Prologue- Buenas!
Saturday: April 29, 2011. I've arrived to my first destination- Monteverde. The Cloud Forest. For two weeks I will be traveling by myself, until my love Alex comes to meet me for the last two weeks. I will meet people from all over the world, get myself into what I consider to be near death experiences, and live the pura vida way of life.
A Typical Experience Location: Montaverde
There's a dish here literally called "Typical Food", casado, a spread of black beans, rice, with meat or a vegetable mix made with chickory. This morning I had a "Typical Carlita" adventure, shall we say. For about ten to twenty minutes I was FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. Excuse the profanity, but there's no other way to put it. In the middle of the Cloud Forest, I had a flashback of the movie 127 Days...I am NOT in a movie, and I sure as hell am not James Franco. I'm going to die, right here, by perhaps a jaguar, or more realistically I will get so lost, so deep into the forest, that there will be no way for me to get back out, and I'm going to probably last one hour, not 127. My palms turned sweaty, my heart was beating so fast I thought that alone would attract an amused animal, and I started to get dizzy. Another flashback of a recently watched Survivorman episode in the rainforest, which reinforced the fact that on a scale of survival skills, I'm a zero. So here it goes...
I didn't end up going out last night, and was in bed by 10pm. I woke at FIVE THIRTY am, yes you read that correct- me, voluntarily up at that hour. The bus was coming at six fifteen, and I really didn't want to sleep in and pay for an $8 cab later. This town is so small, especially the downtown, which is maybe 6 blocks or so. The vibe is easy-going, and it's very safe here. I walked to the corner where the public bus, which is a school bus, was waiting. A nice ride through town gave me a general overview, and I will venture in the art stores in the next couple of days. I arrived at the Monteverde Cloud Reserve at 6:45 and by 7:30 had some Costa Rican coffee, which tastes exactly like Starbucks, a bit bitter and strong. I paid the $17 admission fee, and the man pulled out a simple map, and circled a few landmarks, go here, here and then here. How much time do you have? Hours I said. Okay, well loop around here, there's a path, it's very easy. Gracias. I asked the man at the admission, and with his highlighter he agreed, and said yes, very easy, here and then there. Gracias.
I opted to not pay for the guided tour because well for one, I didn't want to pay, but really because I want to wait until Alex comes to see all of those little things, and plus it's easy to get around, I will trek along, and it will be fun. I did overhear some guides pointing to small groups the Tarzan ropes, which are really roots growing from the top of the tree down. All was well, and I continued my walk. Now, the map it turns out is scaled very large, so the landmarks are actually much closer than it appears. Next thing you know, I'm away from the guides, and am continuing to walk. It's very lush, but doesn't quite feel like a rainforest- lots of vines, and flora, a pesky fly or some creature buzzing by me the whole time, occasionally sticking to my tights and I think, biting my leg. I wanted to murder that fly, or whatever it was. From the POV, you are seeing things from the top-down, and because we are only allowed access to 3% of the entire reserve, you don't really see that much, of course if you had a guide you could see bugs and such, but nothing more that makes you feel that you are in a rainforest.
I hear an animal move in the trees, which I think is a lion, but now looking back I realize it was probably a monkey, mono. I'm getting a bit scared and looking around, and realize that this could get ugly. Low and behold, out of nowhere I see two Costa Rican men, dressed in appropriate gear, unlike my skin bearing mock Vans where I have doused my feet with bug spray, with two horses that have packs of supplies on them.
I stop the one man, Perdon! I point to the map, and ask him to point where we are, and he shows me, and then I explain using my hands and very poor Spanish that I want to go to the hanging bridge. Si, si. Follow me, he says. Now I know you are thinking, Carlita! What did we say about following strangers! Through my meager translation I learn they work with the students at the Biologica Reserva in the Cloud Forest, and that they are going very lejos, far away, tres horas. I continuously ask where we are, and he says they are passing the bridge, so I'm going the right direction with them. The other man has no time to wait for me, and him and his horse are very far ahead.
Every five minutes, I ask the biologist, Perdon! He stops. I make him show me on the map where we are. I later learn that if you ask a Costa Rican if you are going the right way, they will say yes, no matter what. After a while, I thought to myself, well I'm screwed, hell with it, I'm going three hours with them, and when I get to the school, I will cry and ask them to take me back. Well, he proceeds to catch up with his friend, and they are going faster, so I'm sort of running to keep up. We start to go through softer mud, more flora, and I'm scared because I thought I was lost for sure. We then get to a sign that reads in English, no trespassing- for Biologica Reserva only. Perdon! I said to the man, and I point to the sign, then to the map, and then say I'm turning around, and he finally nods saying I'm a half hour away. WHY THE HELL DIDN'T HE TELL ME TO TURN AROUND SOONER?
And that's when I thought I was done for. The men proceeded out of eye sight, and I hurried through the muddy floor. There was an amazing view of the clouds above the forest, with the winds blowing the clouds above and beyond. I told myself, this is IT, I'm outter here when I get back. It was about 9am. Needless to say, I found my way back, but for those ten minutes I thought I was done for.
I found a bench, recuperated, and a lovely couple passed, who said The Ventana viewpoint was just up the pathway. I ventured there, and it was pretty. On a clear day you can see the Caribbean side. When I got back down, I was still a little freaked, so I rested for a moment.
From another trail down, I see a girl, my age, by herself and say, Do you speak English? She smiles and says yes, and then we proceed to talk. She's traveling by herself, her husband is in grad school at UCSD, and she just wanted to do it. It was nice to have some company, and she told me about the orchid farm she volunteered at, which didn't sound good at all, plus she paid $800 to stay with a family there for two weeks. We both agreed Monteverde is nice, but wouldn't say it's a must see. We managed to find the hanging suspended bride, which was pretty cool.
A guide with a group said, Hey girls, come check out this bird! We walked towards the end of the bridge, and there it was! In person! A Quetzel! This brings good luck, so lets just say I have luck on my side from now on. There's no way we would've seen it without him pointing it out, and the guide let me borrow his binoculars to see the shimmery green and blue feathers that surround the red body. It was really pretty.
We hiked back down to the entrance, looked at some hummingbirds, and I told her I was going to walk the hour back with her and have lunch. We went into the gift shop and when the man asked about our hike, I told him my story and he looked at me with wide eyes- You went THERE! Those men, they have food and supplies, right? Yes, I said. He then proceeds, They also have machetes and there are tons of dangerous snakes, and I can't believe you were there! It's very far! Yes, I told him, I realized that. And then we both laughed.
Outside, the bus was waiting there, and my feet killed, so we I decide to part ways with the girl. I came back to my private room in the half hostel, half hotel, around noon, exhausted and so dirty and itchy that the hot shower was simply amazing. I picked up some fruit and vegetables from the market as I'm severely deprived of nutrients, and am going to eat that, and then walk the ten minutes to the Eco-festival, hear some music, and see what's going on there. I'm sure I will be in bed by 8pm tonight as I'm VERY exhausted, and the cab will get me at 9am tomorrow.
Traveling solo is weird...I'm having more conversations in my head than a schizophrenic, and have a sense of anxiety by not having a structured schedule or being caught up in everything I have to do at home. I'm sure I will get used to this, and am just awaiting Alex's arrival so that we can do the really fun stuff, and so that I will have someone to share experiences with too! The beach at Santa Teresa and Mal Pais is looking better with each day- I'm going to probably leave earlier, maybe on Wednesday. The girl said her friend stayed in Mal Pais and raved about it, so I'm happy with my local beach choice.
One more thing, the girl didn't have a guide, and was solo, yet I get lost and she helps me find the bridge. Point of the story is that it's not what I did, it's that I, Carlita with no sense of direction, did it. Caio.
I didn't end up going out last night, and was in bed by 10pm. I woke at FIVE THIRTY am, yes you read that correct- me, voluntarily up at that hour. The bus was coming at six fifteen, and I really didn't want to sleep in and pay for an $8 cab later. This town is so small, especially the downtown, which is maybe 6 blocks or so. The vibe is easy-going, and it's very safe here. I walked to the corner where the public bus, which is a school bus, was waiting. A nice ride through town gave me a general overview, and I will venture in the art stores in the next couple of days. I arrived at the Monteverde Cloud Reserve at 6:45 and by 7:30 had some Costa Rican coffee, which tastes exactly like Starbucks, a bit bitter and strong. I paid the $17 admission fee, and the man pulled out a simple map, and circled a few landmarks, go here, here and then here. How much time do you have? Hours I said. Okay, well loop around here, there's a path, it's very easy. Gracias. I asked the man at the admission, and with his highlighter he agreed, and said yes, very easy, here and then there. Gracias.
I opted to not pay for the guided tour because well for one, I didn't want to pay, but really because I want to wait until Alex comes to see all of those little things, and plus it's easy to get around, I will trek along, and it will be fun. I did overhear some guides pointing to small groups the Tarzan ropes, which are really roots growing from the top of the tree down. All was well, and I continued my walk. Now, the map it turns out is scaled very large, so the landmarks are actually much closer than it appears. Next thing you know, I'm away from the guides, and am continuing to walk. It's very lush, but doesn't quite feel like a rainforest- lots of vines, and flora, a pesky fly or some creature buzzing by me the whole time, occasionally sticking to my tights and I think, biting my leg. I wanted to murder that fly, or whatever it was. From the POV, you are seeing things from the top-down, and because we are only allowed access to 3% of the entire reserve, you don't really see that much, of course if you had a guide you could see bugs and such, but nothing more that makes you feel that you are in a rainforest.
I hear an animal move in the trees, which I think is a lion, but now looking back I realize it was probably a monkey, mono. I'm getting a bit scared and looking around, and realize that this could get ugly. Low and behold, out of nowhere I see two Costa Rican men, dressed in appropriate gear, unlike my skin bearing mock Vans where I have doused my feet with bug spray, with two horses that have packs of supplies on them.
I stop the one man, Perdon! I point to the map, and ask him to point where we are, and he shows me, and then I explain using my hands and very poor Spanish that I want to go to the hanging bridge. Si, si. Follow me, he says. Now I know you are thinking, Carlita! What did we say about following strangers! Through my meager translation I learn they work with the students at the Biologica Reserva in the Cloud Forest, and that they are going very lejos, far away, tres horas. I continuously ask where we are, and he says they are passing the bridge, so I'm going the right direction with them. The other man has no time to wait for me, and him and his horse are very far ahead.
Every five minutes, I ask the biologist, Perdon! He stops. I make him show me on the map where we are. I later learn that if you ask a Costa Rican if you are going the right way, they will say yes, no matter what. After a while, I thought to myself, well I'm screwed, hell with it, I'm going three hours with them, and when I get to the school, I will cry and ask them to take me back. Well, he proceeds to catch up with his friend, and they are going faster, so I'm sort of running to keep up. We start to go through softer mud, more flora, and I'm scared because I thought I was lost for sure. We then get to a sign that reads in English, no trespassing- for Biologica Reserva only. Perdon! I said to the man, and I point to the sign, then to the map, and then say I'm turning around, and he finally nods saying I'm a half hour away. WHY THE HELL DIDN'T HE TELL ME TO TURN AROUND SOONER?
And that's when I thought I was done for. The men proceeded out of eye sight, and I hurried through the muddy floor. There was an amazing view of the clouds above the forest, with the winds blowing the clouds above and beyond. I told myself, this is IT, I'm outter here when I get back. It was about 9am. Needless to say, I found my way back, but for those ten minutes I thought I was done for.
I found a bench, recuperated, and a lovely couple passed, who said The Ventana viewpoint was just up the pathway. I ventured there, and it was pretty. On a clear day you can see the Caribbean side. When I got back down, I was still a little freaked, so I rested for a moment.
From another trail down, I see a girl, my age, by herself and say, Do you speak English? She smiles and says yes, and then we proceed to talk. She's traveling by herself, her husband is in grad school at UCSD, and she just wanted to do it. It was nice to have some company, and she told me about the orchid farm she volunteered at, which didn't sound good at all, plus she paid $800 to stay with a family there for two weeks. We both agreed Monteverde is nice, but wouldn't say it's a must see. We managed to find the hanging suspended bride, which was pretty cool.
A guide with a group said, Hey girls, come check out this bird! We walked towards the end of the bridge, and there it was! In person! A Quetzel! This brings good luck, so lets just say I have luck on my side from now on. There's no way we would've seen it without him pointing it out, and the guide let me borrow his binoculars to see the shimmery green and blue feathers that surround the red body. It was really pretty.
We hiked back down to the entrance, looked at some hummingbirds, and I told her I was going to walk the hour back with her and have lunch. We went into the gift shop and when the man asked about our hike, I told him my story and he looked at me with wide eyes- You went THERE! Those men, they have food and supplies, right? Yes, I said. He then proceeds, They also have machetes and there are tons of dangerous snakes, and I can't believe you were there! It's very far! Yes, I told him, I realized that. And then we both laughed.
Outside, the bus was waiting there, and my feet killed, so we I decide to part ways with the girl. I came back to my private room in the half hostel, half hotel, around noon, exhausted and so dirty and itchy that the hot shower was simply amazing. I picked up some fruit and vegetables from the market as I'm severely deprived of nutrients, and am going to eat that, and then walk the ten minutes to the Eco-festival, hear some music, and see what's going on there. I'm sure I will be in bed by 8pm tonight as I'm VERY exhausted, and the cab will get me at 9am tomorrow.
Traveling solo is weird...I'm having more conversations in my head than a schizophrenic, and have a sense of anxiety by not having a structured schedule or being caught up in everything I have to do at home. I'm sure I will get used to this, and am just awaiting Alex's arrival so that we can do the really fun stuff, and so that I will have someone to share experiences with too! The beach at Santa Teresa and Mal Pais is looking better with each day- I'm going to probably leave earlier, maybe on Wednesday. The girl said her friend stayed in Mal Pais and raved about it, so I'm happy with my local beach choice.
One more thing, the girl didn't have a guide, and was solo, yet I get lost and she helps me find the bridge. Point of the story is that it's not what I did, it's that I, Carlita with no sense of direction, did it. Caio.
Adios Rica!!! Location: Monteverde
Walking along the newly paved road from Santa Elena to Cerro Plano and then onto Monteverde, each ten minutes apart and all considered to be Monteverde, I mentally whipped myself, repeatedly over and over, continuing to berate the sheer audacity I had to put Mexico and Monteverde in the same sentence. Just because they speak Spanish, have the same skin color as you, and eat arroz with every meal does not, in any way constitute a comparison so weak.
I. AM. A. JACKASS. I kept saying to myself, as I came to the part of the one main road, the part where the pavement turns to a white rocky road, where your ankles hurt from so much walking because in LA you'd rather drive two minutes than walk ten, the part where you look to the right and stop in awe.
It's so beautiful you don't know how to describe it other than valleys of green mountains that dip and rise into the horizon, and where on a clear day you can see the giant lake that surrounds Arenal volcano three hours away. My former comparison would be like saying that Santa Barbara is a cleaner, nicer version of the dirty parts of Long Beach or East LA- how much more off could I be!
The endless blur of green which meets the low clouds would make Monet want to paint mountains instead of water lilies, with air fresh from the arboles that makes the water clean enough to drink, and fills your nose with just the right amount of dust- you would've never thought that dust could enhance your experience, but it does.
There are dogs everywhere, not rabid, but cared for by someone, somewhere. They venture out, never on leashes, and play with each other knowing that this is pura vida. They sit in front of the markets, hotels, by people's houses, and will follow you into an art store where you will lean down, smile, and give a little pat. If they cross the road, which they will, the car or motorbike which most men ride throughout town, will stop let them pass, and everyone will be on their way.
The school kids in their white and blue uniforms trek back home for lunch. They are not worried about being abducted, or the ice-cream man being a pedophile, and their parents sure as hell aren't worried either because they know that even a girl in the middle of the night can walk around here without being scared.
When I run into Diego, who works at the pension, and his friend, one of the prettiests girls I've ever seen who is visiting from San Jose, and tell them my rainforest story and how stupid it was of me to follow those men, the girl stops me, and looks at me, No, No you have nothing to worry about here, not them. And over lunch, as they are eating their pollo con arroz y ensalada and I'm finishing gallo pinto con huevos con frijoles y arroz with the best salsa Lizano in the world, I tell them that last night when I left the eco-festival, which they were at, I ran home. Yes, it was very cold! she says laughing. She doesn't realize I was running with a small can of pepper spray in my right hand.
I take a sip of jugo tamarindo, and feel the earing made of Tamarindo seeds that Yessenia at the co-op made for me that day. The juice that tastes like apple juice is desperately needed as I ate an orange pepper that would be a nice alternative for novicane.
We sit around talking about Monteverde; how I love it, love the people, the sense of community, but that it's too small, and they tell me that they understand- you make up things to do when you're here because you want to be here. More of the friends come in, famous Costa Rican musicians, and people from last night. Buenas! Mucho Gusto!
You say mucho gusto all the time, and if you are being served and you say hello, then you must also say nice to meet you. If only in LA I told the cab driver mucho gusto, now take me to Taco Bell, and step on it. You don't say de nada, the pretty girl tells me. Diego interrupts, well you can, but it's cold, it's a Costa Rican thing. Yes, she agrees, it's cold and distant, we say con mucho gusto instead.
The mound of rice left of my plate when I'm done would make the Cheesecake Factory look like they are skimping on portions. I ask for it to go, tell my friends farewell, and since everyone, including a former waiter, has asked if I'm on Facebook, I part with, See you on Facebook! We laugh, and I start my walk back to the co-op where I was at this morning.
Yessenia looks young, but has a 19 year old son, and they both live in the tiny house right next to the "art center" where the women from Women of the Clouds come to work two days a week. For eight hours they sit around a table, stringing earrings, and chat. There is no pressure, you make 80 pieces each, and when you are done, you leave. The first group yesterday was timid, nervous when I took my camera out, and for lack of a better word, kind of lifeless. When I return from CASEM, the other co-op in Monteverde where I had lunch, the women are gone. I go outside and read The Fountainhead.
My mind wanders around, which is normal these days, talking to myself, and reflecting. I think of how in America we do things wrong most of the time. Here, they know what they have, they appreciate it, and protect it. People are kind to each other always, and are aware of their environment. It seems that their culture is community, and when I went to the festival, there was no better example of that.
The festival was more of a community center event than festival, but here in Monteverde these celebrations are rare, so lets just call it a festival. I see the flamboyant student who's studying abroad here, double majoring in Spanish and Environmental Studies, who stood behind me at the super mercado the first night I was here. This is great, I tell him, small, but nice. I helped put it on he says, and this is the first year, so we are hoping it grows with each new class. Children are hoola-hooping in the yard, getting their face painted, and I see a little girl crying when her father tells her she can't do something she desperately wants to. I eat a queque, cinnamon roll, and then go back for a second one.
While waiting for the musicians to come on, a boy sits next to me who I swear is no more than 16. He tells me he's a sculptor and works at a school, to which I feel so bad for him, at only 16! He tells me he's 24, and when I doubt him, he pulls out his license. We talk about things, and then he proceeds to talk so poetically, I swear he's heard this in a movie. Flowers are my favorite composition because of their color and softness, like a woman, a woman is like a flower, and there are some strong ones, but that's not as attractive. I write down every word he says, and when he skims through my journal, and then comes across his words, he looks at me, and tells me he's flattered. They show a video stressing the importance of conservation, and how although they protect their forest, the deforestation surrounding this country is effecting it greatly. There are hippies, who seem to be US expats, but I'm really not sure.
Back at the co-op, Yessenia asks me if I want to go to the market with her, to which I reply SI! No one speaks English in the co-ops, so for the past two days I've managed to have long, interesting, and meaningful conversations with limited Spanish and the occasional help of the dictionary that sits on the table.
At the market I buy a cooking magizine Sabores we later look at. Back at home, I make her the matzo ball soup and gnocci, and for over FOUR hours, we talk about things, somehow.
She sips the sopa, mmm....MMMM....!!! Muy muy bueno, muy bien, me gusta! She gets seconds. Muy bueno, me gusta me gusta! She LOVES the soup. I explain what it's made of, how it's Judian, and that a lot of people in the US have never had it. She understands, and I tell her when I get home, I will send her boxes of soup. This woman fucking loves matzo ball soup, she told me again this morning, and then again before I left today.
We flipped through the magazine, and talked a lot about food- how we both love sushi, and there are a lack of salads here. We talk about life, and that she makes $2 an hour, and that people that works in hotels make less, and the janitors make less than $1 an hour. She says to my suprise, that tourists raise the prices here, so she can't afford the clothes and even the food at the market is too expensive. When I tell her that they bring business for hotels and restaurants, she agrees, but still, they raise the prices. We look at a recipe and it says "rica", which I look up. It means delicious. Yessenia starts to laugh and tells me when a very beautiful girl walks by, men say ADIOS RICA!!!!!
Today, in the morning, at 7am I see the women gather outside the house. I've slept on a mattress on the floor, and slept like shit. They are a ferocious bunch, full of laughter and jokes, a complete 180 from the last group to which I'm thrilled. Lots of video captures them kidding around, and working. I show them pictures on my iphone of Alex, muy guapo! Yo se! and of my flowers, which they love. Only callas blancas here, and they are fascinated by the green and yellow ones. Yessenia pours me a cup of coffee, and gives me a slice of her mama's pancake- a dense, slightly sweet thick bread. It's dry, crumbly, and goes perfect with the coffee. I have a 9am meeting at CASEM, so I speed walk there, sweaty and dirty, and meet two more women. They are fascinating and lovely. They show me the machines they use for embroidery, and tell me that CASEM takes 35% of what sells there, which seems pretty fair. I buy the only items they each have there at the moment, a children's purse, and a tote bag with a bird on it. It cost $28, which puts the fair in fair trade! Geez.
After two hours with them, I return to Yessenia where she calls a taxi to take me to her parents finca in San Luis, 20 min away. The roads are windy, and more green, more mountains, and more beauty unfold. Only her mama is there, papa es en Santa Elena, and she speaks no English. She makes me homemade tortillas, solely of maiz y aqua. She shows me how to make one, and tells me I did it perfecto! I've captured this moment on film, and am sure Anthony Bourdain will have a run for his money after Travel channel gets ahold of this. I eat the tortillas with cheese from the Monteverde factoria de queso, and one with chopped papas. The blandness of corn and water on the cast iron grill, topped with buttery potatoes is mouth-watering good. I want one now.
Everyone asks me when I will return, and when I do, I better be fluent in Spanish. Her mama says that for $15 a day, I can live with her for a year. She will provide all of the meals, and teach me Spanish. Alejandro vive en la casa tambien, por treinta dollares. When I go back and tell Yessenia this, she laughs. Her mama gives me a tour of the farm. There are chickens abound, ducks, dogs running free, and they grow nearly everything you'd need- mangos, papayas, oranges, chilies, bananas, limes, lettuce, tomatoes, they eat the eggs from the chickens, and probably the chickens too. They are growing sugar cane and coffee, to which she stresses the point that they are grown organically with no chemicals at all.
After an hour I return to Yessenia. We chat a bit more, and we walk to the part of the road where we part ways. I'm sad to leave her.
Ocho en la noche y tengo hambre. I'm at an internet cafe by the pension and will grab dinner next door.
The people here say I look like a Tico, and I'm happy with that. I'm sure I will be one day in el furturo.
Off to Montezuma tomorrow- the 6am bus will get me there at 2pm. I'm going to miss this town.
Con mucho gusto- te amo.
I. AM. A. JACKASS. I kept saying to myself, as I came to the part of the one main road, the part where the pavement turns to a white rocky road, where your ankles hurt from so much walking because in LA you'd rather drive two minutes than walk ten, the part where you look to the right and stop in awe.
It's so beautiful you don't know how to describe it other than valleys of green mountains that dip and rise into the horizon, and where on a clear day you can see the giant lake that surrounds Arenal volcano three hours away. My former comparison would be like saying that Santa Barbara is a cleaner, nicer version of the dirty parts of Long Beach or East LA- how much more off could I be!
The endless blur of green which meets the low clouds would make Monet want to paint mountains instead of water lilies, with air fresh from the arboles that makes the water clean enough to drink, and fills your nose with just the right amount of dust- you would've never thought that dust could enhance your experience, but it does.
There are dogs everywhere, not rabid, but cared for by someone, somewhere. They venture out, never on leashes, and play with each other knowing that this is pura vida. They sit in front of the markets, hotels, by people's houses, and will follow you into an art store where you will lean down, smile, and give a little pat. If they cross the road, which they will, the car or motorbike which most men ride throughout town, will stop let them pass, and everyone will be on their way.
The school kids in their white and blue uniforms trek back home for lunch. They are not worried about being abducted, or the ice-cream man being a pedophile, and their parents sure as hell aren't worried either because they know that even a girl in the middle of the night can walk around here without being scared.
When I run into Diego, who works at the pension, and his friend, one of the prettiests girls I've ever seen who is visiting from San Jose, and tell them my rainforest story and how stupid it was of me to follow those men, the girl stops me, and looks at me, No, No you have nothing to worry about here, not them. And over lunch, as they are eating their pollo con arroz y ensalada and I'm finishing gallo pinto con huevos con frijoles y arroz with the best salsa Lizano in the world, I tell them that last night when I left the eco-festival, which they were at, I ran home. Yes, it was very cold! she says laughing. She doesn't realize I was running with a small can of pepper spray in my right hand.
I take a sip of jugo tamarindo, and feel the earing made of Tamarindo seeds that Yessenia at the co-op made for me that day. The juice that tastes like apple juice is desperately needed as I ate an orange pepper that would be a nice alternative for novicane.
We sit around talking about Monteverde; how I love it, love the people, the sense of community, but that it's too small, and they tell me that they understand- you make up things to do when you're here because you want to be here. More of the friends come in, famous Costa Rican musicians, and people from last night. Buenas! Mucho Gusto!
You say mucho gusto all the time, and if you are being served and you say hello, then you must also say nice to meet you. If only in LA I told the cab driver mucho gusto, now take me to Taco Bell, and step on it. You don't say de nada, the pretty girl tells me. Diego interrupts, well you can, but it's cold, it's a Costa Rican thing. Yes, she agrees, it's cold and distant, we say con mucho gusto instead.
The mound of rice left of my plate when I'm done would make the Cheesecake Factory look like they are skimping on portions. I ask for it to go, tell my friends farewell, and since everyone, including a former waiter, has asked if I'm on Facebook, I part with, See you on Facebook! We laugh, and I start my walk back to the co-op where I was at this morning.
Yessenia looks young, but has a 19 year old son, and they both live in the tiny house right next to the "art center" where the women from Women of the Clouds come to work two days a week. For eight hours they sit around a table, stringing earrings, and chat. There is no pressure, you make 80 pieces each, and when you are done, you leave. The first group yesterday was timid, nervous when I took my camera out, and for lack of a better word, kind of lifeless. When I return from CASEM, the other co-op in Monteverde where I had lunch, the women are gone. I go outside and read The Fountainhead.
My mind wanders around, which is normal these days, talking to myself, and reflecting. I think of how in America we do things wrong most of the time. Here, they know what they have, they appreciate it, and protect it. People are kind to each other always, and are aware of their environment. It seems that their culture is community, and when I went to the festival, there was no better example of that.
The festival was more of a community center event than festival, but here in Monteverde these celebrations are rare, so lets just call it a festival. I see the flamboyant student who's studying abroad here, double majoring in Spanish and Environmental Studies, who stood behind me at the super mercado the first night I was here. This is great, I tell him, small, but nice. I helped put it on he says, and this is the first year, so we are hoping it grows with each new class. Children are hoola-hooping in the yard, getting their face painted, and I see a little girl crying when her father tells her she can't do something she desperately wants to. I eat a queque, cinnamon roll, and then go back for a second one.
While waiting for the musicians to come on, a boy sits next to me who I swear is no more than 16. He tells me he's a sculptor and works at a school, to which I feel so bad for him, at only 16! He tells me he's 24, and when I doubt him, he pulls out his license. We talk about things, and then he proceeds to talk so poetically, I swear he's heard this in a movie. Flowers are my favorite composition because of their color and softness, like a woman, a woman is like a flower, and there are some strong ones, but that's not as attractive. I write down every word he says, and when he skims through my journal, and then comes across his words, he looks at me, and tells me he's flattered. They show a video stressing the importance of conservation, and how although they protect their forest, the deforestation surrounding this country is effecting it greatly. There are hippies, who seem to be US expats, but I'm really not sure.
Back at the co-op, Yessenia asks me if I want to go to the market with her, to which I reply SI! No one speaks English in the co-ops, so for the past two days I've managed to have long, interesting, and meaningful conversations with limited Spanish and the occasional help of the dictionary that sits on the table.
At the market I buy a cooking magizine Sabores we later look at. Back at home, I make her the matzo ball soup and gnocci, and for over FOUR hours, we talk about things, somehow.
She sips the sopa, mmm....MMMM....!!! Muy muy bueno, muy bien, me gusta! She gets seconds. Muy bueno, me gusta me gusta! She LOVES the soup. I explain what it's made of, how it's Judian, and that a lot of people in the US have never had it. She understands, and I tell her when I get home, I will send her boxes of soup. This woman fucking loves matzo ball soup, she told me again this morning, and then again before I left today.
We flipped through the magazine, and talked a lot about food- how we both love sushi, and there are a lack of salads here. We talk about life, and that she makes $2 an hour, and that people that works in hotels make less, and the janitors make less than $1 an hour. She says to my suprise, that tourists raise the prices here, so she can't afford the clothes and even the food at the market is too expensive. When I tell her that they bring business for hotels and restaurants, she agrees, but still, they raise the prices. We look at a recipe and it says "rica", which I look up. It means delicious. Yessenia starts to laugh and tells me when a very beautiful girl walks by, men say ADIOS RICA!!!!!
Today, in the morning, at 7am I see the women gather outside the house. I've slept on a mattress on the floor, and slept like shit. They are a ferocious bunch, full of laughter and jokes, a complete 180 from the last group to which I'm thrilled. Lots of video captures them kidding around, and working. I show them pictures on my iphone of Alex, muy guapo! Yo se! and of my flowers, which they love. Only callas blancas here, and they are fascinated by the green and yellow ones. Yessenia pours me a cup of coffee, and gives me a slice of her mama's pancake- a dense, slightly sweet thick bread. It's dry, crumbly, and goes perfect with the coffee. I have a 9am meeting at CASEM, so I speed walk there, sweaty and dirty, and meet two more women. They are fascinating and lovely. They show me the machines they use for embroidery, and tell me that CASEM takes 35% of what sells there, which seems pretty fair. I buy the only items they each have there at the moment, a children's purse, and a tote bag with a bird on it. It cost $28, which puts the fair in fair trade! Geez.
After two hours with them, I return to Yessenia where she calls a taxi to take me to her parents finca in San Luis, 20 min away. The roads are windy, and more green, more mountains, and more beauty unfold. Only her mama is there, papa es en Santa Elena, and she speaks no English. She makes me homemade tortillas, solely of maiz y aqua. She shows me how to make one, and tells me I did it perfecto! I've captured this moment on film, and am sure Anthony Bourdain will have a run for his money after Travel channel gets ahold of this. I eat the tortillas with cheese from the Monteverde factoria de queso, and one with chopped papas. The blandness of corn and water on the cast iron grill, topped with buttery potatoes is mouth-watering good. I want one now.
Everyone asks me when I will return, and when I do, I better be fluent in Spanish. Her mama says that for $15 a day, I can live with her for a year. She will provide all of the meals, and teach me Spanish. Alejandro vive en la casa tambien, por treinta dollares. When I go back and tell Yessenia this, she laughs. Her mama gives me a tour of the farm. There are chickens abound, ducks, dogs running free, and they grow nearly everything you'd need- mangos, papayas, oranges, chilies, bananas, limes, lettuce, tomatoes, they eat the eggs from the chickens, and probably the chickens too. They are growing sugar cane and coffee, to which she stresses the point that they are grown organically with no chemicals at all.
After an hour I return to Yessenia. We chat a bit more, and we walk to the part of the road where we part ways. I'm sad to leave her.
Ocho en la noche y tengo hambre. I'm at an internet cafe by the pension and will grab dinner next door.
The people here say I look like a Tico, and I'm happy with that. I'm sure I will be one day in el furturo.
Off to Montezuma tomorrow- the 6am bus will get me there at 2pm. I'm going to miss this town.
Con mucho gusto- te amo.
And then I ate a raw turtle egg Location: Monteverde
Hanging from a tight rope 150km high, and what appears to be miles from the ground, I´m suspended from a harness around my chest and another around my feet that both hook into metal pieces on the rope. My arms are spread out like a bird, my feet together, my body parallel to the ground. I look below and see a field of green, and to my sides are the same luscious green valleys and mountains of el bosque de Monteverde. This is the famous Superman zipline- the big kahuna, the grand finale. This is what 12 previous ziplines soaring above the the mountains, a Tarzan swing, and repel have led up to...and I´m doing okay. That is until I question how this rope, which stretches two miles across, has been able to hold massive amounts of weight. Surely, I will be the one that broke the camel´s back. I've had a good life- if this is it, then I´m okay with that...This is probably a good way to go, I´m sure the fall will be quick and I will probably die on impact. But what if I don´t, what if by some curse I´m just paralyzed. Amen, So Be It.
The 73 year old woman who had backed out of doing the Tarzan swing stating that she would die of a heart attack, to which we all kind of laughed nervously, but couldn't argue with, did it. The instructors convinced her somehow, and when she swung wildly back and forth, we all clapped and cheered. With the wind blowing in my face, I close my eyes, the zipline cruising me over the scenic landscape, and for a moment I´m like a dog sticking its head out the window and exhale. It's held me up so far, so most likely I will survive. I look around trying desperately to enjoy this moment, ignoring the voices in my head. I open my eyes and fly.
After two hours of ziplines, my heart has never felt this good, my blood feels cleaned like it went through dialysis, and nothing will wake you up more than a good shot of adrenaline.
The group of Americans I tagged along with- Kevin, Julie and what´s-her-name, are all ski instructors in Denver, and then there´s the other guy, whatever his name is, Ben perhaps, who´s a med student about to graduate and become a resident. You see, I've missed the bus to Santa Teresa, and am stuck in Monteverde, so when they come into the pension and say that they´re doing the zipline, I jump at the chance to have some social engagement. My anti-American state of mind has me questioning why, but then I realize I´m not anti-American, well maybe just a bit, but I´m anti-anyone I know. I´m here to escape, and do not want to be with people that say shred the gnar, man.
We are famished, and so I join them from dinner. Somehow they´ve found a local mom and pop restaurant, to which I´m bitter about. How could they have found this place when the just got here, and I´ve been here for five days.
A little girl, Sofia, jumps into Julie´s lap, and we sit around talking about Julie being "sixty-nined on the zipline´". On a particular zipline, which requires more weight for momentum, she was paired up with the instructor who gave her a little surprise- he flipped her over, upside down, hands holding her legs in a V, and soaring down. Is that Julie? Why are her black tights on top...wait, is she UPSIDE DOWN?
The waiter comes over, and gives out shot glasses, which I presume to be tequila or alcohol of some sort to go with the Imperial beer. After a lengthy explanation, many puzzled expressions and a peculiar curiousity, we now know that we are staring at turtle eggs in a shot glass of salsa. What. The. Hell.
These eggs are rare, protected, and should we really be shooting them like a cheap bottle of sake? The waiter also works as part of a conservation group, where they go along and take the eggs from mama turtles right away then rebury them as to protect the eggs from poachers. In return, they are allowed to keep some eggs for doing this. One turtle egg costs 8 chicken eggs, is known for fertility, especially when nine women in the same town all got pregnant after eating one, and is described as being as effective as Viagra.
Lifting our glasses, we cheers, and sling those suckers back in one swift motion. The yolk is hidden by the salsa, and although I can't taste it at all, I´m nearly certain that night and the following day that there´s a baby turtle growing in my belly.
At 5am, wide awake, but extremely tired from a restless night, I hear the downpour of rain so hard that I just shake my head no. Shit. My bag is packed, and I wonder why each time I pack the bag gets harder to close when I have less stuff than when I started with. I run to the bus stop a block up the hill, and get on.
I´m a wet dog, miserable, grumpy and even more pissed when I feel little drops of rain leaking from the roof of the bus onto me. Hello ghetto bus. Hello strangers that are eyeing my bag. If you even come close to me, I will punch you, I´m so irritated. This is followed by waiting in a town that this time does resemble Tijuana, followed by a ferry, which admittadely is beautiful, then another bus into Montezuma and then ANOTHER fucking bus to Santa Teresa. It´s now 4pm, and I´ve been traveling for ten hours. Why didn´t I take the shuttle that would´ve gotten me there in four hours- why??????
The 73 year old woman who had backed out of doing the Tarzan swing stating that she would die of a heart attack, to which we all kind of laughed nervously, but couldn't argue with, did it. The instructors convinced her somehow, and when she swung wildly back and forth, we all clapped and cheered. With the wind blowing in my face, I close my eyes, the zipline cruising me over the scenic landscape, and for a moment I´m like a dog sticking its head out the window and exhale. It's held me up so far, so most likely I will survive. I look around trying desperately to enjoy this moment, ignoring the voices in my head. I open my eyes and fly.
After two hours of ziplines, my heart has never felt this good, my blood feels cleaned like it went through dialysis, and nothing will wake you up more than a good shot of adrenaline.
The group of Americans I tagged along with- Kevin, Julie and what´s-her-name, are all ski instructors in Denver, and then there´s the other guy, whatever his name is, Ben perhaps, who´s a med student about to graduate and become a resident. You see, I've missed the bus to Santa Teresa, and am stuck in Monteverde, so when they come into the pension and say that they´re doing the zipline, I jump at the chance to have some social engagement. My anti-American state of mind has me questioning why, but then I realize I´m not anti-American, well maybe just a bit, but I´m anti-anyone I know. I´m here to escape, and do not want to be with people that say shred the gnar, man.
We are famished, and so I join them from dinner. Somehow they´ve found a local mom and pop restaurant, to which I´m bitter about. How could they have found this place when the just got here, and I´ve been here for five days.
A little girl, Sofia, jumps into Julie´s lap, and we sit around talking about Julie being "sixty-nined on the zipline´". On a particular zipline, which requires more weight for momentum, she was paired up with the instructor who gave her a little surprise- he flipped her over, upside down, hands holding her legs in a V, and soaring down. Is that Julie? Why are her black tights on top...wait, is she UPSIDE DOWN?
The waiter comes over, and gives out shot glasses, which I presume to be tequila or alcohol of some sort to go with the Imperial beer. After a lengthy explanation, many puzzled expressions and a peculiar curiousity, we now know that we are staring at turtle eggs in a shot glass of salsa. What. The. Hell.
These eggs are rare, protected, and should we really be shooting them like a cheap bottle of sake? The waiter also works as part of a conservation group, where they go along and take the eggs from mama turtles right away then rebury them as to protect the eggs from poachers. In return, they are allowed to keep some eggs for doing this. One turtle egg costs 8 chicken eggs, is known for fertility, especially when nine women in the same town all got pregnant after eating one, and is described as being as effective as Viagra.
Lifting our glasses, we cheers, and sling those suckers back in one swift motion. The yolk is hidden by the salsa, and although I can't taste it at all, I´m nearly certain that night and the following day that there´s a baby turtle growing in my belly.
At 5am, wide awake, but extremely tired from a restless night, I hear the downpour of rain so hard that I just shake my head no. Shit. My bag is packed, and I wonder why each time I pack the bag gets harder to close when I have less stuff than when I started with. I run to the bus stop a block up the hill, and get on.
I´m a wet dog, miserable, grumpy and even more pissed when I feel little drops of rain leaking from the roof of the bus onto me. Hello ghetto bus. Hello strangers that are eyeing my bag. If you even come close to me, I will punch you, I´m so irritated. This is followed by waiting in a town that this time does resemble Tijuana, followed by a ferry, which admittadely is beautiful, then another bus into Montezuma and then ANOTHER fucking bus to Santa Teresa. It´s now 4pm, and I´ve been traveling for ten hours. Why didn´t I take the shuttle that would´ve gotten me there in four hours- why??????
Long Days Journey Into Night Location: Santa Teresa
The humidity hits you in the face, your body pours out tears of sweat, and you just want to be there, already. Please. I see the couple from the ferry waiting for the last bus, and say hello. I look from her to him, and back at her. How did she snag him? She must be a really good person, or amazing in the sack.
We chat on the bus, the usual banter of where we´re from, where we are going, how long we are staying and so on. I follow Tara and John, also from Denver, to their hotel, which for $35 a night you get your own cabina. They only have one left, and so they walk me down a bit where I settle for the first hotel I see, and we plan on meeting out front at 10am the next day to attempt surfing.
On the verge of tears from exhaustion, missing my beloved, and sneering at this new town that scares me, I call Alex and nearly cry. Call it Costa Rica culture-shock. A complete 180 from forest to the beach. What do you mean I can´t go out by myself, and why the HELL is it so hot?
I succumb to myself, eat more casado con pescado, and call it a day. Thankful for the air -condtioned room, and a tv that plays Fox Live, I zone out. Jamie Oliver is on making a mushroom sandwich that makes me salivate.
At 6am, the sun is out, monkeys are ca-cawing instead of chickens, and the dirt road if full of surfers on bikes, carrying their surfboards to that sweet spot on the beach where the waves are some of the best in the world. According to a new issue of Forbes, Santa Teresa is the top ten in the world, so now is the time to see this place before it gets infiltrated like Jaco or Tamarindo.
I walk along the beach, it expands to each side, and is much wider than last night when the tide was high. Trees line the side and it looks pretty, but bare. I´ve seen this view somewhere before. It´s familiar, and not at all like the Carribean coast. I wonder why this is so well known to the locals, or to celebrities like Giselle, who has a house here.
Sitting on the clean beige beach, a hot cup of coffee in my hand, I look around and now know. There are no children selling chicklets, no bums selling bunches of sage, no houses in the hills, or waiters bringing magaritas or coconuts. It´s calm, peaceful, and the only commotion are the dogs, the same ones all around Costa Rica, that appear out of nowhere. In fact as I walk, the sand soft under my feet, a large one comes directly for me, and I´m prepared to be attacked. Then his friend, a small weiner dog pushes him to the side. They play like little boys wrestling, take a dip in the water, then chill to the side.
On my walk back, I go into the bakery, where the owner was rolling out fresh dough, and see the croissants, as he calls them, fresh out of the oven and calling my name. The bread is filled with cheese, tomato, garlic and basil. The smoothie of mango and banana with orange juice is sweet and satisfying. This costs $4, and I know I will be back tomorrow.
The three of us, John, Tara and I, rent boards from a shop owned by Israelis. The woman looks at my wrist, and says, Oh, it´s a quote. Yes! It is! Whew, it does translate exactly. They rent us boards, and the man tells us he´s one of the best instructors here. This turns out to be true, as he was the number one surfer in Israel. I note this, and will take a lesson with him next week.
In Santa Teresa, some signs have Hebrew, which at first is puzzling. Then you learn that they´ve started to take over, buying businesses, and are rapidly expanding. This is causing a riff between them and the Ticos. There are Israelis vacationing here, and fulfill the stereotype of being arrogant and pretentious, which is bothersome to a Jew like me. Way to go assholes, why don´t you create an anti-sematic movement here so that more people hate you. Asses.
I could be one of Kate Bosworth´s friends, no not Michelle Rodriguez, in Blue Crush. With my rashguard, bikini bottoms and way too long surfboard, I´m looking good. I eat shit more times than I can count, and if this were on YouTube, I´d surely have more than a million views by now.
The water is so warm, and the current is strong. The three of us play in the water, have a beer, and relax. When John sees I´m reading Ayn Rand, and pàssionately states that she´s the reason for the economic crisis we´re in, this leads to an in-depth conversation about the world, sex slaves, molestors, and we go off on tangets about work, finding ourselves, and everything in between. We buy avocados and bread from the store, and marvel at the cost of food here. In fact, everyone complains about the cost because it´s just as, or even more expensive than stores in the US. Each meal out for something basic costs $8-$10, and although you can come here for cheap hotels, this won´t be a cheap trip for you.
My hotel smells weird, and I´m lonely so when I happily stumble upon the Funky Monkey, 300 meters up, I´m elated. It´s like a compound of young people, all staying at the hostel, which I regrettably even call a hostel as it´s very nice and homey. Each cabin has beds, and bunkbeads, there is a bar, restaurant, and lounge area, hammocks everywhere. Up the stairs is a really nice pool, and next to that a dojo where they will have yoga classes on Monday. Americans, Swiss, Germans, and Canadians are here living the pura vida. Everyone is chill, and it feels like summer camp. Bruno, the manager, and Alex, the chef, both from Argentina, hang out all day, along with Lauren, a 22 year old from NYC that last minute decided hold off on law school and come here to work and live. They are always around, along with a little man, the guard, who carries a machete and chops the brush. The Funky Monkey is located up the road, so when I rock like a baby in the hammock overlooking the flora, I feel that I´ve found the epitamy of the beach life.
Lauren, another guy Mike who´s kind of a meathead surfer dude, and I go to Casa Zen for Thai dinner last night. The service is slow, but the food is good, and we have a nice conversation. We decide to take out the ATVs today to explore the little town of Mal Pais and the waterfalls of Montezuma, which is 30 min away.
Since Lauren is stuck working two jobs she won´t be able to come, and just like the women at the co-ops the rate of pay for everyone is $2 an hour. Like most people that come to Santa Teresa, they never leave. Most haven´t ventured to Arenal, or the surrounding areas. Most haven´t left Santa Teresa, ever. Most surf twice a day, at 6am and at 5pm, and the expats that I´ve met say they smoke weed all day, and just...hang.
My omelette is finished off, and as I type and sip the coffee, I look at the clock in the corner and see that I only have a half hour until I have to meet up with the couple who are also taking the ATVs out.
Tambien. Ciao.
We chat on the bus, the usual banter of where we´re from, where we are going, how long we are staying and so on. I follow Tara and John, also from Denver, to their hotel, which for $35 a night you get your own cabina. They only have one left, and so they walk me down a bit where I settle for the first hotel I see, and we plan on meeting out front at 10am the next day to attempt surfing.
On the verge of tears from exhaustion, missing my beloved, and sneering at this new town that scares me, I call Alex and nearly cry. Call it Costa Rica culture-shock. A complete 180 from forest to the beach. What do you mean I can´t go out by myself, and why the HELL is it so hot?
I succumb to myself, eat more casado con pescado, and call it a day. Thankful for the air -condtioned room, and a tv that plays Fox Live, I zone out. Jamie Oliver is on making a mushroom sandwich that makes me salivate.
At 6am, the sun is out, monkeys are ca-cawing instead of chickens, and the dirt road if full of surfers on bikes, carrying their surfboards to that sweet spot on the beach where the waves are some of the best in the world. According to a new issue of Forbes, Santa Teresa is the top ten in the world, so now is the time to see this place before it gets infiltrated like Jaco or Tamarindo.
I walk along the beach, it expands to each side, and is much wider than last night when the tide was high. Trees line the side and it looks pretty, but bare. I´ve seen this view somewhere before. It´s familiar, and not at all like the Carribean coast. I wonder why this is so well known to the locals, or to celebrities like Giselle, who has a house here.
Sitting on the clean beige beach, a hot cup of coffee in my hand, I look around and now know. There are no children selling chicklets, no bums selling bunches of sage, no houses in the hills, or waiters bringing magaritas or coconuts. It´s calm, peaceful, and the only commotion are the dogs, the same ones all around Costa Rica, that appear out of nowhere. In fact as I walk, the sand soft under my feet, a large one comes directly for me, and I´m prepared to be attacked. Then his friend, a small weiner dog pushes him to the side. They play like little boys wrestling, take a dip in the water, then chill to the side.
On my walk back, I go into the bakery, where the owner was rolling out fresh dough, and see the croissants, as he calls them, fresh out of the oven and calling my name. The bread is filled with cheese, tomato, garlic and basil. The smoothie of mango and banana with orange juice is sweet and satisfying. This costs $4, and I know I will be back tomorrow.
The three of us, John, Tara and I, rent boards from a shop owned by Israelis. The woman looks at my wrist, and says, Oh, it´s a quote. Yes! It is! Whew, it does translate exactly. They rent us boards, and the man tells us he´s one of the best instructors here. This turns out to be true, as he was the number one surfer in Israel. I note this, and will take a lesson with him next week.
In Santa Teresa, some signs have Hebrew, which at first is puzzling. Then you learn that they´ve started to take over, buying businesses, and are rapidly expanding. This is causing a riff between them and the Ticos. There are Israelis vacationing here, and fulfill the stereotype of being arrogant and pretentious, which is bothersome to a Jew like me. Way to go assholes, why don´t you create an anti-sematic movement here so that more people hate you. Asses.
I could be one of Kate Bosworth´s friends, no not Michelle Rodriguez, in Blue Crush. With my rashguard, bikini bottoms and way too long surfboard, I´m looking good. I eat shit more times than I can count, and if this were on YouTube, I´d surely have more than a million views by now.
The water is so warm, and the current is strong. The three of us play in the water, have a beer, and relax. When John sees I´m reading Ayn Rand, and pàssionately states that she´s the reason for the economic crisis we´re in, this leads to an in-depth conversation about the world, sex slaves, molestors, and we go off on tangets about work, finding ourselves, and everything in between. We buy avocados and bread from the store, and marvel at the cost of food here. In fact, everyone complains about the cost because it´s just as, or even more expensive than stores in the US. Each meal out for something basic costs $8-$10, and although you can come here for cheap hotels, this won´t be a cheap trip for you.
My hotel smells weird, and I´m lonely so when I happily stumble upon the Funky Monkey, 300 meters up, I´m elated. It´s like a compound of young people, all staying at the hostel, which I regrettably even call a hostel as it´s very nice and homey. Each cabin has beds, and bunkbeads, there is a bar, restaurant, and lounge area, hammocks everywhere. Up the stairs is a really nice pool, and next to that a dojo where they will have yoga classes on Monday. Americans, Swiss, Germans, and Canadians are here living the pura vida. Everyone is chill, and it feels like summer camp. Bruno, the manager, and Alex, the chef, both from Argentina, hang out all day, along with Lauren, a 22 year old from NYC that last minute decided hold off on law school and come here to work and live. They are always around, along with a little man, the guard, who carries a machete and chops the brush. The Funky Monkey is located up the road, so when I rock like a baby in the hammock overlooking the flora, I feel that I´ve found the epitamy of the beach life.
Lauren, another guy Mike who´s kind of a meathead surfer dude, and I go to Casa Zen for Thai dinner last night. The service is slow, but the food is good, and we have a nice conversation. We decide to take out the ATVs today to explore the little town of Mal Pais and the waterfalls of Montezuma, which is 30 min away.
Since Lauren is stuck working two jobs she won´t be able to come, and just like the women at the co-ops the rate of pay for everyone is $2 an hour. Like most people that come to Santa Teresa, they never leave. Most haven´t ventured to Arenal, or the surrounding areas. Most haven´t left Santa Teresa, ever. Most surf twice a day, at 6am and at 5pm, and the expats that I´ve met say they smoke weed all day, and just...hang.
My omelette is finished off, and as I type and sip the coffee, I look at the clock in the corner and see that I only have a half hour until I have to meet up with the couple who are also taking the ATVs out.
Tambien. Ciao.
The art of doing nothing. Location: Santa Teresa
We are all counselors at a summer camp. Only there are no campers. The air is hot, muggy, and God has turned up the humidifier to high. Your skin has a perpetual layer of dampness, your face dewy, and the mosquitoes have waged a war, covering every inch of your body so strategically you wonder if you´ve somehow managed to piss off the ring leader. The amount of sweat that pours of out of you would make any Scientologist jealous, and on the verge of the green season, you know that there will be no reprieve in the near future. There are occasional thunders without rain, lightening that is silent and lights up the sky. Around 3pm the sun will peak out from the clouds, but you don´t care about that, the water is already warm.
Laying on the top bunk at ten pm, with a small flashlight in hand, reading a book, this is a throwback to those long childhood summer days in the Poconos. Our daily activities include laying on the hammocks, reading, talking about what we are doing that day, asking how breakfast was, and did you have that burrito that only cost 1500 colones from the bakery down the street. We talk about the surf, how was the beach, have you gone to Montezuma yet, and what are you doing tonight. The Belgium couple, and that girl traveling alone from Venezuela will lay by the pool, and constantly be on their laptops.
Mike´s name is really James, and the meat-head appearance disappears as this ex Deadhead plays music on his laptop all day, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and tells you pick up lines from his friend Chinless...I like to have SEX... with DRUNK girls! Hey, met me yet? wink wink. He will tell you about his grandpa...Boy, if that bacon comes out and it ain´t break when you bend it, I don´t want it. He will tell you about his tragic past, which explains his short term memory loss, although you know that being inebriated probably doesn´t help the situation.
Sitting at Pizza Tomate, a surprisingly delicious outdoor restaurant, I nervously look at my watch. It´s been two hours. I take a bite of what´s called a Cesar salad, but is really a chopped salad with a mild mayo dressing. Perhaps it was the Imperial in the heat, or that shot of Jack, but this salad is hitting the spot. I look around. Michael Cera´s younger twin looks over and comes to sit next to me. I think my friend James has been murdered I tell him. He laughs. No, really. Did you see that drunk guy walk by like 30 minutes ago? He was walking with five or six shady Ticos, and I think they´ve done him in! The 23 year old Argentinian Israeli in so many words says who cares. James has decided, in the rain, to walk along the long dirt road in search of cocaine. Our guard had his nose chopped off by these people earlier in the week and left for dead in the sea until a few surfers found him bleeding to death in the ocean, just a bit unnerving I´d say. We soon forget about James, and chat a bit. I tell him we should call the police. He laughs, There are no police! When I tell Michael Cera that this is great, but too small of a place, he says, What more do you need?
There comes James, in the distance, alone, walking back to meet us. Michael Cera asks if he can leave now, and I say fine. James´s eyes are dilated, he´s fucked up, and tells me that as soon as those Tico´s took him to a dark alley up the road, he showed them his Kung Fu moves, and tied one up like a pretzel. I ask him the next morning if he did the coke and how was it. He tells me that it starting spilling out in his bag, so he did it all at once. This cleared out all of the saltwater in his nose, and emptied out both the coke and water, so in the end, it was gone.
I´ve been invited to that party on the beach, the one at Luz de Vida that happens every Saturday with house music blaring and strobe lights streaming. I´ve been asked to go to a Tico´s going away party down the street, to that bar that plays Reggae music, to Open Mic night at the Argentinian restaurant bar, but haven´t gone to anything. The first reason being that it´s way to hot, the idea of dirt plastered on my body is gross, and starting to party at midnight after a day in the sun sounds simply awful.
And this. That bestseller wasn´t called Love, Pray, Eat. If Elizabeth Gilbert had met her love in the beginning I doubt that she would want to explore by herself. She would want him to come, to eat, to pray, with her. Sharing experiences with a stranger is fun, but creating memories with a loved one, whether it be sibling, parent, friend, or the love of your life, is what counts. Alex comes in two days, and I´m counting down every second until I see him standing there, waiting for me, in San Jose.
The road to Montezuma is paved, and rocky. A 30 minute ride on the ATV, with my sunglasses blocking out the dirty, the hot wind blowing back my hair...this feels good. The roads are filled with pastures of cows, and horses roam around freely in the fields. You wind down the road and into view comes a breaktaking sight of the ocean along a rocky bank and tiny shops making up a few blocks of the town. We enter Montezuma Waterfalls. For about 500 meters, James, myself, and that couple John and Tara hop along with rocks on the ground, and finally get to the first waterfall. To get to the second one, you must climb up a muddy vertical terrain with monsterous roots, that is made for a boulderer used to climbing. Somehow with deep breaths, I make it up and hike over, up and down, throughout the trees, and come to a rope hanging from a tree. That feeling of panic, sweaty heads, and dizziness wash over. I´m going to turn around. James helps me get down, and when my foot is merely inches from the edge of the slippery dirt mountain, and I´m lowering myself on this rope, I don´t question how it will feel if I die. My mind is blank and I just do it. The waterfall fills a large swimming pond, deep enough for people to jump into, but I can´t enjoy this. All I´m thinking of is going back down that same way, which I won´t. Alex doesn´t need to see this, I tell myself. No, not at all, he won´t miss anything. Thank the lord there is another way down. Maybe Alex does need to see this. If my Spanish was about to progress from preschool to Kindergarten, it has stunted there. Everyone speaks English here. I chat with a waitress at Burger Rancho from Seattle who´s lived here for a year and a half on a whim. She states that even though she was a Spanish major, the only way she learned was by dating her current boyfriend, a local Tico. On my quest for killer ceviche, which to this day I still haven´t found, I sit eating a mound of their variation, fresh raw tuna mixed with chopped red pepper, onion, and chunks of avocado in soy sauce. I feel something tickle my foot, look down, and then jump onto the chair. Is that a CRAB? It´s three inches in diameter, a color mix of purple and orange, and is not at all something we´d eat, ever. They come out when it rains, which you didn´t notice until now. As I walk down the main road, every few feet there are imprints of crushed crabs making what appears to be a hieroglyphic path. I´m off to pick up my laundry from the woman who runs a business out of her home up the dirt road about 100 meters up. It will be washed, dried, and folded. While the Funky Monkey was fun, my $25 a night room with AC, tv, and privacy tonight will be extraorindary. For $6, I will rent a board, and tackle the waves, attempting to stay on for more than two seconds. The Iraeli surf teacher made good on his promise, and I did get up during the class. Now it´s just about practice. James had asked me if I came here to find myself, and how can I possibly go back to conventional life. I tell him that I´m not too conventional, hence me being here on my own. I´ve proven to myself that I can travel alone, without much, and be okay. I´ve lived here in Santa Teresa, a place where you need to condition yourself to the art of doing nothing. The lifestyle we lead of being rushed, the pressure we put on ourselves to be successful now, and what we measure that by...well, what is it all for anyway?
Laying on the top bunk at ten pm, with a small flashlight in hand, reading a book, this is a throwback to those long childhood summer days in the Poconos. Our daily activities include laying on the hammocks, reading, talking about what we are doing that day, asking how breakfast was, and did you have that burrito that only cost 1500 colones from the bakery down the street. We talk about the surf, how was the beach, have you gone to Montezuma yet, and what are you doing tonight. The Belgium couple, and that girl traveling alone from Venezuela will lay by the pool, and constantly be on their laptops.
Mike´s name is really James, and the meat-head appearance disappears as this ex Deadhead plays music on his laptop all day, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and tells you pick up lines from his friend Chinless...I like to have SEX... with DRUNK girls! Hey, met me yet? wink wink. He will tell you about his grandpa...Boy, if that bacon comes out and it ain´t break when you bend it, I don´t want it. He will tell you about his tragic past, which explains his short term memory loss, although you know that being inebriated probably doesn´t help the situation.
Sitting at Pizza Tomate, a surprisingly delicious outdoor restaurant, I nervously look at my watch. It´s been two hours. I take a bite of what´s called a Cesar salad, but is really a chopped salad with a mild mayo dressing. Perhaps it was the Imperial in the heat, or that shot of Jack, but this salad is hitting the spot. I look around. Michael Cera´s younger twin looks over and comes to sit next to me. I think my friend James has been murdered I tell him. He laughs. No, really. Did you see that drunk guy walk by like 30 minutes ago? He was walking with five or six shady Ticos, and I think they´ve done him in! The 23 year old Argentinian Israeli in so many words says who cares. James has decided, in the rain, to walk along the long dirt road in search of cocaine. Our guard had his nose chopped off by these people earlier in the week and left for dead in the sea until a few surfers found him bleeding to death in the ocean, just a bit unnerving I´d say. We soon forget about James, and chat a bit. I tell him we should call the police. He laughs, There are no police! When I tell Michael Cera that this is great, but too small of a place, he says, What more do you need?
There comes James, in the distance, alone, walking back to meet us. Michael Cera asks if he can leave now, and I say fine. James´s eyes are dilated, he´s fucked up, and tells me that as soon as those Tico´s took him to a dark alley up the road, he showed them his Kung Fu moves, and tied one up like a pretzel. I ask him the next morning if he did the coke and how was it. He tells me that it starting spilling out in his bag, so he did it all at once. This cleared out all of the saltwater in his nose, and emptied out both the coke and water, so in the end, it was gone.
I´ve been invited to that party on the beach, the one at Luz de Vida that happens every Saturday with house music blaring and strobe lights streaming. I´ve been asked to go to a Tico´s going away party down the street, to that bar that plays Reggae music, to Open Mic night at the Argentinian restaurant bar, but haven´t gone to anything. The first reason being that it´s way to hot, the idea of dirt plastered on my body is gross, and starting to party at midnight after a day in the sun sounds simply awful.
And this. That bestseller wasn´t called Love, Pray, Eat. If Elizabeth Gilbert had met her love in the beginning I doubt that she would want to explore by herself. She would want him to come, to eat, to pray, with her. Sharing experiences with a stranger is fun, but creating memories with a loved one, whether it be sibling, parent, friend, or the love of your life, is what counts. Alex comes in two days, and I´m counting down every second until I see him standing there, waiting for me, in San Jose.
The road to Montezuma is paved, and rocky. A 30 minute ride on the ATV, with my sunglasses blocking out the dirty, the hot wind blowing back my hair...this feels good. The roads are filled with pastures of cows, and horses roam around freely in the fields. You wind down the road and into view comes a breaktaking sight of the ocean along a rocky bank and tiny shops making up a few blocks of the town. We enter Montezuma Waterfalls. For about 500 meters, James, myself, and that couple John and Tara hop along with rocks on the ground, and finally get to the first waterfall. To get to the second one, you must climb up a muddy vertical terrain with monsterous roots, that is made for a boulderer used to climbing. Somehow with deep breaths, I make it up and hike over, up and down, throughout the trees, and come to a rope hanging from a tree. That feeling of panic, sweaty heads, and dizziness wash over. I´m going to turn around. James helps me get down, and when my foot is merely inches from the edge of the slippery dirt mountain, and I´m lowering myself on this rope, I don´t question how it will feel if I die. My mind is blank and I just do it. The waterfall fills a large swimming pond, deep enough for people to jump into, but I can´t enjoy this. All I´m thinking of is going back down that same way, which I won´t. Alex doesn´t need to see this, I tell myself. No, not at all, he won´t miss anything. Thank the lord there is another way down. Maybe Alex does need to see this. If my Spanish was about to progress from preschool to Kindergarten, it has stunted there. Everyone speaks English here. I chat with a waitress at Burger Rancho from Seattle who´s lived here for a year and a half on a whim. She states that even though she was a Spanish major, the only way she learned was by dating her current boyfriend, a local Tico. On my quest for killer ceviche, which to this day I still haven´t found, I sit eating a mound of their variation, fresh raw tuna mixed with chopped red pepper, onion, and chunks of avocado in soy sauce. I feel something tickle my foot, look down, and then jump onto the chair. Is that a CRAB? It´s three inches in diameter, a color mix of purple and orange, and is not at all something we´d eat, ever. They come out when it rains, which you didn´t notice until now. As I walk down the main road, every few feet there are imprints of crushed crabs making what appears to be a hieroglyphic path. I´m off to pick up my laundry from the woman who runs a business out of her home up the dirt road about 100 meters up. It will be washed, dried, and folded. While the Funky Monkey was fun, my $25 a night room with AC, tv, and privacy tonight will be extraorindary. For $6, I will rent a board, and tackle the waves, attempting to stay on for more than two seconds. The Iraeli surf teacher made good on his promise, and I did get up during the class. Now it´s just about practice. James had asked me if I came here to find myself, and how can I possibly go back to conventional life. I tell him that I´m not too conventional, hence me being here on my own. I´ve proven to myself that I can travel alone, without much, and be okay. I´ve lived here in Santa Teresa, a place where you need to condition yourself to the art of doing nothing. The lifestyle we lead of being rushed, the pressure we put on ourselves to be successful now, and what we measure that by...well, what is it all for anyway?
A cultural difference. Location: Santa Teresa
A couple of days ago an overwhelming sense came over me; a force so strong it unlocked the mental cage we all find ourselves in. In that moment I had complete freedom. No connection through technology to the outside world, no friends, family, or anyone of significance around, no group or organization I was with, no care for my appearance, no concept of day or time, no sense of responsibilities or work- a freedom to do anything I wanted on this remote beach where I did not owe anyone, or myself, anything.
Of course that lasted for only so long, as my mine did eventually drift to work related stuff- would I book that huge event upon my return, what was going on with the agent at Paradigm who still has my book proposal...a rejection comes fast, but then again it could be on her slush pile, what was everyone doing, and how much I liked not being on Facebook. But, for that hour or so, when I was free as a bird, I stood looking out at the grey ocean, with the rough current, and the perfectly clouded sky. To my right at the local Tico's hanging out in the low trees, and to my left the dogs running around, and girls sunbathing on vacation. It was a surreal moment, and one that made me realize we do indeed need these obligations to stay sane, otherwise we float along in a meaningless existence.
I noticed a cultural difference, something so simple it makes me wonder what the real problem is in our society. Everyone in Costa Rica will say hello to you, and look you in the eye...Hola! Buenas! Bueanas Tardes! etc. It's expected. Out of habit, I started to say hello to Americans, to every person I saw on the dirt paved road, and in return I got a blank stare, or most of the time, no acknowledgment or their eyes darting to the side as if they didn't hear me.
And here's another one. When you are done with your meal, they will not bring you your check. That would be presumptuous and rude. They would never rush you out of a restaurant, especially because the waiter is probably talking to their friend or family member, and doesn't really care if you are there one way or another. It's so lenient, that that almost seems rude in itself. Sometimes, you just want the check already.
An image is burned in my mind, so beautiful and magical, I wish that I could share with you this picture as the experience was something out of fairytale. I'm floating in the ocean, bobbing along, slightly treading in this extra salty water. It seems as if there was just one more cup of salt added, it would rival the Dead Sea. Suddenly, everyone is frozen, in awe, and breaks out their cameras. Trotting down the narrow path to the beach, are six horses. Three dark brown, two light, and one white. They enter in a regal manner, and all walk slowly along the densely packed wet sand. It's breathtaking. Where did they come from, and to whom do they belong to? No one knows, but we all watch as the gently walk along, following each other, dipping slightly into the water, along the huge rocks that are starting to be covered with vibrant algae, and then there the go into the distance, out of eye sight.
On my last day in Santa Teresa, I'm sitting on the beach when Michael Cera's look alike comes over. He tells me he saw me yesterday, laying on my surfboard as to avoid the mass amount of hermit crabs that cover the beach, my face fully covered in sunblock, with a book on my lap.You see everyone, everywhere, at some point throughout the day. We are observing the waves when there is a sudden thud as if someone threw down a ton of bricks next to us. Then the earth moves back and forth and feels as if the beach is going to split, and an uncertainty is certain. We just felt an earthquake.
CONTINUE TO PART II
Of course that lasted for only so long, as my mine did eventually drift to work related stuff- would I book that huge event upon my return, what was going on with the agent at Paradigm who still has my book proposal...a rejection comes fast, but then again it could be on her slush pile, what was everyone doing, and how much I liked not being on Facebook. But, for that hour or so, when I was free as a bird, I stood looking out at the grey ocean, with the rough current, and the perfectly clouded sky. To my right at the local Tico's hanging out in the low trees, and to my left the dogs running around, and girls sunbathing on vacation. It was a surreal moment, and one that made me realize we do indeed need these obligations to stay sane, otherwise we float along in a meaningless existence.
I noticed a cultural difference, something so simple it makes me wonder what the real problem is in our society. Everyone in Costa Rica will say hello to you, and look you in the eye...Hola! Buenas! Bueanas Tardes! etc. It's expected. Out of habit, I started to say hello to Americans, to every person I saw on the dirt paved road, and in return I got a blank stare, or most of the time, no acknowledgment or their eyes darting to the side as if they didn't hear me.
And here's another one. When you are done with your meal, they will not bring you your check. That would be presumptuous and rude. They would never rush you out of a restaurant, especially because the waiter is probably talking to their friend or family member, and doesn't really care if you are there one way or another. It's so lenient, that that almost seems rude in itself. Sometimes, you just want the check already.
An image is burned in my mind, so beautiful and magical, I wish that I could share with you this picture as the experience was something out of fairytale. I'm floating in the ocean, bobbing along, slightly treading in this extra salty water. It seems as if there was just one more cup of salt added, it would rival the Dead Sea. Suddenly, everyone is frozen, in awe, and breaks out their cameras. Trotting down the narrow path to the beach, are six horses. Three dark brown, two light, and one white. They enter in a regal manner, and all walk slowly along the densely packed wet sand. It's breathtaking. Where did they come from, and to whom do they belong to? No one knows, but we all watch as the gently walk along, following each other, dipping slightly into the water, along the huge rocks that are starting to be covered with vibrant algae, and then there the go into the distance, out of eye sight.
On my last day in Santa Teresa, I'm sitting on the beach when Michael Cera's look alike comes over. He tells me he saw me yesterday, laying on my surfboard as to avoid the mass amount of hermit crabs that cover the beach, my face fully covered in sunblock, with a book on my lap.You see everyone, everywhere, at some point throughout the day. We are observing the waves when there is a sudden thud as if someone threw down a ton of bricks next to us. Then the earth moves back and forth and feels as if the beach is going to split, and an uncertainty is certain. We just felt an earthquake.
CONTINUE TO PART II
©2011 Carly Cylinder. All Rights Reserved.