Rhythm and Soul- Costa Rica to Panama

Post date: Jul 8, 2010 6:37:15 PM

From Monte Verde, the mystical jungle wonderland in the cloudy Costa Rican Continental Divide, I journeyed to the capital of Costa Rica, San Jose, for a dancing pitstop. The road down the mountain was far nicer than the road up, for which my motorcycle gave me a clear “thank you” by not falling apart. The rains fell as I approached the City, and some friendly staff at the busiest McDonalds I’ve ever been to directed me to my hostel, Hostel Galileo.

It was bought by some American travelers from some folks who believed that it was Galileo (not Magellan) who first circumnavigated the globe. Hence the hostel’s icon of a backpacker hiking on earth. This hostel turned out to be the funnest place I’ve stayed yet.

Hostelling is for budget travelers, travelers with high tolerances for lack of commodities (backpackers), and highly social travelers. Bring together a bunch of poor, free-spirited, fun-loving people from around the world, and it’s bound to be interesting. Hostels offer both private and dorm rooms, and the dorms typically consist of a dozen bunk beds in a room costing on average $10/night. Supposing you can handle shared sleeping quarters, shared bathrooms, shared kitchen facilities (which rarely have ovens and often have one or two working burners and no microwave), it’s a terrific way to save some money and meet interesting people. You sit around in the common areas, sharing adventure stories, tales of robbery, scenic tour experiences, flight, bus, and (in my case, motorcycle) debacles, and background information on one’s homeland. It’s educative and fun. They’re usually dirty as a group of four college guys’ apartment. You do your own dishes, bring your own towels, and lock up your own stuff so that it doesn’t get stolen, which is a problem at some hostels.

Here in Central America, toilet paper is never flushed for some reason. You just stuff it into the overflowing garbage bin beside you. You wash your hands well in Central America.

For the most part, I’ve been drinking only bottled water, which is about as expensive as the states. It adds up. I’ve had diarrhea twice since my trip began. Pretty good, considering the warnings. I’ve even Mexican ice and survived. The diarrhea, I think, was food related, and it was nothing like the Brazilian monster that attacked my intestines years ago. In San Jose, the water is potable (drinkable). And it tasted fine. Less chemicalled than San Diego’s, and it wasn’t well-tasting at all.

Night 1 I got my dance on at Club Vertigo, which a fellow couchsurfer recommended to me. I was really looking for a big, electronic dance festival, not a club, but it sufficed. Everyone was dressed up. The nicest dressed Latino/a’s I’ve seen yet. And clearly image-conscious. They seemed awfully interested in looking good, not dancing, which is what brought me there. The $9 cover is hefty, but whatever. They played in one of the rooms a music I’d never heard before called “Charanga.” It’s a tropical fusion of electronica, pop, salsa, and hip hop. Not very good, in my opinion. I preferred the house/trance room. I ended up being the most animated dancer there, but ended up getting annoyed by all the people there who just didn’t get into it. Not even that many smiles. Sad.

Day 2, San Jose. I was persuaded by some folks at the hostel to join them at Jaco Beach, and considering I was likely to sleep all day after dancing and hanging out into the wee hours, I figured “why not?” I don’t like to ride tired, and I wanted to look over the bike before I left as well. The first bus to Jaco was packed- not even standing room. So we took the second coach bus, which was full, but we managed to purchase standing-room only tickets. It was a 3 hr ride through mountains and traffic. I was exhausted, practically slept standing up, and when I got really tired, I finally sat down in the aisle on the back wall of the bus. There I was actually able to lay down fully behind/beneath the rearmost seats. Felt like a kid. But, hey, I nodded off for a couple seconds.

I went with Phillip the German, Ida and Mikel the Swedes, Courtney the Australian, Julie the New Zealander, and Samantha the Chilean. It was funny, this mixed batch of earthlings crashing into the waves together in the same ocean.

While some of the crew attempted to surf without experience, and in rough waters containing a rip current, I napped and took a jog down the beach. Got red stripes on my belly from the sun. It was beautiful. We left at sunset. The ride home pleasured us with cushy seats. And yet again, I stayed up late, and yet again, they convinced me to stay one more day- this time for the 4^th of July party. My reasoning was the same (I need to sleep and work on my bike anyways!)

Never a patriotic person, this 4^th of July caught me by surprise. I take that back- there was one time last year, on 9-11-09, when I saw a man holding a giant Star Spangled Banner from a bridge over highway 5 in San Diego while on my way to work, by which I was spontaneously strummed with emotions of appreciation for such humble pride. It actually brought me tears. The music I was listening to at the moment likely set the tone, as so often music has a way of loosening my knots. On 9-11-01, the day of the great attack, I felt no anger, violation, or sorrow. I was intrigued by the drama and the reactions of those around me. My cynicism and unconditioned identity removed me from what I felt to be socially-reinforced behaviors of antagonism towards the event. This is a taboo sentiment. I recognize this. What is a journal of lies? Some may fear that impetuosity and brazenness of my beliefs. To be non-conflictive with others is a convenience I often choose. I respect others perspectives. Perhaps restraining beliefs, though, however controversial, is restraining personal and societal progress. Somewhere is the balance between respect and “standing up for what you believe.”

So, I was surprised once again by the honesty of my pride in America on the 4^th of July in San Jose, Costa Rica. It was more than singing, Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” with my fellow hostelers. It was beyond speaking from the heart the words of the song, “Proud to be an American.” Something in me has been triggered by my experiences with the police in Mexico, the buses of Guatemala, the water of Nicaragua, the lack of channel cats in the Costa Rican rivers I fly over. The United States of America is innocent as a child and holds its integrity proudly. Criminals, pollution, power-hunger, and idolatry of media… for this is America guilty, but there is a genuine intent of good will beneath and above it all that supercedes its shortcomings. To make the most of life while it graces us- that is our dream, our job, and our bullseye.

America IS the best country on the planet.

There is now the love for the Fatherland in me that I can only hope to expand as has happened with the eternal laughing boy, the Dalai Lama, who said, “I can genuinely say that I am a citizen of planet Earth.” Mind you the Dalai Lama to me is in no way a religious figure. He is a simply an honest man with loads of compassion. Dissolve the religions and the politics (and there is seldom much difference between the two), and boil down what is good until what remains is the essence of love, and watch individual and social illnesses vaporize.

What, perhaps, this trip is teaching me, is that there aspects of my personality that will never disappear entirely. Despite my distaste for preaching behavior, there can be no testimony of opinion without a resemblance to a preacher. This is one’s right and one’s duty- to be as true to oneself as is possible (whatever that may mean!), regardless of the consequences.

A sleepless night in Gamboa, Panama has flipped this journal in an unexpected direction! I return to the cataloguing of my experiences.

As previously mentioned, hostels greet you with a mixed batch of world travelers. Who would have thought that there’s a Swedish girl whose favorite band is Metallica, and who can therefrom educate one on the trivia of the band? Who knew that an American could be so upset about the definition of an “ex-patriot?” There are retired men who move to Costa Rica, still drawing Social Security from the States, who call them sell “ex-pats,” or basically “former Americans.” Some of them essentially buy Latina love, marrying them with money. It’s quite twisted.

I met a German who taught me that foreigners visit Germany with the sole purpose of renting a Porsche in order to do 200+mph on the infamous Autobahn. He himself had rented a BMW or Mercedes and done 140mph on it, claiming it to be quite an experience. I think I’d like to try! He also said that motorcycling is a bit dangerous there due to the lack of “nice” days to ride and the exuberance of riders on those days where riding IS nice. His mother works in a hospital and tells her son about the horrors she sees in the emergency rooms. A packed highway with no speed limit and dozens of speed-crazy riders zipping in and out of lanes is bound to complicate transportation for the day.

A New Zealander accompanied the hostel during my stay. She is a polite, introverted, tougher-than-nails-but-won’t-reveal-it-type, and it was interesting to see her tucked in her bunk upstairs, with the parties bumping below, while she stared at her computer. I suspect her to be privately studying the behaviors of us all coming and going in the night. I pass no judgment. I appreciate the inquisitive mind! Besides, my suspicions are not always accurate.

A Chilean lawyer taught me that Chile has no juries. It’s the plaintiff, defendant, lawyers, and judge. Period. “Why permit those without knowledge of the laws the power to pass judgment?” she says is the Chilean judicial philosophy. Makes a lot of sense. I proceeded to laugh with my story of how I avoided jury duty in the States with a dramatic letter detailing the ways in which fulfilling my patriotic duties would bring such unbearable financial hardship that I would go homeless and hungry. It was at that time that time that the New Zealander proceeded to tell me the most horrific atrocity the trial for which someone she knew was a juror and from which he emerged popping antidepressants, never to be the same. She warned of such effects on a person’s soul.

The hostel was not a complete party; I tightened up my bike’s performance. Topped off the oil and snugged every single bolt I could reach without removing the tank. At the top of the front forks, on the welded fork brace, there were three loose nuts, which shocked the bejeezus out of me. I torqued them and found some of the clacking when I hit bumps disappeared. Will further investigate the front end before the ship sets sail. I also was found that the lower right fork clamp was slightly bent, which is the reason I broke two bolts tightening it. I will keep an eye on that one. That must be what the mechanic in Chinandenga was referring to. The front brake disk is also noticeably warped, but I want to test to see if it’s just the disk or the hub to which it mounts. Sure could use an “indicator” at this time. That’ll be one of my essential tools in my “Gary-settled-down”’s garage, along with an air compressor, hydraulic car lift, and other fun equipment.

While working on the bike I heard the familiar sound of some kinda advertising van rolling by. These vans have megaphones through which the drivers announce events and store sales with great enthusiasm, and periodically they return to the corniest Mariachi-styled music. Hilarious.

Hostel Galileo. A pitstop for laughter and some of the healthiest conversations I’ve had in weeks. They are 90% operated by travelers who want to just hang out in Costa Rica awhile. In exchange for 20 hours of work, you get free rent and one free drink per shift. I may have been offered a position had I applied, but that place is too much of a party. It was actually the most tempted I’ve been to have a drink, and it was cool to see the respect I got by not drinking. I received little peer pressure. Getting used to being the sober one of the crowd. I can make myself a fool all the same as a drunk!

It felt like I just couldn’t get out of San Jose. There was always another reason to hang out for some more fun, but finally I rolled on the throttle Tuesday the 8^th.

The ride to Gamboa, Panama was the most fun riding I’ve had since Chiapas-Guatemala. How will I reflect one day on these broad green palms sprouting from cloud-shrouded mountains hugging this winding, quiet PanAmerican Highway? A river followed me from San Jose to the border. Like most rivers in the region, it was brown and white, muddy whitewaters from the clockwork rains that dedicate themselves to fertilizing one of earth’s most precious ecosystems. I cannot pass over a river without thoughts of catfish. My mind strayed to Indiana’s St. Joe. They’ll be getting fatter with me not there!

The fine roads continued into Panama. What a welcome change to hum along at 70-80 mph! Sinking into those turns, the bike felt fine indeed. It’s rides like these that remind me of the glory of riding. The rain did nothing to bother my glee. It was the heaviest rains since Brownsville, of course Brownsville is the wildest flash flood I’ll probably ever witness. This Costa Rican rain wiped an entire hill into the road. Luckily some official was there to warn traffic to slow down; up and down stream of the mudslide for over 100 yards was a slippery sheen of mud. After a night to dry in David at the Bambu Hostel, at which I met a life-inspired traveler from Hong Kong, I returned to my road south. Watching the odometer spin its numbers, it felt good to covering so much ground. I kept singing Van Halen’s “Panama!” Zinging and singing at an occasional 90mph (oh yeah), a cop under bridge jumped into the road, waving me down to stop. I pretty well knew his concern, and this was confirmed when he caught up to me on foot 100 yards down from the bridge. He said, “Do you want to die in Panama?” in spanish. I smiled with a “No, Senor!” He showed me my speed on his cell phone (123 kph/77 mph) and then the limit (95 kph/60 mph). I agreed to go the speed limit. He encouraged me to calm down. That lasted about 20 miles. Well, when I thought no one was watching. Those roads were too ripe for speed. I did try to go slow! Then a Mercedes driven by some American-looking retired man spontaneously appeared to my right. I looked at him, he looked at me, then he blasted ahead. I followed, figuring that he’d catch the radar ahead of me. The road got too twisty to be safe, however, so I returned to a comfortable speed.

I passed over the Panama Canal! A beautiful bridge. I look forward to exploring it some more in the next few days.

After my routine get-lost-before-you-make-it, I made it to my couchsurfer hosts’ place. They live in a community of scientists. Specifically they’re jungle researchers. At the party that night, I met someone studying butterfly roosting behavior, a vine-hydration-ecosystem researcher, a hydrologist/physicist, and some baby bird feeding behavior scientists. It was a party of scientists. There was flip-cup, dancing, and lounging in the kiddy pool at my hosts’ place. Such a contrast, to be in the middle of the rainforest with a bunch of scientists getting drunk and acting like teenagers. Work hard, play hard, I guess. What an amusing spectacle. I love intelligent people. What a valuable job they have, researching. It won’t be until decades down the road that any of it matters to the masses. Not until we’ve depleted our resources to the extent where we panic and scream, “No more! We need this land! How are we to best live on this planet such that we don’t dry it up with our greed?”