4 days in Costa Rica

48 hours of bus riding over 5 days. Cold, cold air-conditioning is a shock after hot humid Panama. Border scams and long lines at 7am. My first new unknown tropical fruit juice across the border is sweet and delicious. In San Jose the bus terminal area is sketchy and I haven't changed any money yet for a taxi, but I somehow obtain a free guide who walks me to my hostel. Everyone here is amazingly friendly. In the park, I can hardly write my letter with so many people stopping to talk.


Monteverde bus leaves early and passes through gorgeous green mountains and up a steep dirt road. Hostel owner is pure loveliness: gay, braids, lots of cute threats to punish me if I don't brush my teeth or wear pajamas. Wind whips through my hair as I speed along cables high above the canopy. So fast! Epiphytes drown the tall trees in lush greenness.


Salsa dancing, live music, fun travelers. What the best hostels are all about. Up again at dawn and hiking through the cloud forest reserve. Fairy mists swirl over wooden stepping stones and under mossy fallen logs, strident bird calls are all that pierce the thick stillness.


Missed my stop to Heredia, but still manage to borrow a cell phone and call Andrea to come pick me up. Her mother is deep hugs of warmth and goodness, her house is tiled and tasteful. We drink a beer high above the twinkling lights of the town in a bar of wooden walls lit only by candles and christmas lights. First good sleep in days and a sunny morning walk through the main streets before I head home with my new Panamanian visa in hand (thanks to my Smithsonian ID and my blue eyes).

The Hammock

The lonely empty hammock hooks gaze at me beseechingly. I must do something. Waiting for the bus, I meet a middle-aged man missing some important teeth. I lend him 25 cents and he tells me how amazing it is to do something for others. I agree. The bus fills up quickly and I am jammed against a window with my knees pulled in tight, unpleasant smells wafting closer. I open the window and the crisp scent of wet forest rushes over my face.

I switch buses at Terminal Nacional and ask someone where to get off for Plaza Cinco de Mayo. I walk the wrong way down a crowded street, vendors on both sides, the thick grease of fried meat in the air. A man walks five feet behind me, whistling every few steps. I am not scared, we are surrounded by people, but it is unsettling to be followed. Eventually I stop, turn, and stare straight at him and he slinks away, off the sidewalk, his head down. I realize that I am going away from my destination, and buy some cashew fruits as I backtrack.

The hammock store is open on two sides, covered by a wooden roof. I pass over the bright colorful patterns of fish and triangles, they are all acrylic. I find one of a simple thick cotton. It is cheap, which is why I came to this neighborhood not frequented by tourists. My light eyes and skin stand out as I try to find where to catch the returning bus. A drunk man stops me and asks where I'm from. He tries to grab my arm, a friendly but undesired gesture, and I shake him off sternly. He tells me I'm beautiful, and I cross the busy street with no obvious traffic signals, dodging the speeding buses, trying to find my transport.

I finally find it, near a trash dump. Broken concrete blocks covered in bright plastic and fruit peels, the sweet heavy scent of rot behind a sagging chain link fence. A man hanging out the door of the moving bus tells the driver to stop when I flag him down. There are already people crowded into the aisle; I squeeze on and stumble as I attempt to steady myself with the ceiling rail while still holding my bags. An elderly woman seated next to me wordlessly reaches out and puts my hammock bag onto her lap. I feel so grateful for her compassionate perceptivity.

At home, the hammock is perfect. I drink cold mango juice and take a nap.

Barro Colorado Island Nature Monument

obnoxious alarm at 6:30am on a saturday...why am i doing this? my body aches but i scramble to dress and pack lunch and race as fast as the rusty bike will roll to the dock. a sleepy boat ride, watching the flirtatious giggling interactions of a preteen school group loaded with fancy cameras. coffee surreptitiously slipped from the cafeteria helps and the humid heat hits hard. dim and misty under the tall canopy, the harsh barks of howler monkeys muted. scaly armadillo scuttles ahead and tamarin monkeys drop delicious red fruit at our feet. bright colors spring from a background of rich thick Green and musky browns. fig bats squeak gently to one another, hanging upside-down from tiny wing hooks on the bark of Big Tree. a brook chatters to me, burbling over mossy rocks and under a fallen log. root stairs, flying rectangle, disappearing trails. heavy spider silk catches my face and is strong enough to stop forward movement. jungle treasure surrounds, waiting to be found. cicadas scream, louder than expected when next to an unsuspecting ear. a nap in the sun above the world, indecisive raindrops cool, impromptu picnic. red faced, chigger-bitten ankles, mosquito covered, tick sanctuary, bliss.

Pig shit gas stove

This is the contraption which I mentioned in my previous post...Fermented pig shit, straight to the kitchen where the farmer and his family use the gas to cook!