All My Exes Live in Texas (and a few in Miami)

It's been too long my friends and there is much to catch up on.  Let's consider this episode a flashback.  I've never written a flashback before but feel it will be a worthwhile endeavor I can add to my resume of semi-nonficitonal material. 

(Note:  All names below have been altered to hide the identity of the actual persons involved until all lawsuits have been settled.)

I made a trip back to Texas in late October for the wedding of a great man and true friend, Nick Sludtke.  This is a man who can honestly admit he has never lied before, even if he tells you he can fly.  And I can actually confirm this is indeed not a lie, reason being, when he gets drunk he can't feel his feet and truly thinks he is flying.  Although one would think the gift of flight an amazing attribute, for our friend, Mr. Sludtke, this usually meant he could end up at any number of locations any given weekday or weekend morning after a night out.   It was no surprise to us to hear he had woken up locked out of his car in a downtown parking garage with just his pants and tank top on, in a random front yard in an unknown neighborhood being interrogated by the police, in a New Orleans hotel room after meeting some rappers in Houston, or behind the barricades of a construction site where the morning crew just put a hard hat on him and let the little guy sleep it off while they jack hammered a few feet away.  Luckily for him he met a great girl who is able to keep him safely on the ground and in a cozy bed where he can comfortably wake up each morning without worrying where he is.

It's always great to have a place to call home especially when that place is Texas.  It was a joy to see so many friends and family especially since at some points along my sailing and jungle adventures I thought I may never see anyone again.  Being back home and seeing everyone reminded me of three things:

1.  How much I missed Texas barbecue and luckily McDonald's brought their McRib back just in time for my return home. It always amazes me how they can make a rib sandwich without any bones.  I packed up 25 in the trunk to take back with me to Costa Rica.  What's more amazing is how I took this picture by myself while driving down 59 around the med center on Friday during lunch hour.  Don't worry it was a rental.  But better than the McRib were the actual ribs and bbq chicken my dad cooked up when I got down to their house.  He always tries to keep me from leaving again by putting me in a bbq induced food comma.  

2.  How nice it is to have friends that let you fly their planes.  Driving is such a bore.

Buzzing by the locals camped out and fishing on the beach.

Our shadow with the coast stretching off into the horizon.

A tribute picture for my friends at Johnson Space Center with downtown Houston way in the background.

I can't mention who I was flying with because we probably broke multiple FAA regulations and he still lives in the in the country but I would like to thank Chris and Mary for letting me crash at their place in Houston while they were out of town.  The party was great you guys.  Sorry you weren't in town for it.  If the cat doesn't seem to be acting normal, no worries.  I was told the effects would only last 3 - 4 months.

3.  I can't remember the third thing right now but hopefully it will come to me before this flashback is over.

 Now to be completely honest, the real reason I flew back to Texas was to go through Miami.  I started out to do this trip to see what more life could offer and what else I could learn about the world.  This is one thing I have learned for sure:  Any time you get a chance to go to Miami take it.  If you are a single man or let's say a man who is in a committed relationship but likes to wear dark sunglasses and can get by with flying from San Diego to LA via Miami, I would recommend it every time.  Miami is the only city in the world I have been to where I have almost proposed to 3 women before even getting out of the airport .  One of them being the lady who works at the over size baggage counter.  And it just gets better from there.  

During my one night lay over, I had the pleasure of going out with the best wing man ever, Mark Horner.  He lives in a condo high rise on South Beach where I would just be happy riding the elevator up and down to the lobby to meet ladies.  However the night I was there we felt a bit more daring and went to a little bar just down the street where I met an attractive girl and struck up a conversation.  I like to joke around a bit and told her I was an ankle model.  Well there are two things you don't joke about in Miami and modeling is one of them.  She took me serious from the get go and then I was in to deep to back pedal so then began expounding on the trials and tribulations of being an ankle model.  She said she completely understand because her career as an underwear model was just as difficult.  She then began to show me some of her work on her iPhone (thank you Steve Jobs) and even though I couldn't see her face in any of the pictures, I wasn't going to discredit her and make her profession any tougher.  I do have a heart.  

The point which I am trying to make but have digressed from a bit is that Miami is great.  Get there.

Oh yeah, and after checking my notes, I now remember the 3rd thing I wanted to mention:  That I am a racist.  Allow me to explain.

After a late night of dancing at Wild West, my friend Dirty Frank convinces myself and our other friend Mark Horner (in town from Miami for the aforementioned wedding) to go to House of Pies for some late night grub.  He basically convinces us by paying for the taxi there and home.  Eventhough at 3 am House of Pies is usually only 10% straight somehow Dirty seems to be able to meet ladies there.  While we are waiting for our table, 2 ladies walk in dressed up in cocktail dresses, they see the wait, and begin to leave.  Dirty grabs them and tells them we are next for a table and they can sit with us.  They give a disgruntled look and ask his name.  They proceed to stomp over to the hostess and ask who is next.  The girls look surprised when they hear his name and agree to sit with us.  As Shakespeare once wrote in one of his most famous sonnets, "The way to a drunk girl's heart is through her stomach."

We end up sitting at the bar with Horner on the left, then the 2 girls, then Dirty, and then myself flanking the right.  Dirty begins chatting up the girl next to him and somehow in a matter of minutes he has her slithered around his arm leaving me baffled once again as to how this guy does it especially under such dim odds.  I just assume she is still really drunk and can't differentiate between a slovenly groomed 14 year old and  grown-ass man.  I begin to scan the restaurant for any other late night contenders but quickly realize that my best chances are chatting up the 72 year old waitress in the hopes she has a grand daughter who has chosen a different career choice.  

The girls' food comes out first and once it comes the one talking to Dirty unleashes her tentacles from his arm and begins to shovel in her chow without saying a word until she is done.  Once complete she then tells us how much she loves food and begins to "assist" her friend with her food as well.  Our food comes out and after I eat half of some sort of egg scramble called the Cancun Special, the side of beans that appeared to actually been shipped in from Cancun and was now beside my plate as a cold side didn't seem quite that appetizing.  I notice Dirty's girl is still engulfing her friend's meal so I lean over and tell him to tell his new friend that if she is still hungry she can have my beans.  To our surprise she abruptly stopped eating even leaving a little bit of potato bake dangling from her lower lip and glared at me with fork still in hand making her look even more menacing.  She then began to say rather loudly that I was a racist for offering her beans.  

Apparently earlier in the conversation she had mentioned she was from Mexico.  Now deep in the folds of her brain somehow her logic path put together that I only offered her beans because she said she was from Mexico hence I am a racist.  I then tried to explain my logic path which was since I saw her scarfing down food like a horse after running the Kentucky Derby, I assumed she was still hungry and was trying to be polite in offering her some of  my food.  This didn't sit well with her either and obviously takes much more than trying to be polite to re-wire the workings of a woman's brain.  She immediately got up and told her friend they were leaving.  I was just glad they stopped to pay for their food on the way out.  I looked at Dirty to apologize although not quite sure why and after the shock wore off at the quick change of events he just began laughing.  Another memorable night at the House of Pies.

The next morning, we were still laughing about the prior night and since Dirty is aware of all things Asian in a 500 mile radius and I needed to work off my racist aura, we spent all day at the 2011 Korean Fest in downtown Houston.  We got full on delicious Korean fare from Bulgogi to ice cream and listened to enough Korean underground rappers until at least K-fest 2012.  Sometimes I wonder why I even need to leave this city when I can learn so much about myself and the world right here in H-town.

Well I guess that sums up my flashback.  I hope everyone enjoyed it.  Presently things are going well in back in Costa Rica.  I completed my dive master training and my parents just came to visit for a week and a half.  They gave me plenty of material for my next blog which will be out soon.

And just to verify that I am indeed back in Costa Rica and put the rumors to rest, I wanted to include this picture of where I am finishing up this post:

There are no rumors that I know of but thought it was a nice picture to end with.

Hope everyone is well and let me know how ya'll are doing.
Jb

Trivia Time: Loco in Coco

First off, I am back State-side for a friend's wedding this weekend.  I'll be in the Houston area from Oct 21st - Oct 27th.  It would be great to catch up with folks so let me know if you are around.

Now to follow up a bit on my current town of residence, Playa Del Coco, Costa Rica.  It's a little beach  town on the north-east coast of the country in the state of Guanacaste.  It's one main road lined with touristy restaurants and souvenir shops dead ends into the beach that sits in a half moon bay filled with boats, one of them being a pirate ship, surrounded by jungle covered cliffs.  It's the low season now but things begin picking up in November and am told in late December the main street is closed to car traffic due to the throngs of tourists, both Tico's and foreigners,  that crowd the street.  I am sure by that time I will definitely by considered a local.

I have legitimized my stay by renting a studio apartment a block from the beach.  It has the basics plus a small waterfall through the ceiling in the bathroom if it rains hard enough.  Some people have asked if they can send things but getting mail here is a task in itself.  There are no real addresses so they use local landmarks, sometimes of statues that are no longer standing.  For example my address would be:
Playa Del Coco,  Costa Rica
Turn at the Lazy Lizard Bar, take second dirt road to the right, across from the hotel Puerta Del Sol, apartment between the family of eight and the prostitutes from Nicaragua.

As far as work goes, I'm basically doing an internship at the dive shop until I get my dive master and then I'll work there hopefully starting in mid-November.  Right now I go diving a few times a week with sharks, eels, rays, whales, puffer fish, etc.. and then work in the shop the other days.  It's an amazing place to travel and dive and I plan to be there until January so if anyone wants to come down, feel free.  I wouldn't charge that much to be your guide.

I was thinking the best way to introduce you to the Coco lifestyle is through a series of questions to which you get to randomly guess the answers since you have no knowledge on the subject.  This is how things normally go for me while traveling so it's a nice part of the experience to share.

1.  What have I not had to do while living in Coco:
A.  Pull a stuck truck out of a flooded creek that flows into the beach while the rising tide is coming in and sinking the truck I am driving.
B.  Bury a dead ant-eater that was hit by a car outside our dive shop before the vultures got it.
C.  Chase multiple parrots outside our store that have for some reason wandered inside but apparently do not want to dive.
D.  Have to jump a creek on my bike on my way to Spanish class after the bridge was washed away.

2.  How do they make the sunset booze bruise so cheap:
A.  Capture wild dolphins and force them to pull the boat around to save on fuel costs.
B.  Hire under age bartenders that will work for oversized surf apparel.
C.  Only go out when a monsoon is about to form so they have to cut the trip short and act like they saved your life so you will give them bigger tips.
D.  Have trained monkeys steel your drinks so you have to continuously buy new ones.

3.  What have I learned so far during my dive master training:
A.  Don't sneak up on sleeping White Tip Reef Sharks especially before lunch.
B.  7 foot long Giant Moray Eels can cause you to consume half your tank in one breath if you unexpectedly come upon one lying in a crack with an open mouth one foot from your face.
C.  Extremely strong pointer fingers come in handy when trying to hold a mountain over your head.
D.  All of the above.

Bonus Question:
Since a lot of folks have been asking about the incident with the hula hoop, the mermaid, her sister, and Mr. Bananas (actually no one has asked), how does an incident like that even come about?

Cheers and hope to see ya'll while I'm back,
Jay



Answers:
1.  D - I haven't had to jump this creek yet but am expecting this bridge to be wiped out any day after a good rain.  The good side is there is a bar on both sides.

Bridge to Spanish Class

2.  B - Unfortunately they only hire these guys for bartenders and not bouncers so you still have to watch what you say when intimidating them to pour a stiff drink.

Thumbs up means keep pouring kid.

3.  D - Yes, all indeed are true.

Bonus Answer - Well it starts off like.  Then add free alcohol and go from there.

Mermaid out of the shot to the right and Mr. Bananas below deck already drunk.

Pura Vida on the Pacuare River

Sorry for the delay in posting.  I know some of you have been holding your breathe until the next installment.  Not sure this will make you breathe any easier but here it is.  As my excuse, I was having a bit of writer's block putting this one together with the building pressure of expectations and I was enjoying finally being settled somewhere for more than a 3 day period.  Plus a good dose of procrastination may have played a part as well.

It pleases me to say I have not been on a speeding bus through rain-slicked mountain roads, stuffed into a sardine can-like ferry, or been the 3rd passenger on a scooter in over three weeks and it feels pretty nice.  I have "settled down" in Playa Del Coco, a small beachfront town on the northwest coast of Costa Rica that is the focal point for diving in the country.  I am getting my divemaster/working at a dive shop called Summer Salt Dive Center along with picking up any other odd jobs I can find to make money legally.  Luckily for me there isn't too much that is illegal down here or I may have been deported awhile back for an incident I was mistakenly involved in that included a hula hoop, a mermaid, her sister, and a howler monkey named Mr. Bananas.

I'll fill in the details on the next post, but let's get everyone caught up first. 

After risking life and limb hiking through Costa Rica's wildest jungle for your reading pleasure, I decided I was due for a bit of rest and relaxation.  So I made plans to go rafting down Class 4 rapids on Costa Rica's famed Pacuare River.

It turned out that Natu, our tour guide through Corcovado NP, is also a rafting guide and owns an old lodge on the Pacuare River.  He told me he was guiding some of his friends down river the next weekend and I should come along.  I could then hike back to his lodge and stay as long as I wanted the only caveat being I would have to bring enough food for as many days as I wanted to stay since it was a pretty isolated location.  Hard offer to pass up.

So the next weekend after just getting back to San Jose from down south, I departed in a bus with Natu's friends on a 3 hour drive to the Pacuare River.  Once we arrived, we noticed we weren't the only ones planning on rafting that day.  There were about 15 other boats from different tour companies lined up on the river bank with gear and people spread out along the shores all hustling to get their boats loaded and going.  We found Natu waving vigorously with paddles in hand to get our attention.  We loaded up, had a quick session on what to do and not to do, and then headed downstream.

The last and only other time I had been down rapids was on the Zambezi in southern Africa where our boat flipped over at least 4 times in crocodile infested waters.  So I was expecting more or less the same here, minus the crocs.  However, what we got, invigorating as it was, brought us no where close to having our boat flip over.  And not that I was disappointed but I guess I was hoping for a little more action and who can blame a 34 year old single male for that.

Now, hindsight is a funny thing in that you learn the consequences of your actions after the you perform them.  What I learned, in hindsight, is don't tell the person who is in charge of getting your raft safely down a raging river that you were expecting rougher rapids.

I was sitting in the rear of the boat opposite Natu and as we were entering the next set of rapids he put the boat at just the right angle which turned that area of the boat I was sitting on into a human catapult.  I was instantly launched off my feet onto Natu's side where he rolled back and tossed me overboard with the precision and swiftness of a judo technician making it look like I fell out of the boat of my own accord.  Once again on this journey I found myself in a precarious situation trying to stay afloat in a small life jacket with another 100 yards of white water ahead laughing uncontrollably at my doomed outlook when I probably should have been focusing on keeping my mouth closed and not inhaling so much water as my head bobbled above the water line.  Once the river calmed, I made my way back to the boat still laughing and Natu helped me onboard with a big grin on his face asking me what happened and why I fell off.   The rest of the boat was happy as well because, per custom, the first person who falls off buys the first rounds of beer at the bar post raft trip.

The other main area of interest on the trip was when Natu pointed out his lodge about halfway down the river that I would be staying at.  The lodge consisted of a cleared area about an acre deep with 5 small bungalows set on the steep hillside with a large outdoor kitchen/dining area and bathroom at the top of the clearing.  He pointed out that his place was on the right side of the river while the 4x4 trail accessing it was on the left side.  With the obvious question being, "Well it's a great place but how do I get across the river?", he smiled and as we floated a bit more downstream his finger pointed to a cable spanning the river.  His finger then followed the line to the right where it ended up pointing to a small steel box hanging from the cable attached to a tree on the river's bank.  The small steel box looked like a modified seat from a shabby carnival's ferris wheel that had once been involved in an accident in which it fell onto a famous cotton candy vendor cutting off his right arm in turn making him only suitable to work at the frog toss booth where as luck would have it, he met his wife.  This couple had a child and when he grew older, to avenge his father's misfortune, he built steel carnival seats that doubled as human torture machines.  His only clients being the producers of Saw IV and the Costa Rican Crossing River With Cable Lines Authority. 

'Detailed' directions to Natu's lodge.

So after I finished buying beers for the guys on our boat and then some, Natu and I came up with this "detailed" map, pictured to the right, on how I was to go about getting back to his place from our current location.   I hopped on a bus and told the bus driver the name of the town I wanted to be dropped off in.  After about an hour on the bus, the driver pulled to the side of the road in what appeared to be a desolate location and motioned to me that this was my stop.  I exited the bus to see that the town consisted of one small store/restaurant/bar on the side of the road with the 4x4 trail I was to take to the side of it.  I began the hike to the river around 4 pm just as the clouds gathered and it started to drizzle.

After about 2 hours of trudging down a steep, muddy, rocky car path trying to follow my map and not make a wrong turn, I got to the cable box after sunset just as the rain began to pick up.  Now does anyone have any experience using a cable box at night in the rain?  Scratch that.  Does anyone have any experience using a cable box?  Well I didn't and even though they aren't very complicated, doing anything for the first time, much less in the rain at night, can fill a grown man with a nervous anticipation similar to a virgin on prom night from what I've heard.  For starters, I was just glad the box was on my side of the river as Natu somehow promised it would be.  I climbed the ladder onto the shakey wooden platform where I then squeezed myself and bag of supplies into the swaying steel box.  I wasn't sure if I was supposed pull myself gently across or just let the thing go and enjoy the ride since it could be my last.  I recalled the words of my favorite sea captain, Captain Cook, who said,"What the hell.  How bad can it be." before he landed on a Hawaiian island and was speared to death by the natives.  So I decided what the hell.  I only saw one hook holding the box to the tree in the narrow beam of my headlamp so I took the tension off, released the hook, and held on to my seat with a definitively firm group as the box picked up speed and flew across the river dangling above the rapids of which I couldn't see but definitely could hear.  As the box neared the other side losing speed, I pulled myself the last few yards and secured the box with quite some effort to the other side.  Land ahoy.  Now all that was left to do was to hike about 1 mile upstream on a rarely used foot path through a dense jungle at night in more rain watching for poisonous snakes until I got to the clearing that was Natu's.  Once there, I hiked up the landscaped steps to the highest edifice which had the outdoor kitchen, got out of my wet clothes and cooked a nice dinner surrounded by the pitch black of night with only my headlamp and a few candles to light my way before picking the bungalow with the fewest leaks to sleep in.

This is obviously not the actual cable box crossing at night in the rain.  It's just a tribute.

View from the kitchen with Pacuare River below and the top
of the smoking Turialba Volcano peaking over the tree line

The following morning, the sun's rays slowly lit up the river valley and eventually crept into my bungalow waking me up to a clear blue sky around 5 am.  I took off my watch and set it beside my bed where it stayed for the duration of my time there.  The sun told me where I needed to be and at what time.  The view was spectacular with the Pacuare River flowing below surrounded by lush green forest with the Turialba Volcano peaking it's head above the distant mountain ridge and letting off some steam.  One of the perks about staying at a lodge in the middle of no where is you can wear as much or as little as you want and since most of my clothes were still drying, this gave me a chance to show the monkeys what separates us from them, underwear.

My daily perch where the only thing passing me by
was the river

With 3.5 days of solitude ahead of me, I had plenty of time to explore the area quite thoroughly.  I followed single track trails not having any idea where they would lead me, sometimes to a hidden waterfall with a pool of turquoise blue water at its base perfect for a refreshing swim and drink in the hot afternoon followed by a nap on large flat rocks that were warmed by the light of the sun earlier in the day but now perfectly positioned in the shade of the trees.  Sometimes the paths lead to dead ends where the brush had grown back too thick to pass due to the trails lack of human activity forcing me to turn around.  I wandered a few miles downstream where I came across an expensive resort on the river that was connected to the other side by a narrow suspension bridge.  I smiled smugly as I walked back to Natu's thinking about how much folks were paying to stay here and how much I was paying.  Aside from that, the closest encounters I had with people were the daily rafting trips that passed by around 11 am each morning as I watched from my cabana perch while reading a book in a hammock.  They rarely noticed the place much less me.  Most of my companions were giant spiders with webs built high in the rafters accumulating a plethora of flying insects of which I more than appreciated, troops of leaf cutter ants acting like important gardeners but always making their paths in the most inconvenient places, lizards sprinting from point to point thinking no one saw them, and I am sure many more things were watching me from the protection of the jungle than I noticed.

Suspension bridge farther down stream with rafters riding the rapids below.

Gone native - working on my rain gear.
What 3 days alone in the jungle will do to you.

Now how to get back to civilization.  Without any form of communication, the only thing I had to rely on was that Natu told one of the guide companies to pick me up on the river on my fourth morning as we planned and that the guide company remembered.  I wouldn't have cared to stay longer but I had no more food.  As I waited at the waters edge and watched anxiously as a few companies passed, eventually a boat yelled out my name.  They pulled up to the shore and I hopped in while the people already on the boat looked at me oddly as they tried to figure out where I had come from and what I was doing out here.  Once we got acquainted, I enjoyed another trip down river, this time staying in the boat and then catching a bus back to my hub city, San Jose.

San Jose:

Fish soup with rice, plantains, and dulce leche
at San Jose's central market

Since I spent a bit of time in San Jose as my home base in Costa Rica, figured I owed it a few words. As far as Central American countries go, Costa Rica has given it the best shot at making a hospitable capital. It's not a city I would choose to visit as a sole destination but they have done a good job at making it welcoming to travelers who have to pass through.  They have sprinkled parks here and there providing unique venues for outdoor artwork as well as blocking off the central downtown avenue and making it a pedestrian only thoroughfare.  This Avenida Central is overwhelmed with Tico's (local Costa Ricans) and the occasional tourist most week nights and weekends.  Pedestrians walk in throngs as salesmen try to lure them into their shops or restaurants.  Men spread out plastic sheets in the middle of the avenue trying to sell remote controls, belts, and dvd's of movies that aren't even in theatres yet while women try to sell soap, shampoo, and fake designer hand bags.  There is a an old man who sits under a store awning playing his keyboard and crooning classic tunes not hoping for applause when he finishes a song but just some spare change from a passer-by.  Pigeons stay well above the fray perched precariously on second story window sills while the foot traffic reaches its crescendo in the late afternoon.  For some of these feathered downtown dwellers the urge is too much as they risk getting trampled to go after a fallen french fry.  There is the constant yell of lottery ticket sellers promising winning tickets, trying to urge the people to buy up their remaining supply so they can go home.  There is a bittersweet competition between the impoverished beggars and the non-profit volunteers as to who will collect the most money for their cause.  All this ends in a sprawling indoor market where one can find just about anything especially good food.

The city's layout took me a while to get used to.  San Jose is built between mountain ranges and it seemed no matter where I went I was always walking uphill like some absurd Escher sketch.  After a few outings though I was able to master the streets and choose my route wisely so I was always walking downhill.  As for the architecture, I think the government must have got a deal with communist block architects in the 70's because most of the buildings downtown are big square concrete grey blocks.  There are, however, some surprisingly pleasant structures that sneak up on you as you walk around the city if you keep your eyes open.  One piece of noteworthy architecture is the National Theatre.  It was built at the end of the 19th century in a definitively classic European style and funded by rich coffee plantation owners who wanted a venue worthy of attracting famous composers of the time.  The interior is elaborately decorated with murals spanning up the walls and across the ceilings.  I went in one afternoon to have a look around and was told it was $8 to see the interior.  I asked if there were any performances that night and was told yes.  A concert pianist was performing that evening and the ticket price was $6 dollars.  I'm not sure if the attendant caught the irony in their pricing but I decided to buy a ticket and treat myself to a nice evening of dinner and theatre. 

Street performers outside the Teatro Nacional in San Jose

Although most people may just spend a night in the city before catching a plane or bus to their next destination, I was glad to have the chance to spend more than a few days here and really enjoyed it.

Well I think that is enough for now.  I will get another post out shortly to fill everyone in on Playa Del Coco.  I've already put quite a few photos from some dives under the Costa Rica Photo link if you want to get a head start.

Buenas,

Jay

PS:  Tribute to Fallen Foot Soldiers

I would like to dedicate this post to my flip flops. They have been my sole's only protector on this trip and have put up a good fight.   I have mended their broken thongs until they can be mended no more.  It was hard to let them go as they served me valiantly but it is time.  They are in better place. 

RIP Rubber Soles

PSS: On the upside, one thing about going around barefoot here in Coco is that I have been taken for a local twice.  Having a tan doesn't hurt either.  One time I got the local's price for a coco loco (coconut with rum in it) and the other time a tourist tried to talk to me in broken Spanish asking if I had shoes.  Then before I could say anything, they gave me $5 and walked away.  I tried to up the ante and walk around with no pants since I had some experience with that already in this country but that didn't get me any where good.

Welcome to the Jungle - Part II

Second stop - Corcovado National Park
Again, the slide show below has some of my favorite photos from Corcovado.  Just wanted to make something easily viewable so if folks don't have time to look at all the Costa Rica photos on the right, you can at least get a glimpse of how amazing this park is. 

Slideshow of Corcovado NP

Just getting down to Corcovado was a challenge.  It is located on the extremely isolated Osa Peninsula, still on the Pacific side of Costa Rica but much farther south and sparsely populated.  It has a small one road town called Puerto Jiminez located on the southeastern part of the peninsula which serves as the base for most treks into the national park.  I was told 4 different ways to get there, some people saying I could only get there by ferry.  So after 3 bus transfers and a ferry ride I ended up in P. Jim just in time for the rain to fall from the sky as I looked for accommodations in town.

Now if we compare Manuel Antonio NP to Corcovado NP, it would be like comparing junior high to a masters program.  Corcovado is an extremely large reserve that is said to be one of the most intensely diverse jungles in the world, meaning more wildlife per square meter, filled with the most dangerous creatures Costa Rica has to offer:  jaguars, pumas, crocodiles, bull sharks, 2 of the most poisonous snakes in the world, etc., etc.

To get to the central ranger station, called Sirena Lodge, where the best wildlife spotting is, it is either an 8 hour hike or a 15 minute plane ride.  I opted for the plane ride since that gave me more time in the heart of the park and even though a guide was expensive, this jungle is the real deal, and I wanted to make the most of my time inside the park so I hired one.  Luckily, at the airport (or concrete shed down the street from the tarmac) I met another guy, Will, in a similar situation as mine, so we buddied up and split the cost of the guide.

Once we landed, we met up with our guide, Natu, and took off immediately down the trails.  We hiked non-stop for the next three days waking up before sunrise and returning just after it had set. The main thing that surprised me about the jungle was the scent.  It was a very distinct smell that permeates through everything.  It was a combination of rotting vegetation, wet trees, animals, sweat, rain, and mud.  It wasn't a displeasurable smell but a soft musk that never left your senses and made you definitively aware of your surroundings.  

The one major rule Natu told us was never to run no matter what we encountered because that will just trigger the predatory instincts of whatever we were facing.  This philosophy worked well up until one point when it was foiled by the pesky park rangers.

We had seen fresh tracks everywhere, smelled their extremely strong musk, and heard other people had spotted them just before us but for the first day and a half we could not find a pack of pakari.  They are like javelina but more aggressive.  If you don't know what javelina are, they are basically wild boar.  We had taken a break near the ranger station and Natu went to check down one more trail to see if they were around.  He came running back waving his arms telling us to hurry up as they were just down the trail.  A couple of the rangers were interested also because they had heard of a large pack of pakari that were more aggressive than usual and had an extremely large male with an all white face as their leader.

Sure enough this was them and it was a pack of about 40 or so.  The musk from these animals was extremely intense, almost suffocating.  We kept pressing to get closer and closer with Natu in the lead, the two rangers behind him, and then myself and Will.  When we got within about 15 meters, we gained the attention of a few males in the back of the pack who began to face us.  Then suddenly, making his way to the front to contest our presence and tout his dominance, was the mature white faced pakari we had heard about.  We were now in a bluffing contest with a formidable opponent to see who would make the first move.  With his course black hair at attention forming a rigid mohawk running from the crown of his head down the length of his back, he began making a clacking sound by snapping his jaws together which in turn gained the attention of the rest of the pack who followed suit.  This clacking sound could best be imitated by forcefully striking the souls of two wooden shoes together repeatedly.  And when a pack of these beasts is making this noise, it can have the effect of making humans, that would be me, second guess their intentions of tracking such a large group of wild animals that have razor sharp 6 inch tusks protruding from their jaws.  

After a few more males joined the front line with their leader, they decided to make the first move and call our bluff.  They made a short charge of a few meters then stopped as we held our ground but this rattled the rangers more than I would have hoped.  Natu kept telling them not to run but when the frontrunners made a second charge at us, the rangers turned tail and were off to the races.  I think they were well aware of the motto, "As long as you aren't the slowest..." Natu looked back at us and said, "Well, we have to run now too."  So here we are, 5 grown men being chased through a Costa Rican jungle by a pack of crazed pakari.  Natu turned to check their status and since they had stopped giving chase he told all of us to stop also.  Well I guess the pakari didn't think we ran far enough because they again ensued upon us with more tenacity than ever where by we again began to run.  This time they began gaining a bit of ground and then the words that you are told in the pre-pakari safety briefing, but hope you never have to actually put into action, came out of the ranger's mouth:  "Climb a tree!"

Now if I may take a moment here to get on my soap box.  To me this is where the US education system has failed us.  I can do the hell out of some differential equations and can even tell you what the importance of being earnest is but I am not aware of any time during my prolonged education career of being taught how to quickly pick out a tree in a jungle while running at top speed so that I may climb to a safe position above man eating hogs.  A simple life saving measure such as this could have been taught in a single PE class but instead our schools are more concerned with making sure we can run a timed mile that meets the government's standards so they look good on paper.  I would rather have learned the skill of being able to pick out a life saving tree to place in my assortment of life's accoutrements than making sure I can run a mile within the State's rigid standard of 15 minutes.

Anyway, back to the action.  So since our school system has failed us, I am forced to do some quick on-the-job training.  I am running, looking at trees, hoping I don't slip, trying to find a tree in font of me that is skinny enough for me to hold onto but not so skinny that it will snap under my weight, hopefully one without thorns, hopefully the one I spot up ahead isn't taken by someone else in front of me first, hopefully when I jump into it it isn't rotten at the base and doesn't timber over, hopefully there isn't a snake resting in it at eye level enjoying the show but now all of a sudden staring at the large white eyes of a homosapien who is well within his strike zone, a low branch to place my foot in would be nice too.  Is that asking too much?

It's funny how much can go through your mind in times like these.  I do remember I was laughing as I was running just thinking how amazingly entertaining this must be to an outside observer who at the time I wished had been me but no, I was enjoying this fiasco first hand.  Finally after what felt like 30 seconds, but was probably closer to 3, I have my ideal tree in sight.  It looks perfect as if it was plucked from the Garden of Eden and placed here just for me.  Right as I am about to jump with all my life's hopes literally resting on its branches, Natu yells "Stop!"  We turn to look and the pakari have yielded chase feeling they have made their point clear enough for the time being and our lesson has been learned.  Indeed it has.  We breathe a bit easier and smile at each other.  Natu turns to all of us and says with a grin, "Wasn't that exciting!"  Definitely getting my moneys worth on this one.

Just to make sure I did learn my lesson, I proceed to my tree of life and give it a climb.  It holds firm and I think well that wasn't so difficult, giving a boost to my false sense of confidence in the event of a next time.

At this point we feel we have all had our fill of pakari encounters for the day and head back to the ranger station.  From here on out, things that would have before caused a more tentative outlook took on a milder and carefree tone.  Like wading chest deep across a river where just 50 yards downstream a 10 ft croc is basking in the sun.  Or making sure we only go off the main trails in the morning because if we go off them later in the day and are bit by a snake the chances of getting us out and to any kind of medical facility decrease drastically along with the odds to survive.

But we had our trust in Natu and he never lead us astray.  We followed troops of Howler, Squirrel, and Spider monkeys through the canopies.  As the latter didn't always appreciate our encroachment, we were on constant alert for missiles in the form of large tree branches and the occasional shower of urine which they deemed a fair deterrent.   We were within 5 ft of a large tapir who decided we were too close for his liking and stampeded through our weak blockade easily forcing us to break rank.  We waited patiently in the sands of the beach where the outflowing river fought the incoming high tide and bull shark fins materialized in the confused waters to take advantage of smaller fish caught in the tidal mix.  We briefly caught the ghost-like glimmer of a jaguar as it moved like lightening from one hiding place to the next while in pursuit of pakari.  And finally we enjoyed the relaxed 18 km hike out that hugged the southwest coast of the park taking us through jungle, along the beach, and at the base of cliffs allowing us to spot macaws, ant-eaters, and bats.

It would be hard to top this outing thinking of what else I planned to do.  As chance would have it, Natu is also an extremely experienced rafting guide who has his own lodge on the Pacuare River, Costa Rica's premier river for rafting.  So we made plans to meet up the next weekend to once again put my life in his hands.  More about that next time.

Cheers,
JB

Welcome to the Jungle - Part I

I knew Costa Rica had plenty to offer an adventurous mind such as myself from what I heard on the road but prior to crossing the border and going straight to San Jose, the capital city just about centered in the country, I had done, I would say, close to zero amount of research on the region.

I spent a few days in San Jose to sort through the multitude of sights and activities that are somehow packed into such a small country:  zip lining, surfing, scuba diving, white water rafting, jungle treks, volcano treks, cloud forests, ... the list goes on.  With some detailed planning and timely effort, a well built itinerary could be put together to neatly encompass all the major attractions with one well coordinated swoop.  But who wants to do that especially since it would take time, time I felt could be better spent practicing my Spanish in late night bars.  So after talking to a few experienced Costa Rican travelers, the sentence 'One of the most intensely diverse jungles in the world is down south.' struck my fancy.  Maybe it's because I had recently spent so much time on the beach that my evolutionary DNA was yearning me forward, to move from the sea farther inland, to the canopied shade of the forest, where man was first born.  But that is getting a bit to existential for this blog and well beyond its intended scope.  I will stick with what works:  funny human interactions with insects, animals, mother nature, or other humans who may or may not be living an altered existence, ie. drunk or high.  There is plenty of this below.

So, I packed up some essentials, left the rest of my earthly possessions in a 'secure' storage room at my hostel in San Jose not knowing exactly when I would return, headed out with some cryptic notes, and hoping I remembered at least a quarter of the info people had told me.

First stop - Manuel Antonio National Park
The slide show below has some of my favorite photos from Manuel Antonio.  Just wanted to make something easily viewable so if folks don't have time to look at all the Costa Rica photos on the right, you can at least get a glimpse of how amazing this park is.

Slideshow of Manuel Antonio NP

Manuel Antonio town is on the Pacific side of the country a bit over midway down the coast.  The national park starts where the town's beachside road ends.  Due to its ease of access, abundant wildlife that can be spotted from the main jeep trail cutting through the park, and secluded, sparsely populated white sand beaches it is a must see for most travelers to the country.  Before I delve into the park itself, just a quick quip about my time in Manuel Antonio town.

While trying to make sense of my notes on where it was suggested I stay, the bus driver randomly dropped me off across from a picturesque 5 tiered hostel positioned at the top of the large hill that leads into the town itself.  It had endless views down the southern coast and a pool at its lowest tier to soak in during the hot, balmy days.  So much for my notes. This place was great plus I didn't feel like trudging my bag up and down the hilly area blindly searching for some other hostel of whose name I wasn't exactly sure anyway.

Lifeguard on duty.  No tipping.

One of the tiers was a nice social area where most of us who were staying there would commune in during our down time.  One afternoon around 3 pm, two guys from L.A./Mexico (was never really clear which exactly) stumble in completely drunk wearing just swim trunks with a fresh sixer of Bamboo, pre-mixed rum & coke in a can, one already popped open to drink.  Not sure how they found the steps leading down to us or much less made it down them safely but here they stood.  Two able bodied specimens representing the future of America ... or maybe Mexico.

After scanning their immediate surroundings which included myself on the couch reading, an older gentleman cooking, 2 girls on the other couch chatting privately, and a brother and sister at a table doing their spanish lesson.  They obviously only had one choice.  They made their way toward the two girls in what they probably thought was a bee-line (interesting origin of the term 'bee-line' for those who want extra credit on the test when this is over), but in reality their path more closely resembled the contrail of an acrobatic airplane at an air show.  As the rest of us covertly perked our ears to hear the ensuing conversation, the guys started in with loud introductions.  One was Jesus, pronounced 'hey-soos' of course, but he said if you called him 'geez-us' that was ok too.  I eventually called him Richard which he seemed to respond to as well.

Anyway, these guys, after finally reaching their destination a few feet in front of the girls, courteously apologized for their state of apparent drunkenness at 3 in the afternoon but hey, they were on vacation.  After the normal small talk, the conversation quickly shifted to what great marriage prospects they would make to which the girls played along with for a while.  The guys' logic being if we get married then we have to consummate the marriage.  At least their mom raised them right.

Obviously it was an entertaining situation but the thing that struck me as the funniest was as these guys were discussing their vows hoping to consummate the marriage sooner than later, the three-legged mutt who lived at the hostel named Lucky, had trotted just behind these guys, set up camp, and began to lick itself.  I'm not sure if the girls or anyone else noticed this but when two guys are trying to seriously court two women to the best of their abilities, if you throw a three-legged dog licking itself into the picture it raises the entire comedic level at least ten fold.  Not sure if that makes me clever or odd or some combination of the two there of but hopefully if at least one other person gets a laugh out of that, I will feel satisfied with my work.

As you can imagine, the rest of us eventually joined in the conversation and in the drinking of spirits in the early afternoon.  The two guys shared the rest of their Bamboo as we shared the few beer bottles we pooled together from our refrigerator, we celebrated two Costa Rican weddings (I was best man for one and ring bearer for the other), the guys passed out around 8 pm to the relief of their brides, and the rest of us headed to Quepos, the nearby 'party' town, to have a night out.  As you can see from the picture, pickings were slim in Quepos but it was an evening well spent:

The Jay Bird trying out newly acquired ambush skills.

Now back to the point of this posting, the jungle.

Manuel Antonio NP, as I said earlier, has one main jeep trail running through its center with a few small single track trails leading to secluded beaches.  Guides could be had for $20 but it was just as easy to follow a group that had a guide and listen in for free.  I'm no dummy.

The scene of quiet groups interspersed down the long hall-like trail focusing their attention intently at a particular piece of underbrush which their guide had pointed out reminded me of something more akin to an art gallery with small groups spread about looking at abstract paintings while an art critic explains what they are looking at.  The onlookers look at the piece long enough until they finally 'get it' and see the object of the painting.  Or like one of those stereogram paintings at the mall, of which I could never do, where you are supposed to relax your eyes and look through the image until it popped out right in front of you  Well, you would be amazed how close you could be to a  10 in. stick bug, while knowing exactly what you are looking for and even where it is, without spotting it, before it finally pops out at you.

The pictures and slideshow share the bulk of the experience better than I could explain in words.  So I will let them do the rest of the talking and finish up Part II.

Aside from visiting the park, I spent one long morning getting pummeled by 8 - 10 ft waves just trying to survive the paddle out to surf a few of the smaller ones.  I also ended up hiking through someone's private pasture with the brother and sister from the hostel on our way to find a secluded beach.   We found out it was private because like love, being pissed-off seems to also be an international language that is easily understood no matter what phrases someone is yelling at you.

Cheers,
JB

Shark Week and a Half on the Bay Islands

When I read what I had written for this post it seemed a bit dull at parts so I decided to take out all the dribble that connects the story and just put down the highlights.  Calling them highlights is actually a bit of a stretch.  These are just the bits that make the trip interesting.

Just a quick set up.  I did return back to Roatan to pick up where I left off after my brief stint back home in the States.  I had some buddies, Frank and Axel, already waiting for me on Utila where we planned to attend Sun Jam Festival and hang out for the next week and a half.  I wrote about Sun Jam in my last post so here is the rest.

A one street town:
Utila is a tiny island comprised of a small airport, backpackers looking for a cheap stay, and one street along the bay that is crammed with dive shops, hostels, restaurants/bars, and churches to save the heathens.  About the only thing going for this street is that it is paved and just wide enough for a small truck and slim pedestrian to pass each other on with some effort.  Luckily there is only one truck on the island however it usually drives down the middle of the road and since it is bigger than a person, it has the right of way meaning pedestrians jump for the concrete ditch.  Aside from the truck though, there are plenty of other vehicles that can maim you just as easily including golf carts, mopeds, dirt bikes, bicycles, tuk-tuks, and peddle powered carts with natural gas tanks dangling loosely off the side as cargo.  It's no UPS but it makes for an interesting finale to a delivery when the the driver is trying to stop his contraption heading down hill with his flip-flops since he has no brakes.

Sand Flies:
There are two gorgeous white sand beaches at each end of town with turquoise water gently lapping the sand and palm trees overhead but to enjoy them you take the risk of getting swarmed by sand flies.  If you are unfamiliar with sand flies, I will explain.  They are about as small as a flea and attack any bare skin available.  We tried insect repellent with mixed results.  We were told to try baby oil and it seemed to help a bit better but after a day on the beach your skin feels like you just went sightseeing at a sand paper factory with all the sand you collect.  They seem to have built up resistance to any type of 'protective' coating you apply and you don't really notice you've been attacked usually until it is too late.  All the sudden you are covered in small red dots.  If you are lucky they just begin to itch in a few days and that lasts for a week or so.  If you are unlucky, you may have some type of allergy to them and get whelps all over your body like our buddy Axel.  The best part about this was that every local we talked to had a different remedy for the bites and when the bites are this bad, you are willing to try anything.  My favorite was when a large Caribbean waitress we had told Axel the best thing is lime juice.  She then got him to take off his shirt in the restaurant and rub juice from a half cut lime all over his upper torso.  He left a generous tip.  Not sure if it helped the bites but it was an entertaining show for us and the rest of the patrons.

Axel enjoying his dessert lime rub down.

Shark Dive:
After getting tired with Utila, which didn't take long, we headed over to Roatan.  Roatan is much larger than Utila.  It takes about 45 minutes to drive from one end to the other.   It is set up to accommodate more of the cruise ship type visitors meaning things are more expensive.  The guys wanted to stay at a swank hotel since we slummed it in Utila.  The swankiest place we could find was about a 3 star with a pool and garden area that welcomed destination weddings.  We tried to crash one for free drinks and food by pretending we were the wedding singers but when we started to sing "Push It" by Salt-n-Pepa our guise was up.  On my budget, I wasn't able to help too much for the bill at this place so will probably owe Axel and Frank my first born.  I told them he is probably out there somewhere already and they can fight over who gets weekends.

The hotel is set on a gorgeous white sand beach in West Bay however again it is only suitable if you have genetically modified your DNA to repel sand flies.  The Italian tourists surprisingly have either surpassed America in gene modification or don't care about sand fly bites as long as they look good lying on the beach in there speedos.  But I'm not sure 'look good' and 'speedos' go together.

We talked to the event coordinator at the hotel about renting motorcycles to tour the island.  He advised us heavily against this as being way to dangerous and instead offered up that we should instead go diving with reef sharks.  He convinced us this was the safer option and so we did what any smart person would do and signed up.  Here is the link to a video I put together of our dive:

Roatan Shark Video

(Noah, the next time you go to Hawaii, get your dad to take you shark diving there.  It's much safer because they use a cage...for you, not the sharks;)

Last night of Karaoke:

Night Boating:  Just as dangerous as drunk driving
          but without the jail time

Frank back up dancing to "Like a Virgin"

For our last night before the guys left we decided to head to West End which is the next bay over from West Bay and is a bit rowdier.  As we took the water taxi over there just after sunset, which means its dark and not the best idea, we noticed the power went out on the island...again.We found a Thai restaurant that still had the means to cook and there is nothing more romantic than three men eating a candle lit dinner on a beach.  After a couple of hours, power finally came back on and we went to the bar next door that appeared to be setting up karaoke.  Figured we could use some practice since our wedding singing debut wasn't that hot.  So after we built up our liquid courage, we hit the stage with 'Pour some sugar on me'.  I think at one point we had back up dancers on stage with us or maybe we were backup dancers.  Can't remember.  We sang a few more songs though out the evening,  made a few more friends and thanks to Frank's persistence, were awarded the last song of the night.  Frank was set on singing 'Push It' again but once we started into it either we still needed more practice or they were giving free money away in the street because everyone turned and abruptly left the bar.  After the song was over we also left the now empty bar and followed the crowd to the 'late' night bar to drink our sorrows away which didn't take long.


As the night progressed, we were almost kicked out of the country for bringing in an invasive species that has been banned from the island.  It has a bite that stings longer than the sand fly's and can leave you scarred for life.  A rare photo of this elusive species was taken and I posted it below so it can be avoided at all costs and reported to the authorities if seen in your area.  It is the land shark:

Land shark attack on local girl's calf.

Post Script:
Luckily for the country and probably me, the guys left the next morning after their week and a half visit.  I had intended to spend a few months in Utila or Roatan working at a dive shop but just really wasn't that into the islands here.  The diving is cheap but it doesn't make up for the random power outages, bad food, cramped streets, and sand flies.  So after much internal debate I decided to take the 3 day bus trip, which I wasn't looking forward to, down to Costa Rica.

I had to spend the night again in everyone's favorite Honduran city to pronounce, Tegucigulpa.  This time I was able to stay in a bit nicer accommodations than last time I passed through here however the Hondurans were sure to foil any relaxing time I was to spend in their capital.  As it happened the Honduran Welcoming Committee that was hanging out in the alley below my window thought the 80's music they were blasting from their blown car speakers would sooth me to sleep when in actuality it only hastened my need to get out of this country or at least the hotel.  But the HWC is always one step ahead of the tourists.  When I finally had enough and was going to step outside for a bit, the power went out.  The good thing about this is when the power goes out in the city it effects all the street lights which are helpful when walking in the dark but it doesn't effect the loud music coming from your car.  It actually intensifies it as there is no other noise to help drown it out.  I was still determined to leave the hotel but conveniently learned that the electronic locks on the hotel doors that keep bad people out also keep guests locked in when they have no power.  I am sure there is a plan in the event of a fire when there is no power but I was unable to call the fire inspector since the phones didn't work either.

Aside from that, getting through Honduras was uneventful.  I passed through Nicaragua staying overnight in the capital, Managua without issue.  I decided to forego any sightseeing in Nicaragua not because it isn't worth it but because I had spent a week and a half there already for a friend's wedding a couple years ago and figured I could not out do that trip especially by myself.

Once across the border in Costa Rica things felt different in a good way.  I headed straight to San Jose, which is the capital in the middle of the country, to take a few days and figure out my plan for things to see and do here since I had no plan of what I was going to do once I arrived except get to San Jose.  I am currently down south doing some treks through the jungle then plan to head back up north to do some diving and hopefully stay put for a while on the Pacific side.

Hope everyone is well and I hope to have some great photos from the jungle for my next post.
It's always good to hear from you.

Cheers,
Jay

Sun Jam - back to reality....of sorts

It's been a while but I am back on the road.  Just sending out a write up of a festival I went to in Honduras with two buddies shortly after I returned there.  I am currently in San Jose, Costa Rica still getting somethings together and will send out a more complete update soon but figured you could enjoy this in the mean time. 

Sun Jam is an annual festival held the first weekend of August on a 3 acre, deserted private island called Water Key located six miles from Utila, Honduras.   No cameras were allowed on the island so I couldn't take any pictures which is probably better for everyone there. 


 This is one account:

Obviously the only way to get there is by boat.  It is a tiny island.  We were warned to steer clear of the local fishing boats as they are accident prone especially at night since they usually have no lights along with the fact that the boat captains maybe drunk, high, hallucinating, or a combination of any there of. 

As it turned out, however, the only boats we see available to take us to Water Key are the aforementioned fishing boats.  So we jump into the 35' by 5' single engine boat packing in alongside with as many other party goers that will fit and are willing to pay the $5 'ferry' fee.  I don't look around for any official insignia that states the maximum occupancy of the boat because a) I am sure there isn't one and b) I am sure we are well over it.  Honestly, I wouldn't trust this boat to save me in my own bath tub and can easily see why Hondurans aren't known for their sea-fairing capability but hey, we couldn't miss the party.

None of us passengers are sure how far it is to the key.  We just assume it is somewhere out there, in the direction the boat is heading.  As we got out of the bay into choppier waters, the fishing boat teeters side to side even more like some misaligned see-saw.  I scan my immediate surroundings for any type of life saving device.  I don't notice anything that will help me stay afloat but do notice that a few others have tents, bags, blankets, etc... for the all night festival and began to second guess my choice of only having the festival minimum - shirt, shorts, flip flops, money, and my license in the event my body had to be identified the next morning (safety first).

The sun is already setting as the boat continues to slosh through the waves.  We keep passing little islands thinking that the next one will be it.  Then finally we hear something in the distance like a dull heartbeat.  We can't tell exactly where it is coming from but it is a good sign that there is life out there floating in the abyss in front of us.  The boat begins to point directly at the black silhouette of one of the little islands now and the pulse loudens a bit.  We can see intermittent lights twirling out of the darkness acting like beacons to our boat.  

As we approach, there is a large barge beached in front of us and as we round its stern the festival's sound hits us full force and welcomes us to the shore.  Our captain drives his boat straight onto shore and the sand gently hugs the bottom of the boat before bringing it to an abrupt halt.  We jump off the bow into the shallow waters ready to invade the island like some sort rag tag seal team.  I'm not sure we would be very well suited to take over anything except for the bar.  I see the barge next to us is there for a reason.  It is loaded with porta-potties in the event there is something you can't handle amongst the shadows of the trees however the gang plank they have jerry-rigged to get on board this thing would make the most hardened pirate think twice about using it.

Once on solid ground we are corralled into the ticket line to pay admission, get checked by security, and told to have a good time.  A few steps passed the entrance and the stage becomes apparent.  It is a full on concert stage nestled between the trees and covered in lights with a mass of people dancing in front of it.  Some have been here since early afternoon.  We turn to look at each other to determine our next move.  From the look on our extremely sober faces it is obvious we need to head directly to whatever booth they have set up that serves alcohol.  It's only 7:30 pm and we have to make it until the next morning.  I am already scouting out places in the sand that look comfortable enough to pass out in.  

We make our way through the dancing mob to the row of tables that represents the bar.  We make the first one a double to try and catch up a little.  When we go back for the second, they are already out of ice but are told more is on the way on one of those reliable fishing boats.  So we are forced to drink warm rum and cokes while a few folks pound some Red Bulls to help them make it through the night. 


After a few more drinks we merge in with the growing crowd in front of the stage.  It's still the same beat but at full intensity.  You can feel it in your chest and can't tell the difference between your own heart beating and the music.  The dj lays different tunes and sounds over the beat to capture the mood of his audience but the pulse never stops.  Talking is pointless.  Just screams from the crowd can be heard. Lights flash on and off on the crowd creating a strobe effect that seems to slow down time and space.  Laser lights shoot out of the stage zapping everyone and making alien shapes in the low hanging branches that act as the ceiling of this outdoor auditorium.  


The time comes for a break.  We venture out beyond the protection of the stage lights into the darkness engulfing the rest of the tiny island.  We let our eyes adjust  and everything in front of us is just a silhouette with the starry night sky as the background.  We can make out little groups of tents scattered here and there.  Hammocks strung between trees.  A few camp fires not too far away with people around them and small embers like fire flies buzzing around their mouths.  After walking in any one direction for no more than 50 yards, being careful not to step on anyone, you come to the edge of the island which is usually a nice sandy beach.  


We have enough fresh air and head back to the source of the music.  We repeat this process and each time we venture beyond the boundary of the lights we see something new.  Fire dancers, people selling food, couples intertwined in the sand, thrill seekers walking on a bed of burning embers and convincing some of us to give it a go as well, drug takers staring at a hermit crab as it carries its home down the beach.  Something for everyone.


Finally after a while we have lost each other and I decide it is time for me to find a place to lay down.  I set out to find a comfortable patch of sand and try to hide from the never-ending beat.  On the edge of the island I lay my back in the sand and move around enough until it adjusts to the contour of my body.  There is a small fallen tree that I use as my pillow and then I shut my eyes.

When they open again I still hear the same beat as before.  It is still dark but you can tell the sun is about to peak over the horizon because the stars are no longer visible.  As the sun rises, clouds shade the sting of the suns first rays for all those weary eyes on the island.  Some people are sitting in circles in the shallow water just off the beach taking it all in.  Some are laying sprawled out in a spot that last night seemed secluded but in the dawn they stand out like a peacock on a hog farm.  And there is still the beat, the pulse.  It seems to be the only thing keeping the small, diminished crowd in front of the stage going.    


I walk around the island to see it in the day light and the aftermath the festival has caused.  Then I sit to watch as the dj announces that this is the final song.  As it ends the crowd screams for an encore.  Once its all finally over, the crowd makes its way to the beach to go back to Utila on the trusty fishing boats that brought us here.  We are told each one is the last back as the locals try to rush us on the boats but I find it more entertaining to sit in the sand and watch the revelers get man-handlded and crammed onto the boats.  Finally there are just a few of us left and one more boat shows up so I decide I should probably jump on this one.  


It's a quiet sunny ride back to Utila.  It is around 9 am and the one street on the island is mixed with the zombies that are getting back from the party making their way to their beds and local islanders who are dressed up and starting their day by heading to church as it is Sunday.  


I am the last one in our trio to get back to the room.  We exchange moaned greetings acknowledging that the 3 of us have all made it back in one piece.  And then I fall into my bed and go to sleep.