Fire Ants, Organic Cacao, Broken Bike Chain, Screaming Monkeys

Life is good.

My final day with Adam and Keke - spent in Puerto Viejo - was full of excitement, danger, beauty, laughter, retrospection, flavor, relaxation, activity, pain, exhaustion, contentment, hurry, serenity, wonder, curiosity, exhiliration, disappointment, appreciation, badinage (humor), serendipity, and unpredictability.

(Patience, please, while I practice my new GRE vocabulary in my blogs.)

Waking up in the hostel's second-most luxurious suite (thanks, Adam and Keke!) does have its benefits. We may have woken up to rain, discouraging us from watching the sunrise, but walking out onto our own personal deck (away from the 564 mirrors in our ecclectic room) to lie in a hammock under the steady sound of rain was just as gratifying. I didn't even care about the sand fleas were biting up my feet and ankles. As A & K woke up, I was nervous they'd decide to favor indolence, relaxing at the hostel (Rockin' J's) over biking around; but these super-adaptive travel compañeros know how to live up their trip regardless of weather.

So we got in our suits, put our valuables in plastic bags, and were on our way to Bread & Chocolate (pictured right) in the steady drizzle. We enjoyed another two-hour meal with ridiculously-satisfied taste buds. (I have to take a moment to reflect on the homemade bread in the homemade French toast topped with homemade cream and homemade strawberry jam; sharing a plate of homemade cinnamon pancakes in the shape of a sun, and a side of fresh fruit underneath homemade granola. Did I mention their French press for their fresh cafe con leche?) As we tried to take our minds off the gluttony that had just taken place, we made a game out of guessing the homeland of our hot waiter. Our guesses? Belgium, Germany, France, Croatia, Italy, and Spain. The answer? Maryland.

Yeah. Way off.

About ten pounds heavier and feeling more content than ever, we got back on our wet bikes to be the only ones fully embracing the Caribbean warm rain. I got my bus ticket, we replaced Adam's pedal-resistent bike, and we were on our way to a remote beach, Punta Uva - about 10km south. Along the way we delt with a ruthless idiota behind the wheel who almost ran Adam over. Then there was my implacable chain on my bike. Between the frustration of that stupid thing and my anger with the caballo driver, I felt the intrepid urge to show him how I felt with a simple, assumably universal, hand motion. (He either didn't understand it or he was ebullient being a prick, because every time he passed us that day on the bumpy, detritus-filled road, he smiled and honked.) But my growing frustration was palliated when one of the chain malfunctions happened in front of a "Chocolart" sign.

"Se vende chocolate." (We sell chocolate.)

It's obvious what happened next. Five minutes later we had ridden down a narrow dirt road through the jungle and were parking our bikes around a palm tree. The fire ants that attacked my already-sand-flea-bitten feet couldn't enervate me - I was entering a chocolate farm in the middle of the rainforest where homemade chocolate was made weekly. Once parked and fighting away the ants, we approached my paradise.

Okay, okay, the mud path was NOT fudge, the thatched roof was NOT liquorice, the hut was NOT lined in shnosberry wallpaper, there were NO Umpa-Lumpas, the tours were of a farm and NOT an enigmatic factory, and the man making the chocolate was NOT Willy Wonka. In fact, he only had a few old bowls of dried chocolate and only sold about nine sticks of the chocolate he had left. On the bright side, we learned how it was made (not by magic chickens and Umpa-Lumpas), how many cacao seeds were in cacao fruit (80), and I ingested the freshest, best chocolate I ever had as we looked at a secluded view over the tropical rainforest listening to the sonorous noises of frogs and birds. Needless to say, he had to make more chocolate after Adam's, Keke's and my sweet teeth attacked his little chocolate bungalow.

Ten minutes later we parked our bikes on the empty, picturesque beaches of Punta Uva where we floated between waves discussing our Bucket List. (Mine, of course, consistently includes winning a radio contest, being fluent in Spanish - maybe Chinese - getting good at drumming and piano playing, receiving my SCUBA certification, biking across America, having a family, going to Switzerland, getting my masters degree, doing the splitz, doing the Camino de Santiago pilgrimmage in northern Spain, going on an African safari, suring at least 5 meters down a wave, volunteering in a poor country, and going to the Olympics. That last one would've been accomplished if China hadn't been so supercilious and illogical. Thanks, China.) Aside from the specs of people we saw on a distant cliff in front of an unbelievable scene of fog and mountains, we were the only ones out there, reflecting on life and enjoying the water as the sun made its way through the parting clouds.

But my time was in the hands of my 4pm bus to San Jose, and we had to get going. I didn't seem too concerned when I recommended we stop at the adorable Miss Milly's Deli nestled perfectly among the luscious, overgrown tropical plants to enjoy sandwiches, hummus, and wine on the quaint little porch. And my urgency was curtailed even more when we stopped to hear the loudest, most obscure, and most interesting animal sounds coming from high in the canopy.

How do I explain this sound in a blog...?

Think of a growl, a ribbet, an irascible bark, then combine them to increase the decibel level about five times. That's the sound of a howler monkey (pictured right) - scary if you don't know what it is, and awesome if you do.

But I had a bus to catch and a bike chain that broke every five minutes. (Thanks Adam, Mr. Fix-It.) When I got back to the hostel and changed out of my sticky suit and sandy clothes, I had a receptionist and a taxi driver helping me chase a bus for which I was already 10 minutes late. Thank God for Tico time. I arrived literally 3 seconds before my bus to San Jose did. "¡Qué suerte tienes!" (How lucky you are!) exclaimed Pedro, my new taxi driver amigo.

My thoughts exactly.

Vagabonds That Board Our Buses

A veces (sometimes) I get lucky enough to get on a bus in which a paramour American Idol boards hoping to make a few extra colones. A ride of this past week was one of these unforgettable moments.

Before his friend, the bus driver, picked him up on the side of the road without demanding bus fare, my ride was pretty boring: listening to the men obsessively talking about last night’s futbol game, monitoring the balancing techniques of a young mom with two kids and ten bags stacked on her lap, observing the bus driver’s stellar ability to maneuver the bus’ massive manual stick while spotting and saluting his friends out the window, and watching traffic waiting for the serpentine moves of a showboating caballo on his moto to end in disaster. But all of that was about to change when I saw that ebullient, bright-eyed vagrant hop aboard and take center stage on my public bus. And there he was, facing his lucky new fan club of eight (including myself, ears perched, paper and pen in hand, ready for his signature upon performance completion, of course), with the composure of a star.

He began.

It took five seconds before I wished I was Simon Cowell so I could shake my head, hold up my hand, and tell him that his dreadful cacophonous singing needed to end right then and there. But I didn’t work for FOX, nor was he a contestant. I was stuck on a bus with a mendicant who unfortunately thought louder tones and higher notes would earn him more money.

After five minutes passed and my ears went numb, he came around to collect what he viewed as condign tips, and I had a decision to make: to tip or not to tip? Pity him or encourage his poor choice of money-making entertainment? (Some of the beggars just try to sell candy - maybe that's an option for him?) I decided to find a happy balance by donating under ₡200 (about $0.40). When I ferreted out my little change purse, I found a few old receipts, a credit card, a license, and some big bills. I had nothing to give him. I opted for the Simon Cowell route, in my own Costa Rica bus passenger style: put on my head phones, look out the window, and use my taciturn body language to hint to him to never put anyone through that again.

I Live in the Happiest Place?

I just wrote a blog for work called "Voted the Happiest Place" based on a study just completed in Britain. Check it out. It describes how our students react to being here, and it links to you the CNN article as well as the official study. It's pretty interesting - NOT because Costa Rica ranked well, but because it raises the discussion of what makes people happy/content. The study, titled Happy Planet Index, ranked these nations on such things as life expectancy, environment, life satisfaction, and civil conflicts.

Stuck at Bally's Total Fitness

You know those crazy Bally's commercials where everyone looks like they stopped by the gym to spray themselves with water before heading to a modeling shoot? While no Bally's Total Fitness exists down here, I unknowingly joined its Costa Rican equivalent.

This morning at MultiSpa in a "Fuerza" class, I noticed 1) everyone's tight, muscle-expressive athletic outfits, 2) their obsession with looking at themselves in the mirror, 3) their skin glistened like a super model on the beach, 4) the grand total body fat in the room (of everyone but me) was enough for one forearm skin graft, 5) an unnecessary excitement in the form of "whoo hoo" shouts, and 6) my sopping wet KC Royals' t-shirt and cut-off pants did not belong here. This then led me to the conclusion that the 10% Adidas discount card they gave me when I signed up for MultiSpa was not a promotion - it was a suggestion.

I'm surprised it's been four months, and they haven't approached me to "reconsider" my look at the gym. Although, I'm starting to think they use a more passive-aggressive approach: the interesting glare the desk worker gives me in the morning, my class instructor's constant comments about my t-shirts, the up-and-down glance I get by the trainers, and the Adidas discount cards they tape to my locker while I'm working out. Okay, that last one's a little exaggerated, but you get the idea.

Too bad I'm stubborn. I'm not going to succumb to becoming a gym model. And that's that.

Fun Translations

Almost every day I hear new phrases in Spanish that I hear from a Tico, the newspaper, or the people on TV. But only once or twice a week do I hear words or phrases that make me laugh thinking about their literal translation. My favorite one this week? Drum roll please...

English phrase:
surrogate mother

Spanish phrase:
madre de alquiler

Literal English translation:
mother of rent

Now that's getting right to the point.

Finding the Source

3:15am: Scratching the tops of my feet.
3:42am: Scratching my left ankle.
3:58am: Scratching the back of my left calf.
4:10am: Only 35 minutes left to fall back to sleep.
4:43am: Still scratching, on different spots on both legs.
4:45am: Alarm is ringing.

For some reason, bites and rashes itch most when I'm trying to get some sleep.

As I remove my covers, I scratch my legs a few more times to ensure they're completely raw. Looking down at the red, heated spots on my ankles, feet, knees, calves, and thighs leads me to wonder: from where did these come THIS time?

Needless to say, I spend a lot of time washing my bedding and sweeping out my room. Each time I perform any one of these tasks, it's likely that I have left at least 43 bugs widowed or orphaned.

But it's not always related to the cities of bugs nesting somewhere in my house. I have learned not to sit on the beach too long people- and surfer- watching. Sand fleas. I also learned NOT to go without pants on a zip-lining canopy tour. Those gnats passed up 7 students, 3 chaperons, and 4 zip-lining guides to get to my exposed, sweet skin.

Recently, however, some mysterious poison ivy/oak has been attacking me at different places on my leg. I have yet to find the source, although I'm thinking the overgrowth on the sidewalk near the gym is one of the top-runners.

Cheers to a life where I never have to use a nail file! I have my rough, itchy skin to thank for that one.

Tree Day?

June 15th is Dia del Arbol. It's a day to encourage people to plant trees. However, in La Nacion this morning, there was a full page ad that looked like this:


I'm not sure if this would fly in the States. Someone would sue someone for an increase in teen pregnancies in mid-March next year.