Blogs Over Baghdad -- The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 3

“I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen better men than you think they could handle the drink and end up in the gutter with a bottle of fortified wine.”
~~ Iain Banks, The Wasp Factory



“You could plan a pretty picnic but you can’t predict the weather.”
~~ Outkast, 'Ms. Jackson'

Some days are so intoxicatingly perfect they can’t help but make a good story.

Others are such spectacular disasters they make an even better story. This one is the latter.

When we awoke in the morning, we marveled again at our brilliant bit of paradise. We were next to a cabin that offered us a place to store our food, and it also had bunks for the guides to sleep on. It had a carport, in which we set up a long table for cooking. It also had a toilet, which was broken more often than not, and an outdoor shower, which worked less frequently than desired but managed to keep us on the edge of acceptable hygiene.

After breakfast, there was a mass exodus of tents. Everyone wanted:

a) a spot in the shade and

b) a spot near the ocean.

Carney and I pitched our tent under some coconut trees, and made sure the door faced the ocean. Then Carney disappeared with Matt, still in search of food for us. I was left wondering what to do with myself.

“I can’t decide what to do,” a voice behind me said.

“Are you my conscience?” I asked, turning around.

It wasn’t. It was actually one of my group members – the one we’d left behind the previous evening. And she was beautiful. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tall. I could tell instantly this girl had my type of personality for a fling: sweet and sassy by day, fiendish alcoholic by night. Perfect.

“Listen,” I said. “I feel really bad about last night.”

“It’s ok, I just wondered where everyone went,” she said.

“Well, we were trying to walk to the peninsula down there, but we didn’t make. What do you say you and I give it a try now?”

Smooth.

We walked down the beach, chatting idly.

“I’m glad you asked me to walk, or I’d have sat around for hours trying to decide what to do,” she told me.

I was glad I asked her, too, but I didn’t say so. This is not how The Game works. I have always claimed to know how to play, despite my apparent social ineptness. I just choose not to.

Most of the time.

The peninsula seemed much further away in the day, but we went for it anyway. In reality, the damn thing was miles off, and it would have taken us a half day’s hike to reach it. We were not willing to make that sort of commitment.

The Costa Rican sun in Intense, and we were halfway through my Nalgene when we stopped to rest in the shade. This girl is easy to talk to, and we were both perfectly relaxed in our shady patch, though still very hot.

“Let’s go for a swim!” she yelled, casting off her sarong and racing over the scorching sand for the water.

I didn’t have my swimsuit, but damned if I was going to sit on the beach while she swam. I stripped to my boxers and jumped in.

This was a Beautiful Moment. We were alone in the warm Pacific water under a cloudless blue sky. It was a Good Time, a time of calm and peace. This is the sort of place I might imagine myself while sitting through a boring lecture or a violent plane crash.

We agreed we’d made an epic effort to reach the peninsula, congratulated one another and headed back to base camp. We killed the afternoon waiting for Carney and Matt to return with food, which they finally did, in time for dinner. Our guides made the mistake of telling us there was a river a short distance in the opposite direction from the peninsula. We were warned not to bathe in the river, because it was infested with crocodiles. Naturally, everyone in the camp ran to the river as soon as we finished eating. The girl and I walked right to the edge of the river, getting mauled by mosquitoes in the process, but never did see any crocodiles.

We did, however, catch a spectacular sunset on the way back to camp, which set a romantic tone for the evening. Back at base we sat with Carney and another one of our group members. Carney and I told stories about our high school days to amuse everyone, and gradually the group broke up.

Me: Got any plans for tonight?

Girl: No, do you?

Me: Actually, I do.

Girl: Oh?

Me: I’m gonna go sit on that beach, with my bottle of rum, and drink, and look at the ocean and the stars. That’s my plan for tonight. Care to join me?

Girl: That sounds amazing.

I told you I’m smooth.

Aside: The Rum Story.

Originally, we were not allowed to have alcohol in the park. This rule eventually changed, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way. We were not about to be disempowered by silly rules. We’d had a long day. We were about to do a week’s worth of hard work. We were changing the world for the better. We deserved a drink, dammit.

When we changed buses in Quepos, there was a mad scramble to a small grocery store next to the bus station. The Fools bought beer. One beer. A beverage best served cold. We were headed to a beach were we’d be lucky to have running water. Certainly there would be no refrigerator. A beer is a Silly purchase, and here is why:

a) He Who Has The Alcohol Has The Women

b) one beer is not enough to share

c) beer is no good warm

This is why choosing beer is Wrong. A proper choice requires a drink everyone can share, as well as one which requires no refrigeration. Alcohol is cheap in Costa Rica, so no reason to skimp.

Though we were on the West Coast, Costa Rica still has a Caribbean feel. Rum is the best choice, and I got the last decent bottle in the entire store. Other men who knew the secret were jealous, and had to settle for a tiny bottle of bad rum or vodka. I picked up a bottle of juice for a mixer, and returned to the bus.

We now returned you to your regularly scheduled disaster.

I grabbed my rum and juice and we headed down to the beach. When we’d reached a deserted area, she spread out her sarong. We leaned against each other and cracked open the bottle. We talked, and had a contest to find shooting stars, and drank a little. Conversation topic: our state of being before the trip. I told her about quitting my job, and Colin visiting and Hunter Thompson dying. I *cough* mentioned that I’d written an obituary about HST (rum makes you babble), and she seemed really interested.

“Tell me what you wrote, verbatim,” she said.

Holy shit. Did this girl ever date a writer? How did she know EXACTLY what to say? Is the feminine instinct that strong?

Anyway, I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m an egomaniac and this poor girl opened the flood gates upon herself. What writer wouldn’t want to talk for hours about his or her work?

Little do you know, I have some sense of proportion and self-control. At least, at that point I still did. You just never see these qualities because you are my Friends and are therefore obligated to listen to my nonsense ramblings.

Anyway, I summed the story up quickly, then drank some more.

We began making out, in an idle sort of way. Make out, look at the stars, talk, drink more, look at the waves, repeat. It was lining up to be the perfect night: sexy girl, starry sky, bottle of rum. The rainforest at our heads, ocean at our feet, complete with glow-in-the-dark waves.

She took one last swig of rum, chased it with the juice and told me she was done. I was not. Rum is delicious, dammit. But she was finished, so I opted to drink my fill right away, so I could get rid of the bottle.

*chug chug chug chug chug*

I capped the bottle and put it far out of arm’s reach. We needed room.

We kissed, then made out some more. I was calm and relaxed. I’d spent the whole day with this girl, and it looked like I was going to spend the night with her as well.

And then, just as things were getting really interesting, the rum kicked in. I’ve never experienced such a maddening sensation. I went from sober to wasted in 2.5 seconds. The beach spun wildly, as if I was on some crazy carnival ride that broke free of its moorings and was hurtling through the air.

I rolled off of her and stretched out on the sarong, trying to steady myself. It broke the rhythm, but the girl took it in stride. She snuggled closer.

“I could sleep here,” she sighed.

That’s a fantastic idea! I thought.

Then aloud:

“That’s a fantastic idea!” I said, and started to snooze.

Imagine her confusion. This was a perfect night! Everything was going so smoothly, then this kid just rolls off and goes to sleep. Perplexed, she shook me a bit.

“I didn’t mean right now” she said.

The shaking was too much for me. I promptly sat up and vomited all over the beach. I managed to miss her sarong, but that’s about the only positive thing that happened the rest of the night. I vomited violently several times, as she sweetly patted my back and talked to me. I was so exhausted afterward, I collapsed in the sand. The girl tried to get me up, but I was too weak, too dizzy.

So she calmly sat beside me, talking to me in a low voice, assuring me I hadn’t ruined everything between us. We both knew this was bullshit, but it was nice of her to say it anyway. Once in awhile, she suggested we move. The poor girl just wanted to get back to bed. But I flatly refused each time.

Eventually, it started to sprinkle. She leaned over me.

“Ok, Trevor. We don’t have to move just yet. But it’s starting to rain, so you should move soon.”

“Ok,” I mumbled, getting a mouthful of sand in the process.

“I’m serious – I’m not sitting out here with you if it rains.”

The thought of spending the night in the sand, in the rain, alone, was enough to motivate me. She grabbed the rum bottle – there was less than a shot in it – I’d drank 2/3 of the bottle by myself – hooray for me! – and I stumbled to my tent. I was covered in sand (to Carney’s dismay). I was done with the beach, done with that day, and done with that wretched drink, at least for awhile.

My tent rocked, threatened to spin, then collapsed into blackness.

Pura Vida.

~ Sketch E.