the natives are getting restless. . .

Sweet lord where to begin? The highlights alone could fill a friggin book. . . But I’m not writing a book. I stepped off the plane into a humid San Jose. I made my way through the airport, and there was Yank, in all his glory, middle finger raised already looking at me through the window from outside, in the orange-lit parking garage. After a quick drive through San Jose, reminding me nicely why it is that Costa Rica has the highest accident rate in the world, hit the mountain passes. We laughed as we watched drivers take their lives into their own hands, playing chicken with oncoming trucks. Cars would pass three wide, so that all three lanes would be taken up by cars going in the same direction. Drivers would pass drivers as they were passing. We got out in a backwater of Siquirres, at the place of a guy called simply “Chito Loco”. Chito is loco, alright. That’s him with Pocho, a crocodile which he rescued from the wild and nursed to health. The crocodile is trained, so Chito swims with it, sticks his head in its mouth, etc. We stayed at Chito’s place, and the next day Chito took us ocean fishing. We drank beers, hooked huge fish that put up long fights (I didn’t even like fishing until I caught a tuna which we ate for lunch). . . We laughed all afternoon as Chito cracked jokes about the Columbian drug lords zipping by us in their high powered “Ganja Boats” As Chito called them. We felt sorry for the park ranger that came zipping in tow with his 30hp outboard asking which way they went. He didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of catching a powerboat with 500hp pushing it. We fished away off of the remote coast of Tortuguero National park, battling the heat and fish well into the glorious sunset. Then Chito drove us back up the mouth of the jungle river to the dirt road we parked on. It was amazing, and a little unsettling, to haul ass around the river bends in pitch dark, only the stars lighting the jungle sky, guided by Chito’s memory of where the deadheads and the shallow parts were. The next day we relaxed at the resort where Rob’s visitng parents were staying. It was a nice break from the squalor rob and I are becoming accustomed to living in. We rented some gear and did some reef snorkeling in the crystal clear water off of the point there in Puerta Viejo. Yesterday Rob’s`parents dropped us off here, at rob’s humble abode, where we now reside. Rob calls it the microwave. There is very little breeze here in this valley. Only a set of railway tracks lined with the small dwellings and shacks that the people here call home, like the one which rob calls home, and I guess I do too, for the time being. The people here are so friendly, as they usually are in this part of the world. Yesterday I went to the Del monte Banana plantation where rob teaches English. The workers were really excited to meet me it seemed, and I got along really well with them. There are women, men and children all in this class. It was a great environment for me to learn some Spanish, as the workers are as eager to learn English. English is the path to a career outside the banana plantation. Trino and George, two of the keener students, took rob and I to a little place outside of town called El Aguilar (the eagle). We ate a wicked traditional dinner of fried fish, beans, rice, potato, and fried plantains. The beer flowed like water as we spoke in broken english (them) and even more broken Spanish (me), but we couldn’t stop laughing. It was so enlightening to see two men with such different lives from my own have so much in common with us. Such a simple experience can teach so much about human nature and tolerance. That and karaoke. Yeah – Karaoke is HUGE here. They give you the binder and you can pick any shitty synthesized version of a song you like. George and Trino REALLY wanted to hear me sing in English, so I obliged. Anne Grimwood, you’re probably not reading this, but I ripped a mean rendition of Desperado by The Eagles, just for you. I got applause because they are amazed down here when someone speaks or can sing good English.. . . lucky for me. So the night wore on as Tico and Tica alike picked up the mic and sang away, however drunk and off key, it didn’t matter. George wailed a heart wrenching interpretation of a song called “Puerto Limon” About a town with the same name here. We laughed so hard, but applauded him genuinely. Then the guys gave rob and I high fives, something we had taught them about an hour before. Rob is really a missionary down here, except he’s teaching the locals how to shotgun beers and how you can bring the head of a beer down with the oil from your face.. . . In the words of rob : “I may be a missionary, but at least I’m teaching ‘em something useful.” He has a point. George and Trino invited us down to the plantation to watch them work some time, so we might do that. I’d like to see it. Right now rob and I are working off a mean hang over in the costa Rican heat, every light breeze welcome in this little jungle-bound dustbowl we live in. Rob puked behind the bus station, out on the street in siquirres today. He doesn’t tolerate heat+hangover so well. . . good thing they have open gutters in the street here. So some inf about the pics: Above is part of the Del Monte Plantation. The staircase is the one up to rob's dwelling, and below is us with Trino and George. Later today I will call mastercard and see if I can get some god damned colones down here. My bank card won’t work here.

Pura Vida