I Fought The Blog ... , The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 9

“He sees the sign and hollow sky
He sees the stars come out tonight
He sees the city's ripped backsides
He sees the winding ocean drive
And everything was made for you and me”
~~ Iggy Pop, 'The Passenger'



“Now it’s dark.”
~~ Dennis Hopper, Blue Velvet




I suspected San Jose was Savage before, and I’m certain of it now. It is Maundy Thursday, and in a country that is roughly one million percent Catholic, this means no alcohol. That ruins my game plan: to relax and slowly get drunk. Drunk enough to forget I am trapped in this pisshole of a city. But the bars and restaurants and convenient stores are all closed for the entire weekend, and I am stuck sober and lonely.

Mal Suerte. Bad Luck.

In a fit of boredom, I wander the streets – unwise in a strange city in the dark. San Jose is not a friendly city; it is unlike the rest of Costa Rica. A glance at the street is all it takes to make a visitor want to go home. Iron bars block off the windows and doors. The street is dirty, filled with garbage and rank puddles of water. Stone sculptures that might have been beautiful once are now marred by sloppy graffiti.

Worst of all are the drivers. Rumor has it that San Jose has the highest auto-related mortality rate of any city in Central America. Costa Rica is listed among the 10 worst countries in the world to drive in. And auto accidents are the 7th leading cause of death in this country. These people drive like gorillas on a crack binge. Most streets poorly indicate traffic patterns, and drivers openly ignore red lights, stop signs and pedestrians.

But this is a Holiday. There is little traffic tonight. I randomly pick a direction away from my hostel and sally forth.

I am a block away when a crazed Nicaraguan pulls me aside to offer me drugs. Nicaraguans are not welcome in Costa Rica, not even in San Jose. Men like this one do nothing to ease racial tensions. I decline, but the Drug Dealers are as persistent as the taxi drivers. They are bastard vultures. You have to give them an emphatic no and swat them away. Showing confusion, or even saying “no thanks” is the equivalent of a deep and bloody cut in shark-infested waters. Predators sense your weakness, and begin to circle. I push a small coin into the man’s hand to get rid of him.

Around the next corner, I gain the attention of a prostitute. She hisses at me. She is a cat, a pussy, with huge tits. I shrug her off, and she follows me for a block before getting the hint.

What sort of fucked up city is this, where access to Sex and Drugs is easier than booze? It is enough to fracture the fragile human mind; to cause memories to bleed internally, seeping down the skull and into consciousness, tainting thoughts with shades of Violent and Dark.

The streets are too crazy even for me tonight. I return to the hostel, and the scene there is equally bizarre. It is FILLED with people, all yearning for action but knowing there is none to be found. A group in the TV lounge is watching a Hallmark movie. Sad.

I find a bean bag in the ‘smokers lounge,’ which is in the lobby area, directly across from the desk. The room is painted to reflect the Jungle – green plants on the walls and Weird animals staring out at me. A pillar in the center of the room is made up like a tree trunk, complete with owl. Branches spread across the ceiling, and become engulfed with the flaming glow of daylight. This ends abruptly in an outline of a crescent moon, with stars and clouds filling the rest of the ceiling. It is a good mural, tastefully done despite the creepy Technicolor monkey adorning the desk.

I share stories with the people at the hostel. One couple stayed on the beach next to mine, with a family that ran Jet Ski tours out of Manuel Antonio. The couple went out on their boat every day, and camped on the beach every night. Another couple traveled around the entire country on their spring break. They rented motorbikes to get around, and showed me the scars of their wrecks. I vow to learn to ride a bike this summer.

Two people have had their passports stolen. They had intended to leave Costa Rica this weekend, but they won’t be able to, because the U.S. Embassy is closed due to the holiday. They are stranded in San Jose, with no buses running and not a drop of alcohol. Fortunately, they’ll have hookers and drugs.

I am falling in love with the hostel scene. Everyone has a story, and a fascinating life. I have yet to meet someone studying accounting or Real Estate Law. These people are bartenders, musicians, doctors, public health experts. My story: journalist, businessman. This is Wild and Weird in Columbus, but it is hardly worth mentioning in any hostel in the world.

Most interesting are the older crowd. These are people over the age of 40 who are experiencing the thrill of youth by traveling via the hostel scene. A woman here, easily in her 60s, has dreadlocks down to her ankles. She has been cultivating this masterpiece for 14 years. She loves Eminem and the American hip-hop scene. Everyone knows her by name.

Hostels are exciting and adventurous. The people are friendly and interesting. But there is something sad about them as well. These are Lost Souls, scraping cash together to pay for a clean bed each night. They have given up the value of privacy – not that they mind – for a chance to see the world.

But why?

My reasons are clear. I am a Reporter, and the World is my Field. I am here to do business, and verbally capture the scene while I’m at it. You can’t travel without personal growth, and I relish that as well.

But what drives the others? What makes bartenders and musicians and doctors leave the comforts of their world and seek this Wild and Weird environment?

I ask them what brings them to Costa Rica, and answers are vague. They are On Vacation, or Spring Break or Holiday. Most are here because they are traveling through Central America on the way to South America.

Some offer blunt answers. The motorcycle couple made a drunken pact one night, then followed through with it. Others are meeting family members or heard the camping is good.

But surely there are better places to camp in the world. Surely there are more convenient places to meet with family. I’m told there are better places to see the Caribbean and I know for a fact there are better cities than San Jose.

These people have come here looking for something, and I wonder if Costa Rica will provide it. Most likely it will not, and they will move on: Nicaragua, Grenada, Mexico. Or South, to Panama, Columbia and the rest of South America.

When does it end? When do the Lost Souls find themselves? When does this deep soul searching produce results? Most go home when their tickets tell them to. Others when they run out of cash. I’ve yet to meet someone who has found what they came for, and are going home satisfied.

This is not the condition of the typical eco-tourist. They stay in the swanky hotels. They come with plans, an Itinerary. Successful completion of the Itinerary means money and time well spent.

This lost searching is the sole function of the campsites and hostels of the world. It is the plight of the traveler, the yearning dreams of the Poor and the Lost. This is the road of the erratic Wanderer, and I wish someday to follow it. For now, I soak in the thin wisps of hope and discovery that are left in the wake of those who carried them here.

San Jose has become the Fiendish culmination of this lifestyle. A dead city, barred to the world outside, yet visited by millions each year. I’m told every major city in Latin America has a pulse, a unique feel. This is not true of San Jose. There is no heartbeat to this city – the dead have no pulse. It is simply a soulless mesh of cars and bad drivers and tourists and buildings. If a heartbeat does exist, it exists as the thrum of the Wanderers, moving in and out in a mindless shuffle, searching for an unknown cause.

Pura Vida?

Not in San Jose.

~ Sketch E.