life in the fast lane

Okay, this is a harried and rushed entry, and I apologize, but there's a line up for this computer and more children come today. In short, life has been insane. Last week I spent 3 days stright on the river, which was nice. I did a 2 day descent, and was shuttled back up with Richard, fellow english colleague, and we paddled down the gorge to catch up with another descent at bivvy. Paddling the gorge at 7.00 (when no one is supposed to be on river) was spectacular. The animals have adjusted to the gorge schedule and that's when they come out. The sinking sun lit the cliffs obliquely, turning the whole scene into a humbling epic experience right out of lord of the rings. We saw foxes hunting the riverbanks and a wild goat grazing the shore. We took our time, and a 2 hour paddle turned into 3 and a bit. Our jaws were slack for the whole thing as we paddled the silent waters, breaking the solitude every 10 minutes or so to enter a set of rapids or to look at each other and say "holy shit this is fucking cool." After that it was straight to motorbikes. Jimmy, my aussie mate, and Chloe, a friend I made last week who is from France, decided to adventure together. Chloe invited us to a party her friends were having, and we figured why try to make it to the coast in 2 days? Best decision ever. Chloe is from a small french village called Pont du Barret, and it was near there that we were to have our French party experience. We Rented our bikes and lo and behold I was given the green demon, as last year, for a second round of tear assing around the french country side. We set off for Montelimar, where Chloe (who I fondly refer to as c-note) played tourguide for us for the afternoon. After that we went to Pont Du Barret and saw where Chloe grew up, which explains her rediuculous climbing skill. The village is beautiful, and a mini limestone gorge runs just outside it, flanked by cliffs which draw climbers from all parts of france. Her house is what looks like it might have once been an old stone mill, but her family has taken advantage of the high ceilings and arched doorways to build a spectacular home inside, which so incredibly french, complete with murals on the walls. After this we visited neil's hous (our directror) who lives not far from there. We went in for some beers and admired his handiwork on his hurge 200 year old house. We then climbed on the bikes and headed up to the quarry at which our hike up to the party would start. Yeah - hike to the party. With packs laden with various french alcohols and foods we huffed and puffed for an our to summit the peak that was part of a huge escarpent. It got dark as we went, entertained by singing and guitar as we walked. The rule of the party was to bring a musical instrument. The rain started to pour on us as we hit the plateau, and at one point Jimmy pointed out that we were surrounded by horses. We didn't realise that's what they were, we thought they were silhouettes of rocks. Once we saw one we could see them all, and it was mystical. We walked through the wind and rain and followed the sound of music and drums through the bush until we came upon a little stone hut on the mountaintop. We were greeted with open french arms by everyone inside. All had been on travelling stints in various corners of the world and were just being reunited that night. Firewood took up half of the inside, bottles of booze and people the other half. A fire roared and spirits were high, and by the end of the night we were all speaking the same language. What a blast. The next morning we walked down, extremely hung over, and visited chloe's farm. It was back on the bikes after that to get them in on time, and then to bed, for the next day was a day of climbing on granite crags in the mountains near here. We had no idea what awaited us. Kuider, a local that works here, has a bad shoulder, and who knew it would pop out right on the rock face? I tried to reduce it for him with no luck (though I followed my protocol to a T.. .) so the Pompiers were called in. The pompiers are crazy, and despite the narrowness of the gorge we were in and winds strong enough to almost blow us off our ledge, they edged a helicopter into the gorge and extracted Kuider. What a friggin day. If this computer was working I'd show you pics, but alas, I cannot. op. . . it's fixed (Sort of)

Life in the fast lane.

another chapter

Well I don’t really have time to write this, as we have to catch a bus to san jose in 45 to start the first leg of my journey, but the last 24 hours deserve acknowledgement. Last night Rob and I went down to the plantation to tear it up with the folks for a night: salsa style. I can’t get over the people here. Some of the videos I have from last night are caricatures of hilarity. We stood out on the basketball court, surrounded by ticos, teaching them to shotgun. Every few minutes Wenceslao would ask us if it was time to shotgun yet. The ladies really wanted Rob and I to salsa, and there was no way we were salsaing with salsa experts without a little liquid courage in us. The Pilsen flowed like water and we were dragged onto the floor by Paola and Margarita, wives of Olger and Wenceslao, respectively. I had the absolute time of my life pretending I knew how to salsa, and I daresay that to the untrained Canadian eye it probably looks like I do. People kept handing us beers and the night flipped into fast forward as the room spun around us. All I could see were smiles in the blinking lights and the bass in my gut – they could hear the jungle rocking all the way up to Pacuarito where rob lives. There comes a point in nights like this where you don’t notice the language barrier anymore. After stumbling the crooked mile home down the railroad tracks rob and I gingerly kept to ourselves as we shuffled past some seedy gangsters out on the path. We passed out in our beds. . . or at least I think that’s what happened. Truth be told I woke up on the floor with my head on my backpack. .. not sure how that happened. Today we went down to the plantation when we were good and ready, rob puking every few minutes in the costa Rican humidity. Margarita kindly made up some beans and rice for me while rob passed and we talked awhile. I gave the two families a CD with some pictures from Canada and from my blog. Rob dropped off some Maple Syrup. I gave Wence and Margarita some Canadian coins as a souvenir, along with my Spanish-english dictionary with a little inscription thanking them for their hospitality. It couldn’t approach what I got from Wence. I’d commented one day on his bad ass machete sheath and he said he’d get me one. Today he presented me with a machete in a beautiful ornate leather sheath, hand cut and stitched with a pocket on it for a pocket knife and another for a cell phone. What a sign of the times. The gift is absolutely priceless to me and I will never forget these last two weeks. Time to pack out.

Pura Vida