring so loud at 4 in the fucking morning! But he was cool… Wicked french. From Canada. Apparently he was a poet lauriet, pretty cool, but the snoring was terrible.

I woke up at 6:30 and mulled around til 9. I’m in the terminal now. The financial difference is already killing me! I wen tto the lounge and had 2 pilsen and a bag of chips; $17! I was stunned. $5 a Pilsen and $3 for chips! That would cost me maybe $3 in PV.

And so, I dropped the cash on that, then went looking for a nice meal before the flight– burgerking, pappa john’s, fried chicken, etc… every meal was ten bucks! fuck that. I’ll just wait ’til Miami for my cocktail hour! Though it’s probably going to cost me what I would spend in 2 weeks back on the beach…. Small price to pay for going home though…

plane boards in 2o minutes, I bought my $10 magazine, and I’m ready and waiting… all I know is my checked bag has better make it- I’ve got all my xmas presents and my jacket in there! I’m walking onto the airplane with a guitar without strings, a magazine, a book, and my travel journal… talk about packing light.

We are 30 minutes from landing in Boston. The immigration process took so long that my hour and a half layover became a dead sprint to the gate. I made it on the jet right when they were finishing boarding. But, I got a couple of nips of Jack to chill me out… so I’m good.

I am excited and nervous to see my family.

Sidenote: Seeing the light pollution over New York City was beautiful and tragic at the same time.

Prepare for landing.

Here we go.

Home I go.