Blog Sugar Sex Magik -- The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 7

“This whole world’s Wild at heart and Weird on top.”
~~ Laura Dern, ‘Wild At Heart’




“Last night was the Weirdest night of my life,” she said.

I concurred. Friday night was Wild and Weird. This is usually my favorite combination, but that night put my Allegiance to Anarchy to the test. It wasn’t Weird like everyone got drunk, naked and had an orgy. But it was damn close, and very Weird anyway. No matter. What happens in Costa Rica stays in Costa Rica. Unless, of course, you are a Writer, and the Internet is your medium.

Pura Vida.



We made camp by a river, insects be damned. Our Base was next to a gorgeous open-air restaurant/bar. It was barn-sized: two stories tall, though they only served on ground level. The rest of building was wide open, all the way to the rafters, which were thatched with palm fronds to create a stunning rooftop. The cement floor was covered with hand-carved wooden tables and stools. The bar itself was gorgeous hardtop, probably teak. The kitchen was set behind the bar, and everything was open and airy, giving the place a festive feel.

We were served a delicious dinner – the best food any of us had eaten in a week. Beers were only $1, and soon a party was in full swing, courtesy of bad reggae music pumped from a stereo shelf system above the bar.

I was careful to keep my drinking in check; the last thing I needed was a repeat of the Rum Incident. Fortunately for me, someone else had already bought the last bottle of rum in the joint. But that disappeared quickly, and the girls wanted drinks. They didn't like beer, but this was a party, dammit. I bargained with the staff for nearly an hour, trying to get more liquor.

Finally, they ran of beer as well. This was no good, so some of the staff left to get us more. They probably went to a local bar, and rumor was they also hit up their own liquor stashes to help us out. They returned with cases of beer, plus a few bottles of rancid vodka and a single bottle of rum. I’d pestered them so much they specifically sold the rum to me. For two dollars more than the damn thing was worth.

No matter. This was the Jungle, and the Savage brutes around me would have paid twice that for the bottle. The fools should have auctioned it off. After all, He Who Has The Alcohol Has The Women. This is the Law of the Jungle. I bought an overpriced chaser and cracked the bottle open. We drank deep.

Rum is a vile drink, and when it is present, things get Weird. That’s exactly what happened this night. The rum was passed around the room, with everyone taking 2-3 shots of it. One of our Team Disco Flask members had to chase the bottle down so we could finish it. Carney pounded it, and then it was passed again. Before we knew it, the rum was gone. We drank nearly 250 beers that night, plus two bottles of rum, a half-dozen small bottles of vodka, Smirnoffs, and anything else they had left.

Pura Vida.

We became dancing fiends. Tables were shoved against the walls. One of them broke; another was tossed into a bush. Several dance circles opened around the room. Everyone was rocking and bumping and swinging and pulsing to the sweet sounds of 70s reggae. There was lightning, but most people didn’t notice. I found my girl, and motioned toward the tents. We opted for hers – it was bigger – and had a party of our own. The disco ball was gone – packed somewhere deep in her bag.

No matter. It was crazy in there. Outside we could hear the party raging. The music nearly drowned out the obnoxious sirens of the cicadas in the trees. Loudest damn bugs I’ve ever heard. We could see silhouettes of people magnified against our tent. At one point, someone approached the tent, put their hands on the zipper, and then left again. It was surreal with those shadowy monsters looming all around us. We dozed periodically, and at one point we vaguely registered that it was raining. We passed out again, only to awaken in a freezing puddle of water. Her entire tent was soaked and getting wetter by the second.

“This tent is no ark!” I told her. “We have to get out of here, dammit!”

We sloshed around, searching for our clothes. She found most of hers, but all I had were my pants. My boxers, belt and shirt were nowhere to be found. We flipped up the sleeping mats and felt all around the tent, but they were gone.

Outside the tent it was even colder, and I knew I needed a shirt if I was going to survive this night. I turned to my own tent. Carney was in there, the Mad Bastard, with a girl.

“Carney!” I muttered in a drunken stage whisper. “Carney, you Mad Bastard, let me in!”

There was the scrambling of skin against vinyl. Carney poked his head out.

“I’m busy in here!” he shouted, loud enough to draw attention from the people scurrying to get stuff out of their tents.

“I need a shirt, dammit! I don’t care what shirt. Any shirt. Just give a shirt.”

I expected him to fumble for a long time looking for a shirt. But he instantly thrust his arm through the zipper hole, handing me my red button-down. I turned away, and began buttoning with astonishing accuracy. I thought Carney would disappear back inside the tent, but I was wrong. Au contraire, pardon my French.

“Dude!" he barked.

I turned around. His face was red, his eyes crazed with Rum. He looked like the Mountain Man guide who had come down to join our party. His face was Serious, the way drunks are serious when they are about to tell you they have to piss, like a determined confessional. He enunciated his words with careful precision, wild eyes scanning for possible spies.

“There is NO ROOM in this tent for you,” he said. “Understand me? There is NO ROOM in this tent for you.”

“I understand,” I assured him. “I only needed the shirt.”

I turned back toward the restaurant. My friend managed to grab her sleeping mat, and we squished across the muddy ground to the restaurant. The music had been turned off, and the Masses were huddled together near the bar or around the tables.

We were Thirsty. Obscene amounts of alcohol have this effect. The owners had left, but the kitchen was wide open, so there was a mad scramble over the counter for water and juice. I was too tired to vault over the bar, but the girl managed to snag two bottles for us.

We drank.

Refreshing.

“Nobody’s looking at the lightning,” she said.

What the hell was she saying? Maybe it wasn’t her at all. Maybe it was the Rum.

“What?!” I asked, hoping she’d actually spoken.

“Nobody’s looking at the lightning. It’s so beautiful. I want to see the lightning.”

“Dammit, woman! It’s a Jungle out there!”

That was both literal and figurative. We were in Camp Chaos, our own private version of Sin City. People were running half naked through the Camp, desperately looking for dry clothes and trying to save their electronic equipment. The last thing I wanted was to stand in the middle of that frenzy, waiting to be struck by lightning. I looked at her to tell her that.

She’s beautiful.

“Ok,” I said. “Let’s get our stuff together, then we’ll go look at the lightning.”

Pura Vida.

We went outside, and stood watching the stormy sky. I stood behind her, and she leaned back in my arms. But the rain was coming down hard, and the lightning was further away than we’d thought. She lost interest soon enough.

“Let’s go to bed,” she suggested.

Good idea.

One problem: her sleeping mat was barely big enough for one person. I looked around to survey the scene. People were sleeping everywhere: on mats on the concrete, stretched out on the few wooden benches around the edges, even curled up on the tiny tables. And there was NO ROOM in my tent. There was nowhere left but the floor.

I turned back to my friend, resigned to inform her I'd have to find some other spot. To my amazement, she produced a fluffy white sheet from her bag. I was sobering up by that point, but that sheet still looked like a Dream Cloud compared to the concrete floor. I was so happy I could have kissed her. Did, in fact.

She spread the blanket next to the mat. I stretched out on my back. She was beside me, but the rain was pouring and someone turned the music back on (softer, this time) and it was cold. The girl got up again, and I missed her, but I was too tired to work out what she was doing.

When she returned, she had a CD player in her hand, with ear buds attached to it.

Shit, I thought.

Women and music and I tend to mix poorly. Torture was imminent. What would it be? Alanis Morissette’s Most Vile Hits? The Sleepless In Seattle Soundtrack? Her own 80’s mix, with Boyz II Men thrown in, because, like, they were totally her favorite band in junior high?

She unravels the headphones and offers me one. This is going to Hurt.



“Do you want to listen to the Beatles?” she asked.

My jaw made an audible CRACK when it hit the cement.

“It’s Abbey Road.”

I was lying on a cloud, and the angel next to me sprouted wings. In that brief moment, she became something more important than a simple crush. I loved her, just a little. Maybe I’ve loved all my crushes a little. Maybe we all do.

I put the bud in my ear, and was instantly lost in those glorious bass riffs, those transcendent harmonies. She pulls me against her, and my feelings are simplistic, like those of an infant: happy, warm, asleep.

Pura Vida.

Sketch E.