Monday, April 11, 2005

Istanblog (Not Blogstantinople) -- The Costa Rica Diaries, Volume 10, Final Edition





“I had a flash of something I hadn’t felt since my first months in Europe – a mixture of ignorance and a loose, ‘what the hell’ kind of confidence that comes on a man when the wind picks up and he begins to move in a hard straight line toward an unknown horizon.”
~~ Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary




Aside: Prelude To A Finale

Know this fact: my trip to Costa Rica changed the course of my life.

If you haven’t gathered this from the previous entries, you are Dense, and should seek professional help, or at least eliminate your reproductive parts to spare our gene pool the incompetence of your posterity. I suggest popping a couple Vicodin and performing the surgery yourself; it’s much cheaper that way.

Anyway, romantic hyperbole aside, I am not drastically different. Just, different. But I’ve never been abroad without feeling altered on some fundamental level of my personality. My trip to England gave me my entire philosophy on life (future blog?). Australia refreshed my optimism, reinvigorated my enthusiasm for all things Nature. The changes from Costa Rica are much more subtle and complex. It’s the difference between enjoying wine and becoming a connoisseur: the basic appreciation is already in place – I can now enjoy the texture and flavor and color of my travels.

My challenge then, in this final blog on Costa Rica, is to convey the subtle alterations to my moral fabric. Each previous story was a step toward this final entry; a footprint of a journey through my two-week Jungle of memories, my fingers a textual machete, clearing a path for readers to follow. And now, at the end of the Rhetoric Rope, at the peak of Prose Mountain, as we hang from the highest limbs of the Treatise Tops, let us look back, reflect, and trace the solo path that starts with one man and ends with another.



For emphasis – sparkles and shiny bits – and mostly because I can’t help myself – I’ve decided to inject song quotes throughout this piece – not just any song, a very particular song -- “On Mercury” by The Red Hot Chili Peppers -- which I believe mystically found its way into my heart on this trip – I don’t generally buy into mysticism, but this song sums up my attitudes so perfectly it has become a sort of anthem from the music gods – who, by the way, are my favorite gods – if there are multiple gods and one or more of those gods are music gods and you truly are omniscient and thus are reading this blog you are doing a fantastic job of providing a soundtrack to my Wild life – or maybe it’s just some sort of muse, but that’s pretty sweet too – muses are like mystical ninjas – anyway let’s get this show moving along – my point really is that if you wanted to skip the whole damn blog and just listen to that song, go ahead and do that instead -- it’s wonderful and the Chili Peppers are wonderful and deserve your attention more than me. Rock.




“Memories of everything
Of lemon trees on Mercury
Come to me with remedies
From five or six of seven seas”


I am sitting on the balcony of my personal cabin at the Posada Quepoa. It is raining. The river, which ran clear my first few days, now looks like the chocolate river in Wonka’s factory. I lean back in my rocking chair and think about my trip and listen to the water.

This is not the soothing random of a babbling brook. This is the Rio Naranjo, and it sounds like a wave forever breaking. The roar is at first unsettling, but eventually you tune it out. Then the sound is as constant and dependable as the hum in your refrigerator – you have to be in the right state of groggy awareness to notice it.

It’s as if we arrived on the very threshold of the rainy season; as if the week that subtly gave us new perspective on a foreign land carried us over that threshold; as if we drank from the last fermented coconuts the beach will have for many months; as if the dry season has migrated for the winter, and the rainy season simply fills the void.

It is peaceful, writing in the rain. I sip juice from a plastic mug and think about endings and beginnings and adventures. Nostalgia seeps in. Nostalgia before I even left the country. Nostalgia for this place and the people I’ve grown to know and care about, and the people who’ve cared for me. They have contributed to some enormous change, a spark of mental motors that feels enormous to me, but which the world may never know …




“I’ve got myself
In a masochistic hold
Why don’t you let go?”


When I left for Costa Rica, things were pretty stale. My problem is unlike the problem of most Twixters. It’s not that I have no direction, it’s that I have too many directions. For example, I would enjoy the following careers, in no particular order:

- writer
- journalist
- veterinarian
- environmentalist
- biologist
- rock-and-roll star and/or musician
- award-winning documentary filmmaker; award-winning fictional filmmaker; any sort of filmmaker with a cult following
- inventor
- chauffer
- chef
- astronaut
- stand-up comic
- teacher
- ninja
- eccentric millionaire

- civil rights activist
- underwear model
- participant/patron of something akin to Warhol’s Factory
- public health official
- Gandhi
- owner of rock club
- syndicated columnist
- Vegas card dealer
- diplomat
- psychologist
- FBI profiler
- Broadway actor
- magazine editor
- fire engine



You will note this is all too much for one man to do in one lifetime. Also note that I am too out-of-shape to be a ninja, astronaut, or special agent for the FBI. Also note ‘video store clerk’ is not on this list. It was on my list, until I actually became a video store clerk, and dealt with so many morons that I quit that job and promised I’d never find myself so desperate again. I crossed it off my list.




“Shake it up
Just to redirect my flow
Come on, let’s go”



It was time to get out of Columbus, out of Ohio, out of the U.S. and into the Jungle. And since Carney and I were starting a non-profit business raising money for a group in Costa Rica, it seemed the obvious choice.

Costa Rica was intimidating for a variety of reasons. Ticos speak Spanish, haggle prices, practice Catholicism – all foreign concepts to me. Furthermore, I’d never been camping. And this wasn’t just driving M & P’s SUV out to the lake and pitching a tent thirty feet away from it for the weekend. This was Hardcore camping – we had no idea we had running water prior to our arrival. We were literally on the far edge of the Jungle – the nearest ‘civilization’ was a few miles away, and the first town was many miles further than that. Not to mention I only knew two of the people going on this trip. One a dear friend, the other barely an acquaintance.

But as I said in my first entry to the Costa Rica Diaries, sometimes it’s necessary to do an unapologetic cannonball into a new scenario; immersing yourself in a foreign situation forces you to gain a new perspective. Costa Rica was perfect to get me out of the rut.

Lucky for me, I thrive in new environments. My style is, for many people, Unsettling. Those comfortable in their niche are often intimidated by me, because I love awkwardness. It is one of the tricks one can use to discover the true nature of people. When a person is ill at ease, he or she can’t just put on their game face and be chill – they have to deal with things in a way that is natural. Some panic, others become aggressive, others just shrug and go with the flow. This is how a New Scene works – and it doesn’t have to be the Jungle to be troubling. In a new situation, everyone is uncertain, nervous. A person like me, who is completely comfortable in an uncomfortable environment becomes an enigma. People want to share in my relaxed attitude, and this gives me confidence.




“We don’t stop rock around the clock
Motor mouthing off
In front of every other roadblock”



Fortunately for me, these students were My Type (but then, who isn’t?). They were Adventurers, Extroverts, and they certainly knew a lot more about camping than I did. They welcomed me into their group – I ate and worked and partied with them. In fact, many of them were confused – even at the end of the week – that I was not from USC. These people Don’t Panic. They go with the flow.

This is essential on a trip such as this. When you uproot 38 students from their American city homes and thrust them into a Savage Jungle, you can expect that things will Go Wrong. And they did. A Government Conspiracy held a girl in L.A., we got lost on a fucking school bus, Carney stepped on a rusty nail. People who Panic are not welcome in situations like these.

And unforeseen disasters are part of what changes people in a foreign environment. You cannot predict these events. You must learn to deal with them. When you return home, dirty and smelly and Alive, the petty concerns of your usual life are easier to manage. For example, my empty bank account is not nearly as terrifying as the thought of a school bus crashing through a rickety bridge and dumping its occupants into a Jungle Swamp.




“Come again and tell me
What you’re going through
Like a girl who only knew
Her child was due”


Nothing is more important for cultural experience than communicating with the locals. Indeed, had I spent a mere week partying with American college kids on their spring break, it would have been an entirely different encounter. Fortunately, between our scheduled program and my own adventurous endeavors, I learned quite a bit about Costa Rica from residents. In many ways, the Tico perspective of the country is quite different than the American one. In other ways, it’s quite similar. Here are three examples:


1. We sold organic, free trade, shade-grown coffee as a fundraiser for the trip (if you don’t know what these words mean, ask me). The coffee was purchased from a co-op, and on the trip we actually got to meet one of the farmers. This was important; we didn’t just buy coffee from some farmer in Costa Rica. I know a farmer we bought coffee from in Costa Rica. He approached our bus thanking us; it was his first organic yield, and we’d purchased the equivalent of an entire farm’s worth of coffee – just in time for Christmas. He explained to us the importance of organic coffee, and described the environmental impact inorganic fertilizers can have on both his community and the surrounding environment. This is Important to him, and by association became more important to me. This wasn’t America. He was not trying to push his product on us, or sell us on an idea. This is not a corporation telling us organic coffee defines us as a person, or a bureaucratic health administration telling us it’s good for us (didn’t They say that about milk?). This is just a humble farmer, telling us how it is.


2. When I stayed at the Posada Quepoa, the Argentinean family who runs the retreat adopted me as a family member. This is quite different than being a guest. I was not invited to participate; I was expected to join. It’s amazing to have a close bond to people you hardly know, people who don’t even speak the same language as you. One day, they took me to the beach at Manuel Antonio, a notoriously touristy beach.

“Isn’t this amazing?” they asked me.

Remember, I’d just spent a week on a private beach with hardly a trace of human development. Now I was looking at a beach littered with bars, cars and Loud Americans.

“It’s great!” I said, feigning enthusiasm.

Later, the mother pulled me aside and told me a bit about the beach’s history.

“It used to be my private paradise,” she told me. “15-20 years ago, Manuel Antonio was like Playa Rey. Now it is crowded. I miss my paradise.”

She told me the beach was once almost strictly visited by Costa Ricans, with a single bar (still operating today). But now it is overrun with American tourists, and the once pristine Jungle surrounding the beach has been torn out to make room for hotels and bars. This is the deep hypocrisy of ecotourism in Costa Rica. People go to experience the land, but the land is being slowly washed away in the sea of Imperial development.


3. It is almost as difficult to justify my own presence in Costa Rica. One night, the youngest son in the family asked the sort of question typical of children, innocent and earnest and blunt:

“Why would you pay to work?” he asked me.

I laughed.

“Buena pregunta.” I told him. Good question.

His mom had to help me translate, and he is too young to share her understanding of the ravaging of Manuel Antonio. But I think my point was clear enough.

“You know how Manuel Antonio was once very clean? And now it is polluted? Well, my friends and I recognize the harm tourism can cause. We pay to come and visit your country, but we work to keep it beautiful.”

He seemed satisfied.




"Sit up straight
I'm on a double date
I've got to find my way
Into the light, heavy middle weight"



The Argentineans were not the only ones who took care of me. The restaurant’s chef – a 19-year-old culinary wizard -- called me ‘hombre secreto,’ or secret brother, roughly. He spoke no English at all, but that did not stop us from communicating. Between my broken Spanish and our staggering miming abilities, we usually got our message across. If not, we’d just say, “Pura Vida” and leave it at that. The language barrier is not enough to stop a bond from developing.

These bonds are important. As much as I love awkwardness, it is Unfair to make someone uncomfortable when they are offering such hospitality. I have Friends in Costa Rica, secret brothers who would care for me if I needed it. Achieving this bond is a delicate balance, finding a middle road between ignoring those who are being generous and overextending one's welcome. But once this bond is in place, it is Strong, and not easily broken. It is a reminder to celebrate common decency and respect for human beings, including their cultures.




“You always took me with a smile
When I was down …”


And then, of course, there was the girl. It had been awhile for me. Not long like, “Gasp! I can’t believe it hasn’t fallen off from lack of use” long, but long enough. And suddenly she was there, and we formed a bond stronger than a mere sexual one. Not strong like Ethan Hawke / Julie Delpy Before Sunrise strong, but strong enough.




“Looking up into
A reverse vertigo
What an undertow”



No, that’s not a reference to my head-spinning rum overdose. This is, for me, a representation of finding your situation spinning wildly out of your control.

Anarchy: it does a body good.

I did my best to describe what it’s like to stand on a foreign beach in a Savage Jungle and stare at an ocean that glows even without moonlight. But words are no substitute for Experience. So fuck this blog. Leave your house. Get on a plane. Fly to Costa Rica. Take a bus to Manuel Antonio. Sneak onto Play Rey one night. It isn’t hard, but be wary – the rangers carry guns.

Stand on that beach, look at the stars, admire the fireflies, consider the utterly incomprehensible magnitude of the sky and the sea and the Jungle. This will Scare you. And then you will understand our awe.

Or maybe not. Maybe you don’t want to feel what I felt. Maybe you want your own experiences, dammit. And if that’s the case, I applaud you. Fuck this blog. Leave your house. Get on a plane to anywhere, and tell me the stories when you get back. I will never see or experience everything in this world, although I would consider that a noble goal. I must, to some extent, live vicariously through the people I know. Tell me your stories, whether they be relationship problems or drunken madness or travel tales or pure innocence. I’m a writer. I’m a junkie for anecdotes; I’ve a fetish for stories. Everyone has one. I’ve told you mine. What’s yours?



“Memories of everything
That blew through.”




Pura Vida.

~ Sketch E.


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