Bored women, guns, and the company that owns you; in Costa Rica.

I walked up to the harbor in Paquera, Costa Rica, unexpectedly up to my dripping armpits in happy-grumpy-sweaty white people. Most had rented cars, but a few backpackers were sprinkled in, though somehow none had been on the bus. Gringos panted in their cars, feet on the dash, or sprawled under awnings emblazoned with (surprise surprise) Coke ads.

It was Where's Waldo to find one,
but here's Fez, Morocco, 2010

If there’s an awning, umbrella, or pavilion on the beach, street, or edge of the desert, it probably has a familiar red logo. When I left Morocco the only words I could write in Arabic were “coca-cola.” Babies in Guatemala were drinking it in their baby bottles, cans littered the riverbanks in the Kathmandu Valley, and were among the few items on the sparse shelves of the grocery store outside Lusaka, Zambia.

That company owns the world, it just hasn't bothered to officially notify you.

Everything smelled of meat, from the never-cleaned restaurant grill to the drips on charcoal fires of the carts outside, but no one was eating in the heat. Cars drove onto the ferry, first disgorging cranky princesses in tube tops, vociferously unhappy about being forced to leave their air-conditioned vehicles.

I remembered the workmen on the bus, smiling in the stifling air, the only shade they'd get during a day spent digging in the dusty fields.

Recorded boarding announcements played first in Spanish, then in English. The woman’s voice was professional, but by the fourth repetition I could hear the undertones of boredom, scorn, and derision in her words.

A different ferry, Lago de Ometepe, Nicaragua;
do we name EVERYTHING after Che Guevara?

She tried not to scold when she said “If you are in the main room, you must have on a shirt. Do not lie down or put your feet on the seats.” I could viscerally feel her desire to add “dumbass” between the two sentences.

Also. “Do not throw food or garbage to the birds. In addition, do not throw food or garbage to the birds.” I wonder how she felt while recording that little gem. Far too tired to correct it, obviously.

I wish I could buy this woman a beer.

For my part, comfortable in the warm shade under a sky that blue, with a land-and-waterscape so beautiful all around and nothing to do but enjoy it, I just sat back, glowing softly inside. Hell, I wish I could buy everyone a beer. Or better yet, an horchata. I mean, a coke! Heh heh, sorry Overlords, I meant a coke. Please don’t liquefy me and sell me in Zambia.

Pelicans in Ecuador, 2012. See no evil, speak no evil...

Pelicans floated in the green water or sat on the weatherworn dock of rough squared timbers, their periodic shits dissolving in white clouds below. An awkward teenage girl balanced a Dora the Explorer doll on the railing and took a picture, glancing frequently at the pack of teenage boys with the gelled mini-mohawks of a generation inspired by Ronaldo. Were they looking?

Behind me a group of American expat retirees discussed fishing, then guns. One guy with an Alabama drawl scorned the Argentinean pistol he was unable to fix.

“The damn thing stopped workin! I opent ’er up and there was ‘bout a thousand little parts in thar. I took ‘em all out, cleaned ’em up and put ’em back in, but I had about five left over! Afore we left I threw the damn thing in the mangroves.”

Costa Rican town, nearish where the
ferry was headed. (Would you prefer
a close-up of a melanoma?)

Another man consoled him. “I got a friend a-coming down soon who’s a-gonna bring me five or six pistols to see. I reckon I’ll bag three or four of ’em, but you’re welcome to come along and take a look at the rest.”

They discussed associates who could probably get rid of a body. “Oh, Pedro? Hell yeah, he could do it.” Then the crustiest one chipped in about his skin problems.

“I git these sores alla time. It’ll start like a mosquito bite, then it’ll git a whole lot worse. See these dry spots?” He pointed a few out, his companions peering through their bifocals. “They’d prolly go away if I stopped diggin at ’em...” I could hear the sound of his dry fingernails rasping across the skin.

Another guy, with a voice like a calm sportscaster (if there is such a thing) responded “Y’oughtta get them looked at. See this here? That’s skin cancer. I gots lots of ‘em.”

Just a typical day on the ferry, teenage boys preening, gun-running expats comparing melanomas, and a backpacker sitting back in the sun enjoying the circus.

Dominical to the border

My hostel's balcony-thing, Costa Ricans
(and I) love the "Pura vida" thing.

The schedule said 10:30, but the bus out of Dominical showed up at 10:00. I had a bus leave early before on this trip, and didn’t want to miss this one, so I went running out of the hostel, shirtless, bag bouncing on my back, for the second time this trip. I gotta stop doing that.

I got to the bus to find the driver behind it, legs splayed wide, taking a gigantic piss. Oops, sorry, I’ll wait. After finishing he sorta peered at me shyly from behind the bus, then told me he didn’t leave until 10:45.

It was already about 213 degrees, so I went back upstairs to the hostel loft to wait. Mr. Driver got back on the bus and took off a fair percentage of his clothing. About 10:55 he honked, I walked sedately down and we left (he was dressed again).

Another long hot bus ride, so crowded it was almost Nicaraguan, with the back of my shirt absolutely soaked with sweat, which made me a tad self conscious when I stood up to give that old lady my seat. Then of course the other old lady who’d been sitting on the aisle next to me wouldn’t move over, so the standing lady couldn’t sit anyway, and we all just stood stupidly in the aisle, even more crushed than before.

Shopping area in Dominical. The Costa Rican flag, the
pride flag, and Bob Marley? My kinda place.

Finally a young mother passed one of her kids over to the seat, though the lass immediately started sobbing “mommie!” and I got to see the irritation bordering on fury of a young mother, looks the same in Spanish as in English. The daughter sat down, sideways, not quite in the seat, and went to sleep,

I stood for an hour or so, pinned between (forgive me my insensitivity, but it’s merely descriptive) a hippo of a woman and the incredibly knotty arm of the ancient spider who wouldn’t move over. I felt crushed between a rock and a squishy place.

Finally a bunch of folks got off and I sat again, now next to a solid young fella with a sort of Costa Rican skater thing going on. A vendor climbed on selling fried somethings out of a bucket and since I was getting mighty hungry I asked how much they were. Surprisingly they were a tad much, and I wanted to save my last bill for the border, so I had to say no.

A second later the skater boy is handing me one, then nodding when I said “oh, thank you, but I don’t have enough.” He bought me one! Oh, skater boy, you beefy sweetheart! Costa Ricans are awesome.

My last Costa Rican beach. Basically unrelated to the
post, but hey, why not?

Just as I couldn’t stay awake anymore we got to Neily, the jumping off point for the Panamanian border, despite its utterly non-Spanish name. From there it was another short busride to Paso Canoas and I found myself walking around the inexplicable chaos of a third world border.

I genuinely do not understand these borders. I am increasingly convinced they are extremely clever, because there is no logical reason why they should be so disorganized. A very clever and experienced mind has designed an arcane system that will maximize opportunity for tourist extortion and enable just the right amount of smuggling. I really think I could have just walked through without talking to anybody if I’d really tried, but that is bound to be a problem later on.

Finally I had my exit stamp from Costa Rica from the little shack well behind where it should be, then walked through the shifting semi trucks to the Panamanian immigration, where the guy told me at impressively inaudible volume that I needed proof of onward travel.

Forgive my French, but I fucking hate this.

A few years ago there was a change in international travel. Some utter dimwit who has never traveled and/or has relatives who work for the airlines, decided that requiring travelers to have a ticket out of the country will stop illegal immigration.

This of course makes no sense whatsoever. If someone wants to stay in a country illegally, ignoring a return ticket will not be much of a challenge. I am not a vengeful or sadistic person, but whatever mid-level bureaucrat came up with this requirement (and you know it was an American) should be taken onstage in a city square and publicly electrocuted.

Not to death, I’m not crazy. Just until my sense of justice is satisfied.

Luckily I printed my ticket from Ecuador to Curacao for later this year (did I tell you I’m going to Curacao?) but unluckily this did not satisfy the expressionless fellow in immigration. He informed me that I had to go buy a return ticket to San Jose, Costa Rica.

I explained that I am not going back to Costa Rica, and that they cannot require proof of onward travel when one cannot travel onward through Panama by normal means. The eastern half of the country belongs to the guerrilla armies and drug traffickers, and cannot be crossed by outsiders. Instead, one must either fly from Panama City to Colombia, or, as I intend to try, go to the coast and try to find a boat sailing for Cartagena and finagle your way onboard.

The success and details of said boat trip are of course dependent on what boats happen to be in the harbor, which precludes advance purchase, which precludes satisfaction of aforementioned ridiculous requirement. I tried to respectfully explain this to the border guy. His logical response “You need to buy a ticket to San Jose.”

For the second time this trip (the first was in Germany) I was tearing my hair out and wanting to punch someone in the jaw over this requirement. Again, whoever made up this requirement was clearly NOT a traveler. The bastard has made vagabonding much more difficult, and deserves a public spanking before the electrocution commences.

We finally found the alternative possibility, proving my financial independence. Apparently they are worried I am going to stay in Panama and take advantage of the luxurious social care network. Apparently they know the state of America’s healthcare system, so realize this is in fact not such a bad idea.

Luckily, a friend warned me in advance of this possibility, and advised me to bring $1000 in traveler’s checks, which I promptly produced and counted for him. “Next time buy a return ticket” and I was through.

Thank fucking god.

(While buying the traveler’s checks the guy at the bank said it was the last month they were selling them. I may have to hold onto these things for the rest of my life…)

Well hello Panama, how you doin'?

Onward to Dominical.

Yup, it got better.

I wasn't quite ready to leave Manuel Antonio, but decided to keep moving south, so I took a bus to Dominical of unknown duration, since I spent nearly the entire ride falling asleep in my seat. I can't seem to stay awake on a bus ride here, although I don't know if it's the smothering warmth or because I was the last person to bed in the hostel last night and first up, and spent a fair amount of the night alternating between airing out my sweaty torso and covering it back up again after scratching the new mosquito bites.

Dominical is one of those peculiar surfer/expatriate enclaves that spring up around the world and confuse the locals terribly. Where do all these young white men come from? How do they spend their entire lives surfing and (apparently) doing abdominal exercises?

There are two streets, one inland a stone's throw where elderly tourists sip fruit smoothies and look bored while waiting for tomorrow's bus onward, while the other street runs along the beach and is where the people move about more often. White street vendors with dreadlocks and board shorts sit at their folding tables and make jewelry out of beads and coconut shell pieces, not deigning to pitch anything to the conformist tourists. Down from them the local vendors add a basketball jersey to the uniform and sell the same T-shirts in every town, and cry out to passersby (especially if you're wearing a backpack) "Hello! Where you from?" They are not nearly as aggressive as some places (looking at you Marrakech) and seem to enjoy my responses in Spanish, and we actually end up chatting fairly often.

The menus of the restaurants in town are surfer themed, not much rice and beans in evidence. For dinner I very much enjoyed my "Off the lip" sandwich. So much in fact that I didn't share any with the beach dogs who took turns staring at me from next to the table. Good dog. Sorry. Nice balls by the way. (I wonder if after so long in Latin America it will look odd when I get back to the States for dogs not to have big pairs of balls swinging around...)

There is a series of hostels, who seem to differ only on the volume at which they are playing Bob Marley. All are hosting populations of young surfer boys, none of whom packed a shirt. It must be a unique experience to be a reasonably attractive female in a town like this. Like being the cute bartender at fire fighter camp.

I will probably cross the border into Panama tomorrow.

The day is going to get even better.

I woke up this morning drenched in sweat, shiny sides and the sheet grossly damp. I had to hide under there to attempt to evade the mosquitoes, the itchy marks of whose raids pepper my ankles, feet, and anywhere else they felt like biting. New definition of impunity: mosquitoes. I made a few of them pay the price this morning, but I figure the hostel staff won't appreciate the new polka dots on the walls.

I was getting scruffy again, so headed to the bathroom with my shaver thingy in hand. I've used it twice before, and both times it wasn't so much cutting hair as ripping it out. I stopped the first time once someone told me I was bleeding. I set to, taking breaks from the plucking to slap at the mosquitoes dancing around my apparently delicious ankles.

The buzzer was plucking away as usual, then suddenly got louder and the ripping got even worse, if that's possible. I turned it off and could feel that something had come loose inside. The thing broke on it's third use. I know I shouldn't expect much from the Walgreens $8 shaver, but that was the worst machine I have ever dealt with. It is now resting peacefully in the garbage bin outside my door, on top of the two expensive apples I bought yesterday that turned into ant-infested brown mush within a few hours.

Did I mention the shaver crapped out halfway through? So I got to walk across town, face half shorn, clumps of ragged face fuzz scattered across abused skin. I found it hard to look up from my feet for some reason. That was fun.

I bought some plastic thingy whose advertising wants to convince me it's a jet engine, stumped back to the hostel and straight into the bathroom where I returned to babyfaced smoothness with delightful speed. Feels kinda weird though, this is the first time I've been completely clean shaven in...I dunno. Years? What did I do in Nepal? Can't remember.

But it's been long enough that I am pretty sure my chin is a fish belly white under my Central American sun-grilled cheeks. Not so much a tan line as a tan zone.

But now I'm sitting down to breakfast and the day is going to get better. Oscar, the friendly majordomo fella who runs the hostel just set my plate on the table and peered at my face, but maybe it wasn't so much perplexed as...um...admiring. Yeah, let's go with that.

Travel day, Montezuma to Quepos.

I sat down at the table, looked up at the ceiling fan overhead and told it "I love you." Out loud. It was about 7:30 AM.

Sweat was my companion throughout the travel day when I left Montezuma. First was the soporific bus, where I chatted with an elderly Cuban lady, understanding about 30% of what she said, between the noise of the grinding engine and the Cuban accent (where'd the "s" go?)

The bus took two hours, then it was a two hour wait until the ferry left. That's 4 hours, and the guy in Montezuma had told me it would take about 5 to get all the way to Quepos. I was skeptical to begin with, but I quickly realized he had assumed I would take the expensive tourist boat-shuttle across the bay. No way! (By the time I arrived I was questioning my dedication to public transport.)

The ferry took an hour, during which my vocabulary was melted down to words like "sweltering, oven, breathless, roasted, drowning in one's own sweat without a breath of air." Good people watching. (Including 4 leathery expat Americans who discussed fishing at length, dogs, and then the various personal firearms they were buying, selling, and throwing into the mangrove swamp.)

Then a shared taxi with a Slovenian couple on their honeymoon and a Canadian (and all our bags) across Puntarenas, where an old man pushing an ice cream cart looked astonished and offended that cars would transgress so far as to drive down the street that he had set up shop in the middle of. The taxi driver on the other hand, was not at all surprised at his presence in the lanes.

Then a hurried meal at the shack across from the bus station, where all the wind I'd been missing on the boat showed up to blow the shredded cabbage off my plate, but I didn't mind because it excused me hunkering right down with my face practically in the rice, which tasted great, and the pineapple & maracuya smoothie was divine. (And in googling it to check the spelling I finally just learned that a maracuya is a passion fruit.)

Then it was the bus to Jaco, and onward to Quepos, estimated length: 3 hours. On my first bus down from the Nicaraguan border last week I sat in front of a guy making odd sucking sounds, as if he was trying to vacuum some morsel of food out of his teeth. This may be a Costa Rican thing, since on my 4 hours to Quepos both my neighbor AND the guy on the other side of the aisle were doing it. Nearly continuously. Surround sound spit sucking. Tssk. Psssth. Sssssssst!

Costa Rica is purportedly a remarkably safe country, except for the rampant petty theft, so I sat with my bag overhead in clear sight and reassured myself that it was okay to arrive after dark, which I normally try not to do. About two hours after sunset it started raining. Hard.

I looked out the window in bemusement in Jaco at seeing a massive glass-fronted complex that housed gigantic installments of Pizza Hut, Quiznos, and KFC. The Pizza Hut looked like the sort of place one goes with one's family to celebrate graduation. A hallucination out of the rainy night.

I checked in my guide book for hostels in Quepos and realized someone mixed up east and west somewhere along the way between the map and the words. Then the taxi rank that I was going to orient off wasn't there either, so I walked and peered a bit into the rain until I realized I may have just accidentally checked out a bus station prostitute (I hate it when that happens) so I bowed out and asked for recommendations.

First I tried a tourist couple, but they were oddly clueless...I suspect they thought I was a con man. Next try: Subway. Another hallucination from another continent. The giant talking squirrel making sandwiches directed me two blocks down then one block up. There I found a continued lack of hostels, but an adorable elderly fellow pointed me towards an economical hotel called La Malinche. (If my memory serves, La Malinche, which may translate into something like "that cursed nasty lady", refers to the indigenous woman who translated for Cortes, vastly facilitating his genocidal conquest of the Aztec Empire. She makes a nice hotel though.)

It was above budget, but with the dark and rain outside, I decided to splurge. Private bathroom! A delight, even without a toilet seat. Wall-mounted fan! Which sounded quite literally like a propeller plane, even on its lowest setting. I dreamed all night of the Red Baron and strafing trenches in 1916.

My definition of splurging.

Tomorrow 7 km onward to Manuel Antonio, with a beach and a famous national park.

No lank pennants for me, please.

“Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me, the sun-light expands my blood?
Why, when they leave me, do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?”
-Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road


Day 1: Arrive in new location. Find hostel. Meet people, small talk and getting to know each other. Do some stuff.
Day 2: Hang out together, go see some sights or do some stuff.
(Optional Day 2.1: Extension of Day 2)
Day 3:  Other people leave. I stay. Feel lonely, abandoned, and generally out of sorts.
Day 4: Leave. ( = Day 1 in new location, if I'm lucky.)

That’s a fairly typical (and substantially idealized) version of traveling for me. I often stay that one extra day after everyone has left. The common room seems quiet, once lunch is done I'm not sure what to do with myself, and the new people just aren’t as interesting as the ones who just left.

But not this time.

Day 1: Arrive in Montezuma, find hostel, meet a bunch of great people. Swim in the ocean.

Fetch goes as long as there's light.
Stick, coconut, don't matter.

Day 2: Swim in waterfall, play fetch with awesome town dogs, talk late into the night and do a little shimmying on the dance floor.
Day 3: Bitchin’ hike through Cabo Blanco (albeit alone), swim in ocean, find hidden locals eatery with friends, eat spicy onion-chili mixture and listen to howler monkeys.
Day 4: The Argentineans leave. The American & Danish couple leaves. The 3 American guys leave.

What then? Out of sorts? Dispirited? Lonely? Pennants flat and lank?

Hells no!

One set of footprints. No problem.

Peaceful. Calm and comfortable. Quiet. Tranquil. Grateful and slightly reminiscent.
My pennants and I took a stroll down the beach, hung out with the cutest Rottweiler I've ever seen, and watched the sky redefining the scope of the word “blue.”

A few transcendent moments.

I've had a few transcendent moments on this trip already.

-Wading into the volcanic crater lake at Laguna de Apoyo.

-Taking the canoe down the green tidal river through mangrove swamps from Las Salinas to Popoyo, coming around the corner to see and hear the Pacific rollers crashing onto the sand bar ahead.

-A roomful of young faces looking up at me and writing down the vocabulary I'd just put on the board; seeing them laugh while they played the baseball game we'd made.

-Swimming in perfectly chilly water beneath the waterfall two days ago, the calls of howler monkeys echoing down the canyon.

-The sound of surfing the waves of crustacean terror in Cabo Blanco.

-And last night, finding the rumored local eatery (called a "soda" hereabouts) with three great guys from the hostel, looking down at the entire fresh-caught fish on my plate and enjoying every delectable bite (though I still don't get the fuss about the cheeks) then going out for a couple drinks with them afterwards.

They had met two girls from Iceland during the day, and two of the guys, the two Icelandic lasses, and I walked down to the nighttime beach to escape the music for a minute (the third guy was happily immersed in his game of pool). There being four of them, I was even closer to the proverbial fifth wheel than normally possible, and I quickly realized I should skedaddle, which I did, with a big smile on my face.
Back up the beach a bit, reclining on the sand and seeing the white surf froth in the moonlight, stars overhead, the silhouettes of these four fine individuals enjoying themselves in a game I hold only liberated affection for, since I no longer need to play it. I felt a surge of peace/love/gratitude for the moment.

Ernie

One of the absolute best things about traveling is (are?) the people you meet. Friendships birth and bloom in the course of a day or two, and you never know when you'll have the typical conversations (Where you from? How long you been here? Where you headed next?) or when you'll hear about ski resort back country antics, full moon parties in Thailand, or philosophies on the upcoming end of the world.

That being said, there are times when it's damn fine to be alone. That walk through the jungle yesterday is a prime example. I found myself high on the sounds of the jungle and my sandaled footsteps, the bruising green and panting breath.

But I wasn't alone the whole day, I did walk with an elderly German lady for the first part, and then there was Ernie. Oh Ernie. He means well, despite his rather unfriendly disposition. I wouldn't say he's an asshole, he just...doesn't know how to be friendly very well. How to describe him...ornery? Cranky? Maybe cranky...

He's also not the sharpest tool in the shed, nor the most graceful. We met on a section of path with steps, and I was amazed at the clumsiness. I know they are irregular lengths and heights, but come on man, figure it out.

I enjoyed our time together, but before long it was time to move on. Alone Ernie. Thanks anyway.

Ernie, look out for the...

step.

Bye Ernie.

Reserva Natural Absoluta Cabo Blanco

Took a trip to Reserva Natural Absoluta Cabo Blanco yesterday, the nature preserve that straddles the southwest tip of the Nicoyo Peninsula.

There are two walks, one an hour loop from the entrance, and the other a 4 hour trek that takes you through the plant-wrestling-match that is the jungle, down to a deserted beach and back. I got there at 11:00 and the last bus back leaves from outside the park at 3:20, so I was working my way through at as good of a clip as I could, sweat pouring off me like the water from the makeshift shower tacked onto my dorm room.

There were birds beyond counting, possibly because they were hopelessly hidden in the lush foliage. Howler monkeys did their thing overhead, and capuchin monkeys chirped and chattered back and forth, and at one point I startled one off the path who jumped up into the tree and stared at me from just over the path.

We’re just on the cusp of the wet season, any day now, and there is a thick layer of dry leaves on the ground. As I walk down the path it sounds like it’s raining. Picture a rustling of dry leaves in every direction, but no drops. Then add skittering motion as hundred of little critters run for cover at your approach.

Not lizards, although there are plenty of those too. Not leeches thank god. Not rats, snakes, or birds.

Crabs. Land crabs. Beautifully colored and ridiculously behaved.

As you approach, they skitter away, surprisingly frantically. The problem is that they don’t always know which direction is away, and often flee from you right down the path. It’s like the horror movie, when the person runs away from the killer truck…straight down the highway.

As you get closer they spread their claws in challenge/defense, which looks very impressive, but unfortunately alters their balance and they are prone to falling over backwards in a most undignified and panicked manner.

Their tiny crabby brains somehow manage to give the gesture some personal flair though. Some do it like professional wrestlers talking trash. Tiny crabby voices yelling “You want some of this?” Some remind me of low-riders, their carapace rocking down in the back, and bumping up in the front, arms swinging open like tricked-out doors. Others seem to just want a hug. Badly.

Walking along felt like riding a wave of pure crustacean terror. I made a game out of trying to match their timing, and must have looked perfectly insane to the monkeys overhead. Luckily I wasn’t doing it either of the two times I passed another hiker.

Does this remind anyone else of Tremors?

The beach at the end was gorgeous and utterly mine, not a soul in sight, just crowds of hermit crabs and a few hollowed-out lobster heads, neither of whom are particularly chatty.

When I got back to the ranger station I had time for a little yoga, coming up into cobra at one point to find myself looking into four perplexed little raccoon faces. Made it out to the bus in time to hang out with the driver for a bit, and he showed me these weird little green fruit things one of the trees is producing right now. Tasted pretty darn good.

Back to Montezuma with sore feet, tired legs, and an evening of hanging out with three excellent American chaps I met down here.

Gotta say it was a good day.

It's raining in Montezuma.

I woke up this morning to the sound of rain drops. El Invierno has arrived in Costa Rica.

I am in Montezuma, on the southern tip of Nicoyo Peninsula, a reggae sort of town, with restaurants catering to different (low) levels of risk-taking tourist diets, from uber-safe to merely highly cautious. The shoreline is beautiful and rocky. The juice bar across the street is run by a giggly Brazilian kid who doesn't speak any Spanish.

The tour operators came down to stand beside their boats in the morning drizzle, looking slightly disappointed and helpless, but mostly just familiar with it. Not long later the backpackers (who bought their tours yesterday) showed up in their pods of about a dozen and tentatively climbed in.

There are a few dogs who seem to live on the beach, and play with whoever happens by. Last night sitting and watching the waves, the black lab with the brownie-butter eyes came and sat next to me, my best friend in the world, occasionally pushing his nose up under my arm for some lovin'.

Don't worry, I remembered to wash my hands before eating anything.

I'm stealing internet access from the Pension next door, the battery's dying, and there's a hike to be hiked. Saludos.

Well hello there Costa Rica.

Good news: I made it to Costa Rica yesterday, having no problems at the infamous border with Nicaragua. I was the only whitey in the normal lines, but saved beaucoup bucks over the alternative method of taking the tourist bus, which processes passports all together, and got to chat about pork tacos with a Nicaraguan abuelita en route. I think the crucial moment was when the border agent sized me up with a good long look, then said the exit tax was 45 US dollars...paused...and as my reaction of disbelief started, corrected himself "I mean, cordoba." (45 Cordoba = less than $2.)
Good news: I found my desired hotel in Liberia without getting lost, and the town already feels refreshing.
Good news: They have a dorm, and there's no one else in it.

News: This is the dorm.
Good news: It's clean, no bed bugs in the thin mattress.
Good news: There's wifi so I can catch up on this whole internet thing which has been getting away from me. (Has it really only been a few days? I feel a fond distaste for my internet addiction.)
Bad news: none.

And another list, inspired by my favorite blogger who is excellent in English, no matter what she says.

First impressions of Costa Rica:
-The locals are super friendly and helpful, except the hotel manager, who has probably just had his life's fill of stinky backpackers like me, and even he does perfectly fine in his stern way.
-Lots of cops wandering around, which I guess ads to the safe feeling.
-I have trouble believing it is always this windy...the sheet metal roof seems close to Wizard-of-Oz-ing off into the sunset.
-Maybe it's a combination of the dry season and wind, but the mosquito level was deliciously low last night.

-Good food. I enjoyed my first "Plato del dia" of black beans, rice, potato something salad, shredded lettuce, a couple slices of sweet plantain, a tough slice of steak that scorned my initial attempts with the dull knife, but capitulated in the end, and a fresh-made tamarind soda, all for $5. Then improved by the spicy onion & chili mixture spooned out of the jar that sits on every table, with mismatched rusty lids.
-Kinda glad I got my tetanus shot recently.
-Interesting cultural blend. During the meal I felt like I was on a bit of an acid trip due to the Smurfs speaking Spanish on the TV across the room. That show is friggin weird, man.
-Good travelers. I ended up with a roommate after all, a super amiable Australian lad whose name I never did learn, but whose conversation was a delight. And he didn't mind that the sauce from my breakfast of juevos rancheros splashed onto his napkin. (The tortilla was fried into an utterly uncuttable flying saucer, and my attempts at folding it into submission were messy. I ended up goes Nepali on its ass and using my fingers, which was effective, albeit messy.)