So, after six months in Wildlife-blessed Central America, of course at my first stop in Costa Rica -- some cheap roadside lunch counter off the highway -- my attention is directed toward a monkey swinging through the trees. This trip's first damn monkey.
Crossing the border from Nicaragua into Costa Rica was something of a hassle for having violated my 90-day tourist visa, having to run between various offices to make photocopies of my passport, another to pay the fine, and then finally back to the actual immigration office. But I made it across to Costa Rica, where police stopped our bus four times to check passengers passports, thus stretching the purported four and one half hour trip from the border to San Jose an extra two hours.
San Jose is decidedly first world. American fast food chains and clean streets, an absence of visible poverty. Stoplights. Stoplights that are obeyed.
The mercado central is filled with lighted, clean-, wooden-tabled comedores missing only the framed placard: "Sanitation Score: 101". This is not the developing world. Where's the grime and bustle, the questionable eateries? The market carnicerias aren't adorned with hanging pigs heads or hacked up cows' hindquarters, flies feverishly abuzz in the heat and stink; but glassfaced, refrigerated display cases, cuts neatly placed in labeled trays.
But Costa Rica is one of the world's most popular destinations for sex tourism. Hookers stalk the corners near our hostel, approaching the cars that creep by, shoppers absorbed in their side view mirrors, deciding whether to speed off or pause on the curb.
After five months, I'm reunited with Jackson, and we're joined by Calvin, who just flew in from Charlotte, NC. Given our propensity for breaking into random harmonized song without the slightest provocation, we're considering presenting ourselves as a renowned American R&B trio in order to land club gigs and impress Ticas. To maintain masculinity in the smooth face of our R&B, we fart and cuss a lot.
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RIP HEAVY D
14 years ago