There and Back Again (USA to Costa Rica)

I did not cry when I said goodbye to the group at the airport, although it would have been an excusable excuse, along with your football team winning/losing a semi-important game, thinking about Old Yeller, or running out of milk after you've poured your cereal. It was strange to leave, because it felt like we'd be gone from each other for a few days and then be back; really, the entire time I was back in the States was a sort of dream. Without my dear friends, I did notice that I was able to move faster than a beach ball filled with sand, which was nice when I had to do things like use the restroom. Throughout the next few days, however, I did find myself turning to say things to several of them specifically and realizing that they weren't around. Just in case, since we were all going our separate ways, I wore my lucky boxers our last day, Saturday. To ensure everyone made it back allright I kept them on until Tuesday. Just to be sure. I think they would appreciate it.

That first day I spent time with my dad's side grandparents, and my aunt, uncle, and cousins; I passed out for hours in their house and then we went to buy books. I met my mom and her parents in my college town, and we drove by the apartments I'll be in next year. We ate some INCREDIBLE cheesecake with my grandparent's friends that was so good it might go down in the annals of my Food Hall of Fame, forever overshadowed by the greatness of that Orange I Ate Back in Junior Year of High School. I spent the next three days in Dallas with my awesome family and great old friends and was off again, this time to Orlando where I stayed up all night with my two best friends eating junk food and watching TV and playing Halo. Then it was time to leave and I was at the airport and on the plane to San Jose.

I arrived in Costa Rica's impressively modern airport and had the exciting hmm...now what? feeling and found a taxi that took me to a bus station, where I met a friendly American couple, an Australian girl, and several Texans. We got on the bus and were on our way to Monteverde, and I bid consciousness goodbye for the several hours we were driving. We arrived and all went to the same hostel, which was owned by a Texan. Yee-haw. I loosely planned the rest of my trip that night, and got ready for the park the next morning.

Let me begin this by telling you a story about a small world. I was in Costa Rica, specifically in Santa Elena outside of the Monteverde cloud forest, and went to the said forest's national park. No sooner had my Australian companion and I embarked on the trail did we encounter a guy around my age with long hair and a hippie head band collecting berry samples on the side of the trail. We found out he was American, from Georgia, from Berry College (the largest campus in the United States!) and I stared at him dumbstruck and asked if he knew a friend of mine from Buenos Aires. And he says yes, he knows this friend, they went to high school together. And this is made all the greater by the fact that Berry College has all of 2000 students plus change. I love travelling.

The cloud forest was, interestingly enough, devoid of clouds for much of the morning as we hiked. I talked to my friend about Australia and learned quite a bit about the continent which, although gigantic, has a population smaller than that of Texas. It's nice to run into people from places I won't go to for awhile. Along the hike we saw several groups seriously rapt in concentration watching for birds, and we very politely laughed at them. We saw a brown winged friend with an orange stomach in a tree we passed and my Aussie mate wondered what it was called, to which I replied very matter-of-factly "That's an orange-bellied...brown...bird." She was impressed with my technical knowledge.

We hiked all the way to La Ventana, where, with luckily cleared skies, one could look to the Caribbean side as well as the Pacific side of the forest. I don't know if you were actually able to see the water, but you were at least supposed to stand there with a serious look on your face and hmmm thoughtfully and then make a remark to the effect of you wishing there weren't clouds so you could see China. Once up there, the clouds showed up in force. It was strange to stand there looking out over the hills visible through the fog; the clouds advanced, thick and dense as an approaching army, and when I held my arms out to meet them the mass passed right through me, unaware and uncaring of my resistance. Going over to the Pacific side you could watch the wispy soldiers continue on their way, advancing heedlessly to the vast waters of the ocean.

My friend and I split up after La Ventana and I began a large circuit flyin solo. Alone in the forest my mind wandered and I pondered such interesting things as how marvelous it was that there were no spiders in the forest at all, how maybe I could come to like a jungle without spiders, and how it was never a good thing to feel stuff fall in your hair. I was only thinking this because I'd felt things fall in my hair several times, but after shaking my mane like a Pantene commercial there was never anything there; really, the only things it could have been were bugs or bird poop, both of which would have made me do a high-knees, hands flailing sort of dance that might be similar to a twelve year old girl at an N*SYNC concert, though the twelve year old might have shown more fortitude. One never finds pleasant surprises in the hair. It is never Halloween candy, or a s'more. The best one can ever hope for is rain. Speaking of rain, we had passed through a deluge on the way to Monteverde, and I was afraid of getting stuck in a downpour; really, I wanted to keep my shoes from getting soaked. I am very hardcore. It fell completely, eerily silent while I was walking the trails. Being from Texas, I usually assume this means there is a tornado brewing or a football game on. I quickened my pace, hoping to beat the rain.

I ran across my friend coming through her trail, and asked her how the suspended bridge was. Very...bridge-y, was the response I got. And she was right, as I realized when I got there. It was pretty much an old rusty bridge on top of some trees. I have this bad habit of mimicking accents that started my second semester at college when I had two very good British friends. I always want to say things like 'rightright' that comes out more like 'quiteright' or 'whiterice,' and after hanging out with those two so much I wanted to start saying 'well' in front of things for no reason. Well good. This problem only enhances a greater issue I have which is talking to myself in public, and naturally, as I walked the trails, I would say things to myself in Spanish, and then in Australian. This has, as you can guess, led to a great many awkward situations; apparently talking to oneself and looking off into the distance is somewhat socially awkward. The worst instance happened back in Lima, when I was going through a phase where I wanted to try my hand at rapping. I was walking to school one day, bustin' and flowin', and some students ahead of me apparently heard me rhymin' because they turned around, looked right at me, and stopped until I passed by, very quiet and a little scared. I kept bustin' my rhymes and breakin' my change.

I got back to the lodge area of the park and found the American couple who was a part of my crew for the three days I was here. They excitedly pulled out a camera to show me what they had seen and I watched, suddenly shocked and terrified, as they played a video of a gigantic black and orange tarantula on the path. You probably walked right by it, they said. Maybe even stepped right over it. So much for any sense of security.

I left to go look at a waterfall despite my fears being awakened and intensified. The forest grew ominous and I felt something watching me; soon, a spider became the spider became The Spider. Should the octo-ped nemesis spring into the path, I knew I'd be forced to respond with my best defense, a girly shriek and a Roadrunner-esque escape, except instead of a nice cloud of dust with a POOSH! I'd leave a warm puddle of urine and my DIGNITY! They say that animals are as scared of you as you are of them, and that might be the case with cuddly things like anacondas, grizzly bears, and white tigers; however, when said beasties want not only to eat you but also to psychologically torture you, I don't think they are scared of you at all. When I say this what I mean is spiders, and sea monsters, and zombies. Also, girls my age.

On an unrelated note, what I've come to realize is that Travelling is like this shared, but quiet and unspoken, secret between its members. It's like a treehouse from childhood that has gone equal oppotunity after intense political reform and finds its exclusiveness not in gender exclusion but rather in its members simply being found on the fringes of real life. It is a fun little club. Last night in the hostel I got harmonica lessons from the American man, and this morning as I made my eggcake sandwiches a surfer from the states gave me a rashguard, followed by a quick lesson on wave mechanics and top breezes. A couple from Singapore, also in my crew, told me about their journey yesterday; they are travelling the world on motorcycles, and have been gone for a year and a half going on two years, and have been, to put it shortly, everywhere. On tap for them now is to drive through Mexico and Texas all the way to Rhode Island, and then to Alaska. The thing I love is that the guy says this so nonchalantly it's like he's telling you about the weather back in Singapore, which is, if you were wondering, warm. It's a trip he's planned for ten years (!!!) and he says its everthing he hoped. They married two years ago and she thought he was crazy and hopefully still does.

ETD: One Hour

It is the last day.  Everything has carried with it a sense of finality; yesterday we said goodbye to our first friend departing, and today there will be more.  Last night we had our goodbye party, and we danced all night.  It was the best way to end things.  I did not dance suicidally bad and thus it was one of the most successful dance nights of my life.  I withdrew from time to time just to watch the group interact, as I've been doing for the last week or so, and enjoyed it.  It won't happen again, the way it is now; we'll see each other again, pockets of us surely, but the group is its own dynamic.  We are Multisa, the Multisa Family, and the time has come to leave on our jet planes and go back to our real lives.  It's sad, I suppose, but every good thing ends and if it wasn't today it'd be tomorrow, next week.  Truth is, it's now, and there's nothing to do about it but enjoy the last few hours and memories we have with the people who have become so dear.  Imagine this, that you were with fourteen people day in and day out for over four months, living in a completely foreign and exciting and dynamic environment, spending time together everyday, becoming friends who are so close they'd (in purely hypothetical terms) give each other tattoos on their rumpuses, whose time was from the beginning set and limited but who carried on with each other impressively, who at the end would scatter in an America diaspora, never to be reunited as a whole again.  There is only, in this situation, to treasure the crazy time we had.  That I will do, and I will miss my South American family.  These will be the memories and the times that hit the hardest when they bring themselves back into my consciousness.  But the absence of friends only brings into focus that which we hold most dear about them, to paraphrase Gibran...

My bags are packed, I'm ready to go...

The Jungle!

We were in fact able to make it to the jungle that fateful foggy day, three moons past; I just arrived in my room, which I can honestly call home in my mind, with its nice soft bed and open window and breezy curtains.  I was so happy I decided to accidentally hit my head on the low hanging chandelier-light-thing, an unfortunate event that occurs with astonishing and embarassing frequency because I sometimes forget it is there.  When I say sometimes I mean that it usually happens once a day.  Home sweet home...

Also, it was just Kara's birthday, her 21st!  Somehow we pulled right up to the university as we counted down from ten and the clock hit midnight, marking the beginning of what is sure to be an AWESOME birthday-day.  

Our trip began last Thursday, when we successfully left an incredibly foggy Lima and arrived in Iquitos, a city of several hundreds of thousands of people that is actually the largest city without road access.  The only way in is a plane or a boat.  Some people say once a guy got there with pixie dust and happy thoughts but that sounds pretty outlandish to me.  

Iquitos was exciting personally because I had heard of a University of Texas alum who had started a restaurant in the city called The Yellow Rose of Texas, and in the back of my mind for the entire trip I had planned on visiting it.  The thing with being a Texan is that every now and then I just need to talk to someone about the homeland, reflect on our status as the Most Glorious State in the Union while also chuckling warmly about the fact that we are a country on our own, with an optional bashing session on other respectable but inherently inferior states, before moving on to the inevitable talk of football, something I could not wait for.

We left the airport and met our guide and headed towards the city.  We learned that there is very little crime, and I began to feel a sense of isolation from the rest of the world, but in a good way, a way that made me feel like the world was a little different here.  We neared the Plaza del Armas and down a street adjacent to the plaza I saw the restaurant, adorned with regalia from my rival school.  I was floored.  I had also heard that there were respectable heladerias around the plaza and my mind was set:  Texas restaurant and ice cream were the main attractions for the afternoon.

We checked in at the hotel, Henry and I chilled in our room for a minutito, and we were off.  We assembled the gringo parade and embarked towards the plaza.  I got to the Yellow Rose first and talked with the staff for a bit, realizing that Mr. Gerald was sleeping upstairs.  I asked if I could just walk around the inside of the restaurant.  The rest of the group turned the corner and were waiting outside on the sidewalk, and were probably a little disturbed when they saw me gazing at the walls full of Texas mementos and memorabilia, all googly-eyed, maybe tearing up a little (*editor's note:  the writer is actually too chock-full of testosterone for his body to produce tears.  However, missing Texas is a perfectly manly and acceptable thing to cry about.).   

I finished my reminiscing and we went to a fastfood burger place along the plaza, where we got all kinds of new food, including camu camu juice which was an electric pink color with a tastelike a sugar shock.  I was quite impressed.  After dinner most of the rest of the group went out to a kareoke bar, but I went to assuage my eternal vice and ate some ice cream with Maria Elena, our ISA mom.  We walked back to the hotel and talked for a good while, and she told me of her experiences working back in the States and how hard it was to be away from her two sons.  She eventually decided to come back and be with them, and I got to hear about a good number of jobs she had before her current one as the resident ISA angel.  It was nice getting to know her story a little, and I felt priveleged being able to hang out with her.

Friday

Woke up at 8am and everyone was still asleep from the club the night before.  Maria Elena and I took a moto-taxi, aka a taxi motorcycle-turned-tricycle with a bench seat on the back, to Belen, a town that Maria Elena said represented the mental image she had of Iquitos.  Belen was a city on the outskirts of the central part of town, and was made up of wooden house, the majority of which were built on floating platforms.  The area was one of extreme poverty.  We hired a small canoe and the two of us and our moto-taxi driver went through the little village as he explained to us the history of the area and how the people got by day to day.  I was really interested and wanted to see it, but I hate the feeling of being such a tourist, tramping through people's lives and looking at their livelihood through such distant eyes; it makes it hard not to feel uncomfortable and a little self-repulsed.  It was such a new experience though, motoring in the little boat through the floating village, in a city without roads to the outside world, quietly nestled in the Amazon.

We finished our tour and went on a short drive through upper Belen, the part on land, and then the driver took us to the Yellow Rose where I was able to meet the owner Gerald and talk to him abow-ut Texan thangs fer a why-ul, as he'd say.  Long live the Lone Star.  He made an Aggie joke and I didn't even mind.

Maria Elena and I went back to the hotel, and everyone gathered to set out for the jungle.  We carried our bags a couple of blocks to the river and hopped in a boat and were off.   Not thirty minutes into the ride we encountered our first wonder of nature, the Amazonian river dolphin.  I am mildly embarassed in a kind of proud way that as soon as I first saw the fin I, along with a handful of others on the boat, calmly brought it the attention of the rest that there was a DOLFINDOLFINDOLFINDOLFIN!!! in the water.  After making sure that I hadn't peed my pants I was astounded when we saw a pink Amazon dolphin jump out of the water.  When I was in Brazil we were on the river for ten days and never saw a pink dolphin show itself like that one did.   We followed the dolphins around for twenty minutes or so in what was similar to a seven-year-olds-at-the-zoo-wired-and-impossibly-excited kind of euphoria, and got some good views of gray ones swimming and a couple brief glimpses of pink ones as well.  

We got to the lodge and relaxed in hammocks.  My life was complete.  In the back of my mind there is a part of me that is forever pointing me towards a very simple goal, wherever I happen to be, and the objective is to find a hammock, and get in it.  Also, the lodge had very soft toilet paper.  Livin the life.

We went to visit a shaman that afternoon and learned a lot about local herbal medicines, and also got to sample a good number of drinks, my personal favorite being the Siete Raices.  We went out that night and listened to the noises the jungle made.  The moon was so bright we couldn't see many stars.   A bunch of us sat together in the lodge dining room and played a game where two teams were given one word (like blue, tears, shampoo, etc.) and had to find songs that had the word in the lyrics, the title, or the band name, and then sing two lines of the song with the name and the artist or sing enough of the song to show they knew it.  One team would give their song, then the next would answer, etc.  It was a pretty fun game.  We got competitive.

Saturday

We woke up early and went out on the river, in search of more dolphins.  Saw a few, but not as spectactular as the first day.  We did some other stuff but it kind of blends together.  I know we went to this one spot to look at something, a bird I think, and then on the way back we jumped in the water and swam around in the Amazon.  Some of us took pictures proudly holding our  undergarments above our heads.  Proud moment.  Can't wait for the pics.  

After our swim we went to see a gigantic tree, and upon arrival we suddenly heard a WHACK!  WHACKWHACKWHACK! from the front of the boat, where a guide on the front killed a poisonous snake that was chilling on a tree we pulled up next too.  The group took pictures and talked about how we could have died.

We went back to the hotel and ate lunch.  I look forward to meals more than anything else.  I love food.  We unsuccessfully fished for piranas later; Hannah caught one, and Caroline caught three but all of them jumped off her hook as she was pulling them from the water.  We spent the night in the lodge dining room again, this time just talking and trading hilarious stories, gruesome stories, and finally scary stories, which is a great idea to do when in the middle of the jungle in a hotel with lanterns for lights.  We all went to our rooms a bit shaky and wishing we had some sort of cuddly stuffed friend to keep us safe.  It was a bittersweet night, the last we would spend together as a group on an excursion; we bowed out humbly, without being over-conscious of the fact that our trip is very quickly winding down, simply enjoying the company of good friends while making some pretty sweet memories.  

Sunday

In the morning we went to birdwatch somemore, I think.  Then we went to a little village where we got to shoot a blowgun and watch a traditional dance.  A bunch of the people in the group bought blowguns.  Some bought four.

We had an amazing lunch:  fried banana chips, fried yucca, fish, lentils.  We headed back to Iquitos after a short nap-time.  

We shopped around in Iquitos and Henry and I were very close to getting tattoos.  I finally realized what I want to get for my Peru tattoo - a llama on the right buttcheek.  Ashley did not approve in the least bit.  As the co-founding member of the Hey Let's Get Tattoos In Peru club she does hold some sway, but a llama on the butt cheek has the potential to be talked about even by friends of friend's cousins.  

We ate at Yellow Rose at my Texas restaurant and all was well.

On the plane ride home, Corey and Henry and I sat in a row.  We were...pungeant.  We watched the hilarious gag reels videos that they play on flights, the videos from Canada.  Those videos have single-handedly made me think Canada is awesome.  

Embarcamos a Iquitos!

We (hopefully) are going to the jungle tonight, specifically the city of Iquitos in the Peruvian Amazon.  I say hopefully very quietly because I don't want to jinx it...the thing is, last weekend was when the excursion was originally planned for, but we did less of the going to the uncharted wilderness and more of the waiting in the airport for six hours only to be told that our flight was cancelled due to the fog, which to add insult to injury, smelled like a microwaved fish tumor.  But I'm trying to be optimistic despite the fact that a million other flights out of Lima's Jorge Chavez airport have been cancelled this week (that is numerically accurate, I checked) and the fog is already creeping around the buildings outside like some riduculous, malevolent Dumbo thinking we don't notice it and snickering to itself about how it's going to ruin our flight again.  

But as far as recent events have gone, things are good.  Last night, we had a lesson on how to play the cajon, a percussion instrument created when slaves were not allowed to have instuments and began to use the boxes which held clothes or food or other items.  It was really fun, at least for those of us playing.  I can't imagine how painful it must have been to everyone within earshot.  After the cajon lesson, we were given an introduction to several traditional dances, which really are strikingly similar to every other kind of dance I have ever done, in the sense that they are impossible for me to do without becoming someone who is tall, awkward, and rhythmless.  It is decieving, for somewhere inside me there is a River Dancer waiting to burst out in a blinding show of amazing-ness.  However, one must not hurry things before the world is ready.  So we spun, we thrusted, we hopped, we frolicked, and really did have a good time, mostly because once I accepted that I was not going to be good at what we were doing, I just let myself be horrid.  And it was a masterful horror.  The thing is, my dance problems are compounded by the fact that the only moves I can do competently are those I learned from Hitch.  The rest of the time I let my body do ridiculous things, but smile with the eyebrows raised to assure everyone that I really dance better than this, and am simply in a mood to entertain by pretending that the horrendous thing that is taking place is certainly not what I consider dancing talent.  

After the class, despite being soaked in sweat and having had my dignity somewhat shredded, I was talked into going to get pizza, with the condition that I would not go dancing after.  Two hours later, forty soles burned on expensive but exquisite pizza, I find myself in a bar where our group of seven are the only ones taking advantage of the empty dance floor and the pulsing lights.  We shuffle around and pretend not to feel super awkward.  I pull out the move I learned from the Simpsons where you lay on the floor and run in a circle, and then try and do a ninja-jump up move.  It doesn't work and I fall down.  We decide to leave.

In our Marketing class, we talked about the Bottom of the Pyramid market, where the 4 billion people in the world who live in poverty are given the dignity of being considered micro consumers and micro producers, rather than charity cases.  I am thinking much more about the idea of being an entrepreneur to this market, where real change can be made in the lives of the customers while avoiding the inferior-superior relationship that exists all too often in charity or aid situations, something that always bothered me.  I still have a lot to learn, as things like this remind me.  What is now on my mind is how to organize what Peter, my close friend in Kenya, and I will do for the projects he has underway there.  We have to get our needs recognized, our objectives set, and search for income-generating activities for Baragoi, a more traditional city in Northern/Central Kenya.  From there, we'll set up a documentary, get some promotional materials, and hopefully prepare a cross-country fundraising journey here in the States that we will undertake during a semester or summer, or both.  

Peace friends.  Talk soon.

Y Ahora, Empieza

I am setting out to start a blog for the same reason I guess anyone does, because I am really bored and sometimes I like to feel important thinking I am beaming out profound thoughts into the world to a rapt and admiring audience that is “enamored with my voice.”

What goes into a blog?  What makes this worth reading?  I figure that whatever I say will be acceptable as long as I say I’m a “traveler” every now and then, maybe bash modern music on the radio, maybe use some strange slang words that no one has ever heard.  Like “legit.”  And talk about “vintage” things like old clothes and books and posters are so cool.  Maybe say that I feel disenfranchised by the mainstream boxy life.  Ok.  All this is pretty immature, I know.  I like the radio.  I actually do like to travel.  Vintage stuff is cool.  I don’t really use slang well, though my grammar is pretty horrendous and I hear that’s in.  I wouldn’t really know what it was like to feel disenfranchised.  I might even be enfranchised. 

And how often should you write blogs anyway?  I mean, let’s be honest, I am going to be the only one reading this, save for some poor unfortunate soul who finds my “Lonely Island” (I’m going to try and work in band names/song titles whenever possible) through some ill-fated Google search.  I guess it doesn’t matter how often I write then.

So what should it be about?  I’m in South America right now, studying in Peru.   That’s cool.  Also, the beach is cool.  As are animals with funny names, like llamas.  And aardvarks.  You probably haven't even thought about aardvarks for at least five years.  Maybe ten.  I ate this marvelous candy today that is a hexagonal chocolate bar filled with caramel that is so perfectly fluid it makes you feel like you're on a commercial when you eat it.  I’ve eaten four or five in the last two days which is a pretty sissy number to be honest.  The first theme of this blog will be about getting my man on and eating some freaking chocolate.  Everyone likes chocolate.  And by everyone I mean everyone I want to be friends with.  And by chocolate I mean sweet things that have sugar in them.  And by sugar, I mean anything that is sweet, so that could be sugar substitutes which, although cancerous, can sometimes taste mighty fine.  Usually that is not true.  Sugar substitutes are pretty weak.  Real sugar is the best.  And when I implied way back, like five lines ago, that I don’t want to be friends with people who don’t like chocolate, that sounded kind of mean.  We can be friends.  Advanced acquaintances, at the very least. 

And so, after haphazardly messaging my friends to ask them what a good blog site was, I now present my blog, the proudest new virtually insignificant virtual soap box.  I, as the sole audience member, will be modestly interested but will probably quickly move on to wasting time on iTunes and YouTube, feeling a little guilty for not putting in more time to the lonely blog, but not guilty enough to keep reading.

Ah!  But what to name the blog?  Something witty?  Something deep?  Something thought-provoking?  Could always go with my name, followed by a travel verb.  But that is a cop-out.  Something in Spanish...the people will love me...

Welcome to the magic.

Here is a picture of an aardvark, courtesty of National Geographic.  I knew you were still thinking about them...