Strange and Creepy
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Strange and Creepy
When you spend time on the road you gain insight into yourself, the places you visit, and you get, more or less, a greater knowledge of how world around you works. For example, my travels in Ireland made me realize that I belong in cities and not the countryside. That was an important bit of knowledge I gained about myself. It took me only about three days of traveling in Costa Rica to come another profound conclusion, this one about the world as a whole. It goes like this: generally speaking, old white men traveling by themselves are creepy as fuck. I mean, Jesus, what’s creepier than a balding guy with a ponytail, wearing Tevas and a Hawaiian shirt, coming all the way to Costa Rica to pay for sex? The answer is: a balding guy with a ponytail, wearing Tevas and a Hawaiian shirt, who comes all the way to Costa Rica to pay for sex with someone underage (This is actually such a serious problem that there are multiple signs between the airport and the bus station informing people that, yes, sex with minors is illegal in Costa Rica too). So while I managed to avoid getting murdered in Jaco, I did get the pleasure of seeing loads of old farts walking arm in arm back to their hotels with gorgeous, and likely underage, Tica (Costa Rican women) prostitutes.
***Main Road in Jaco***
Happy to be getting out of Jaco alive, Oliver, Ville and I headed back to San Jose where the next day they would get on a plane to Buenos Aires and I would catch a bus to the Caribbean Coast. What’s interesting is that I’ve noticed a tendency amongst back-packers towards the idea of, “When I get to Buenos Aires…” It’s as if some sort of Emerald City like mythology has developed around Buenos Aires, and everyone with a back-pack is on their way to see the Wizard. If that’s the case, I guess that makes Taca Airlines my Yellow Brick road and Costa Rica my Munchkin land (not because it’s full of drunk midgets, but because it’s my first stop, duh).
In San Jose we chose the Pangaea hostel because a flyer said that it had free internet, free phone calls, a swim up bar and a mechanical bull. Well, the bull was hibernating, the bar was not in use, the internet was tediously slow and the delay on the phone calls made it feel like you were a CNN correspondent out in the middle of Afghanistan. But it was actually a pretty cool place and at least there were no mosquitoes (I’m walking proof that the mosquitoes here have a Jew fetish). The next day me and the guys made plans to meet up in Buenos Aires and we went our separate ways.
Anyone acquainted with me knows that if I’m in a room with 99 other people, and a lunatic walks in, invariably, that person finds me; I’m like cat-nip for crazy people. So it’s only logical that, if I’m headed to the Caribbean Coast of Costa Rica on a bus with 49 other people, and the only empty seat is right next to me, the one armed American veteran with no shirt on is gonna sit there. That type of shit doesn’t even surprise me anymore. Out of four hours on a bus, this motherfucker talked for at least three and a half and the only question he asked me was my name. Otherwise it was a fucking soliloquy. I can tell you anything you want to know about James, shit like, he didn’t lose his arm in war (he was too young for Vietnam) but actually in a motorcycle accident 15 years ago (he was more upset about wrecking the bike than losing his arm), or that he’s in Costa Rica looking for property (he already has some in California and Nevada but keeps some under his sister’s name for tax purposes and so she has something just in case he decides to ride a motorcycle again). After 30 minutes with this guy, I stopped being polite and just looked out the window, listening to my Ipod. He continued talking. The coolest thing about the bus ride though, was noticing that the drivers here act as porters as well. I mean this in the sense that they’ll bring goods from one town and a person will be waiting at a bus stop to pay for and pick up the goods in another town. It’s kinda like a third-world version of Pink Dot.
I ended up liking the Caribbean Coast more than the Pacific because all the Rastas seemed a lot less high strung then the folks on the other side of the country. The only minor harassment I got was the locals soliciting, “good smoke and cocaine, mon.”
***This guy sat in the tree all day, and tried to sell me drugs everytime I passed by. In this photo he's passed out***
When I first arrived in Puerto Viejo, I was depressed because I was once again alone, and I missed Krista (my girl in SF) like crazy. Everything changed though when she emailed me and told me that there was a 90% chance she was gonna meet me in Buenos Aires. I haven’t had a bad moment since then…but I have definitely had some strange ones.
***Random photos of Puerto Viejo***
In Puerto Viejo I was staying at a place called Rockin’ J’s, a cool hostel right on the beach where you can choose to sleep in a hammock, a tent or a dorm. Apparently J, in all his “rockin”-ness, is living out his pubescent fantasy of having a spot in tropical Costa Rica with a big-titted French girlfriend, 15 years his junior. That’s all well and good (we should all be so lucky), but the rub is that also living here is his severely maladjusted 13 year old son who may or may not be in school, spends all his time with 20-something year old backpackers (who score coke and weed from the Rastas), and who’s first words to me were, “I stabbed a dog today, do you think that’s wrong?” On top of all his Lord of the Flies bravado, I’m pretty sure the kid was hitting on me…seriously. Our conversation went like this:
The kid said, “I stabbed a dog today; do you think that’s wrong?”
“Umm what?” I said.
“Yeah I stabbed a dog today, I feel pretty bad about it”
“Why would you do that? That’s fucking awful!”
“The dog was attacking my dog so I grabbed my knife and ran up and stabbed it. Then they had to take the dog to the hospital. I feel so bad about it.” (I later got verification that the kid was not bullshitting me, that in fact he had stabbed a dog)
“Yeah kid that’s pretty fucked up…”
“Hey do you think it’s wrong to be gay”
“Umm…no not at all, in fact a lot of my friends and family are gay…”
“Really? You don’t think it’s wrong or gross?”
“Of course not. Do you?”
“Yeah I think it’s gross…but hey, wanna come and see my books?”
“What!? No thanks, I’m ok, I’m gonna hang here with my friends.”
Then a few minutes later he said to me, “Hey you wanna go sit on a hammock with me?”
“Um, no thanks kid. I gotta go. I’ll see you later.”
If getting hit on by a deranged 13 year old boy who had stabbed a dog earlier that day wasn’t frightening enough, the thought of what that kid is gonna be like as an adult was. Costa Rica is a strange and creepy place.
***Representing Broke-Ass Stuart at Rockin J's***
***Wish you were here***
Strange and Creepy
When you spend time on the road you gain insight into yourself, the places you visit, and you get, more or less, a greater knowledge of how world around you works. For example, my travels in Ireland made me realize that I belong in cities and not the countryside. That was an important bit of knowledge I gained about myself. It took me only about three days of traveling in Costa Rica to come another profound conclusion, this one about the world as a whole. It goes like this: generally speaking, old white men traveling by themselves are creepy as fuck. I mean, Jesus, what’s creepier than a balding guy with a ponytail, wearing Tevas and a Hawaiian shirt, coming all the way to Costa Rica to pay for sex? The answer is: a balding guy with a ponytail, wearing Tevas and a Hawaiian shirt, who comes all the way to Costa Rica to pay for sex with someone underage (This is actually such a serious problem that there are multiple signs between the airport and the bus station informing people that, yes, sex with minors is illegal in Costa Rica too). So while I managed to avoid getting murdered in Jaco, I did get the pleasure of seeing loads of old farts walking arm in arm back to their hotels with gorgeous, and likely underage, Tica (Costa Rican women) prostitutes.
***Main Road in Jaco***
Happy to be getting out of Jaco alive, Oliver, Ville and I headed back to San Jose where the next day they would get on a plane to Buenos Aires and I would catch a bus to the Caribbean Coast. What’s interesting is that I’ve noticed a tendency amongst back-packers towards the idea of, “When I get to Buenos Aires…” It’s as if some sort of Emerald City like mythology has developed around Buenos Aires, and everyone with a back-pack is on their way to see the Wizard. If that’s the case, I guess that makes Taca Airlines my Yellow Brick road and Costa Rica my Munchkin land (not because it’s full of drunk midgets, but because it’s my first stop, duh).
In San Jose we chose the Pangaea hostel because a flyer said that it had free internet, free phone calls, a swim up bar and a mechanical bull. Well, the bull was hibernating, the bar was not in use, the internet was tediously slow and the delay on the phone calls made it feel like you were a CNN correspondent out in the middle of Afghanistan. But it was actually a pretty cool place and at least there were no mosquitoes (I’m walking proof that the mosquitoes here have a Jew fetish). The next day me and the guys made plans to meet up in Buenos Aires and we went our separate ways.
Anyone acquainted with me knows that if I’m in a room with 99 other people, and a lunatic walks in, invariably, that person finds me; I’m like cat-nip for crazy people. So it’s only logical that, if I’m headed to the Caribbean Coast of Costa Rica on a bus with 49 other people, and the only empty seat is right next to me, the one armed American veteran with no shirt on is gonna sit there. That type of shit doesn’t even surprise me anymore. Out of four hours on a bus, this motherfucker talked for at least three and a half and the only question he asked me was my name. Otherwise it was a fucking soliloquy. I can tell you anything you want to know about James, shit like, he didn’t lose his arm in war (he was too young for Vietnam) but actually in a motorcycle accident 15 years ago (he was more upset about wrecking the bike than losing his arm), or that he’s in Costa Rica looking for property (he already has some in California and Nevada but keeps some under his sister’s name for tax purposes and so she has something just in case he decides to ride a motorcycle again). After 30 minutes with this guy, I stopped being polite and just looked out the window, listening to my Ipod. He continued talking. The coolest thing about the bus ride though, was noticing that the drivers here act as porters as well. I mean this in the sense that they’ll bring goods from one town and a person will be waiting at a bus stop to pay for and pick up the goods in another town. It’s kinda like a third-world version of Pink Dot.
I ended up liking the Caribbean Coast more than the Pacific because all the Rastas seemed a lot less high strung then the folks on the other side of the country. The only minor harassment I got was the locals soliciting, “good smoke and cocaine, mon.”
***This guy sat in the tree all day, and tried to sell me drugs everytime I passed by. In this photo he's passed out***
When I first arrived in Puerto Viejo, I was depressed because I was once again alone, and I missed Krista (my girl in SF) like crazy. Everything changed though when she emailed me and told me that there was a 90% chance she was gonna meet me in Buenos Aires. I haven’t had a bad moment since then…but I have definitely had some strange ones.
***Random photos of Puerto Viejo***
In Puerto Viejo I was staying at a place called Rockin’ J’s, a cool hostel right on the beach where you can choose to sleep in a hammock, a tent or a dorm. Apparently J, in all his “rockin”-ness, is living out his pubescent fantasy of having a spot in tropical Costa Rica with a big-titted French girlfriend, 15 years his junior. That’s all well and good (we should all be so lucky), but the rub is that also living here is his severely maladjusted 13 year old son who may or may not be in school, spends all his time with 20-something year old backpackers (who score coke and weed from the Rastas), and who’s first words to me were, “I stabbed a dog today, do you think that’s wrong?” On top of all his Lord of the Flies bravado, I’m pretty sure the kid was hitting on me…seriously. Our conversation went like this:
The kid said, “I stabbed a dog today; do you think that’s wrong?”
“Umm what?” I said.
“Yeah I stabbed a dog today, I feel pretty bad about it”
“Why would you do that? That’s fucking awful!”
“The dog was attacking my dog so I grabbed my knife and ran up and stabbed it. Then they had to take the dog to the hospital. I feel so bad about it.” (I later got verification that the kid was not bullshitting me, that in fact he had stabbed a dog)
“Yeah kid that’s pretty fucked up…”
“Hey do you think it’s wrong to be gay”
“Umm…no not at all, in fact a lot of my friends and family are gay…”
“Really? You don’t think it’s wrong or gross?”
“Of course not. Do you?”
“Yeah I think it’s gross…but hey, wanna come and see my books?”
“What!? No thanks, I’m ok, I’m gonna hang here with my friends.”
Then a few minutes later he said to me, “Hey you wanna go sit on a hammock with me?”
“Um, no thanks kid. I gotta go. I’ll see you later.”
If getting hit on by a deranged 13 year old boy who had stabbed a dog earlier that day wasn’t frightening enough, the thought of what that kid is gonna be like as an adult was. Costa Rica is a strange and creepy place.
***Representing Broke-Ass Stuart at Rockin J's***
***Wish you were here***
posted by Broke-Ass Stuart | 11:06 AM
3 Comments:
Hey Stuart, thanks for leaving the comment. Can't wait to hear what all you've discovered in New York!
Stuart Motherfucker!!
I am going south on my next trip (have always wanted to learn Tango in Argaentina) because of your description here! damn fine travel writing!
I live in Marin and could write a "Broke Ass" book about how to live there, since I'm the only one left who seems to be able to do it. All my broke ass friends have long since moved to Sonoma Cty.
I work at Sf General Hospital (I'm a Forensic Psychiatric Nurse) and get the monthly handout hot off the press: Free Eats, Free etc. Maybe you've seen it. I'll get you one if not.
Love your writing. Funny, being broke makes you think in a way no one who has money has to, and it stretches your brain because you HAVE to get by, so you have to challenge yourself to think outside the box. You do it better than most.
Uh, that was me who left the last comment about my working at SFGH. Google won't let me sign in so I had to go anonom.
My email is
megbrizzolara@yahoo.com
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