in buenos aires

it costs 6 pesos to buy a pack of cigarettes

and 8 pesos to mail a postcard.

in new york, it costs $12 to buy a pack of cigarettes

and 40 ¢ to mail a postcard.

but it is comforting to know that wherever you are in this wonderful world there will always be an unintelligible asian willing to weigh your laundry and charge you a fair price to shrink your clothes.

(of note: 4 AR pesos = $1 US)

#5

      We've all had friends who seem to be on their own time; the kind of friend that insists they'll be at your door at 7pm to pick you up for dinner, then arrives an hour late without an excuse. Frustrating, yet endearing I guess? We had no choice but to adopt this type of mindset as we stood waiting for the 5am bus out of Uvita to begin a long day of travel into Panama. Just to be safe we got to the bus stop early, pushed some stones around by the side of the road for a bit, fit some reading in, and just as we began to worry we had been stood up the bus appeared in the distance and off we were! One bus transfer landed us in Paso Canoas, eager to make our first border crossing and kiss Costa Rica a fond farewell. It cost us a mere $1 US to cross the Panamanian border…stamp, stamp and we were in. 

      The bus to Panama City was practically waiting for us as we wandered into our next country - a luxury liner with air conditioning and reclining seats. Hot and tired per usual we slumped into seats near the front and closed our eyes, hoping to catch a wink or two on what was to be a 6-7 hour ride. The engined roared on and moments later so did the stereo system directly above us. "Sus ojos, sus labios, me encantaaaaa," sentiments that draw a cliche tear in any language leaked out of the speakers, initially at a normal volume. As our speed and distance increased so did the magnitude of the sound until the struggle to carry on a conversation began to match the emotional battle expressed in the concert of power ballads that persisted for the length of the bus trip. It was so powerfully loud that we couldn't read, couldn't even sleep! 

      Upon arrival in Panama City, we headed straight for the taxi drivers and sleepily selected the first driver who approached us. Countless clues suggested our decision may have been hasty - his car was dented and missing windows, and had to be hot-wired in order to get the engine purring. His eyes resembled a waning crescent moon, leading us to believe either his exhaustion mirrored our own or he had just finished puffing on some fine Panamanian green. At least he knew the direction to Casco Viejo and we pulled up in front of our hostel, Luna's Castle, within minutes. 

      Casco Viejo is the second oldest section of Panama City, built and settled during the 17th century after the sacking of Panama Viejo by the nefarious pirate Captain Henry Morgan. Little remains of the oldest section of the city; other than a church tower the ruins are essentially piles of rubble. Casco Viejo is quite dilapidated as well, comprised largely of shells of formerly grand structures. Paint chips off the facades and vegetation grows where there once were walls, stairs, and floors. The area has seen a resurgence in development as of recently, and you can now find cafes and bistros tucked unassumingly between blocks of crumbling buildings. Next to Casco Viejo stand the sky-scrapers and commercial office buildings that give the City it's metropolitan edge, but it is far from cosmopolitan. Most of the buildings are either under construction or unoccupied. At night from our hostel the 'city' was visible from across the water, but instead of bright lights and action mostly what we observed were dark, empty high-rises. 

      Panama uses the US dollar as its currency, a remnant of the American presence in the country beginning the early 20th century with the takeover of the Panama Canal project from a bankrupt French company. Visiting the canal was our only lofty expenditure, including a taxi fares and entrance fee. The boat that passed through the Miraflores Locks during our visit was a freighter whose width approached the maximum limit, 107 ft to squeeze through the 110 ft canal allowing for only a 1.5 ft on each side. Over the course of an hour we watched pulleys guide the boat into the lock, then the boat sink and advance through the passage - a somewhat anticlimactic experience outside of marveling at the length of the boat itself which we thought might never end. Fortunately for us it was the best show of the day. How can you visit Panama without admiring the canal?

      Otherwise, everything else in Panama is cheap. To avoid taxi fares, you can hop on a wildly decorated and spray-paint-decaled school bus called a "diablo roja" which will take you from one side of the city to the other for 25¢. For $3-4 we sampled a several dishes, including a variety of sandwiches, platos tipicos, grilled meats and vegetable kabobs from street vendors. A double scoop ice cream cone or a large cup of ice-cold coconut water set us back only fifty cents each. At the mercado del mariscos, the local fish market, a five minute walk down the water, fish dishes were available for as little as $2. Local fishermen clamored dockside unloading their fresh catch of the day from vessels painted a variety of colors, the most basic of which echoed Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea for us. Inside the market we sampled a verity of different ceviches, ranging from corvina to camarones to the especially delicious combination cup (replete with octopus, squid, conch, among others). 

      One of our favorite eateries was Cafe Coca-Cola. The restaurant was a relic of the 1930's or 40's and frequented by Panamanian old timers in polyester pants and short sleeve button-downs who didn't take their hats off while they ate their food. These men had their shoes polished in a shaded square just across from Coca-Cola, and seemed never to perspire in their mellow daze. Everyone else in Panama carried handkerchiefs and hand towels on their person to blot at the beads that continuously formed along their brow. The temperature never dropped below 95 degrees during our entire stay, and we figured when the locals are sweating it really must be hot. Before we could turn into puddles of our former selves we changed the course of our trip entirely by booking plane tickets to temperate Buenos Aires, Argentina instead of continuing onto Columbia. We need a break from the heat! 

around panama city

#4

       We saw a man watering the dirt road by our apartment the other day. Not the little grass that borders his restaurant, nor flora of any sort, but the dirt road itself. He looked delighted to be proffering such a deluge upon the dry earth, a modern day Poseidon content with his work. Water conservation has surely not caught on in Costa Rica and I could practically feel the state of California shudder, the parched roadway lapping up all the man had to give. The fellow halted his aqueous assault on the roadway to let us pass. Meanwhile, no rain has fallen in these parts in a week. The forecast on any reputable weather station or site pledges unrelenting thunderstorms day in and day out, but we haven't felt a single drop. 

  It is only the occasional breeze or cool shower that offers our overheated bodies refreshment, for even a cold beer is rare to come by in Uvita. The refrigerator never gets quite cold enough to chill anything. It is so hot here that the bottle begins sweating before you take it out and everything after your first sip is warm. The man watering the road is a soda vendor who squeezes his own juice. No one wants juice flavored with dust from the dirt road. Here, like the sodaman, we are finding more and more that you must be both adaptive and inventive to get by.  

       If the warm mini-fridge hasn't given it away already, what we have at our disposal can only be described politely as rudimentary cooking implements: two forks and spoons, a plastic spatula, a few aluminum pots and a pan, all to be used on a hot plate whose max temperature is something like "not hot enough to boil water." Initially, we made our effort to prepare the traditional fare of the locals - rice, beans, and meat - but found that the temperature deficiency within our cooking apparatus left us with hard, undercooked beans. Heaping portions of adobo seasoning, acting as a metaphorical flavor burkha, could only veil the reality for so long. Within seventy-two hours we both lost the lust for the comida tipica, Nick even more so than I, convinced that the rice-water was actually cat piss. Each day a new challenge awaits; how can we put together a meal that doesn't incite regurgitation? We have found the answer it seems - creativity…liberal, unabashed creativity.

  This means beef jerky assimilated with your morning eggs, utilizing salsa as your go-to condiment (on everything from hamburger to beans to steak), while perpetually masking flavors with a wonderfully inexpensive and delicious hot sauce called Chilero. Some days we deliberately undercook the rice to give it a more al dente, pasta-like texture and conversely, overcook it on others to a glutenous mash to keep the senses guessing. In the morning, Nick and I lather our sunburn in coconut oil that he will toss into the pan in an attempt to get the chicken breast to take on a new flavor profile for the evening. And then there are the days when we just reek of desperation. Going to the fridge to find the same ingredients as the day before (and inevitably the days before that), Nick sighs deeply and decides to throw them all into the pot. While others may set the lid and begin to genuflect or wail towards Mecca or do whatever else one might be religiously compelled to do, calling upon otherworldly faith to somehow get the flavors to spin a new web, Nick remains calm. 

  In the kitchen Nick has managed to concoct a series of brilliant dishes with indisputably uninspired ingredients, a testament to his culinary genius. I would have happily resigned to eating fruit and cereal all day, but instead I am spoiled with exquisite egg and cheese (and jerky) sandwiches in the morning, crisp cucumber summer salad for lunch, marvelous mango/pineapple/jalapeno relish over chicken pan-seared to perfection for dinner. A team effort one night produced what would come to be known as "the dog bowl," a polenta based meal served with chicken and vegetables in a red sauce. It occurred to us then, that in many ways we are akin to the perros that run wild in the streets of Uvita; our meals are always slurped hungrily out of bowls (for we have no plates only platters) and the mash is undoubtedly an amalgamation our refrigerators' meager offerings. 

  I know dinnertime is approaching when I hear Nick howling from the corner of our room. Louder now, it is clear. "WOOF WOOF". The dog bowl is served. 

cloudscape

ETHNOBOTANY #1

We've been consuming great quantities of coconut since our arrival in Costa Rica primarily because, well….they're free. Palm trees line the beach as far as the eye can see in either direction, heavily laden with delectable, thirst-quenching, and most importantly, free, coconuts. Some days the majority of our caloric intake is derived from the luscious nut; coconut water tickles the taste buds and replenishes lost fluids, while the fleshy meat of the interior is a quick remedy for mid-day hunger.  

Our walk to the beach takes us past a shoddily crafted sign on a piece of scrap lumber advertising, "coconut oil - 4000 colones", then just past it a far larger sign of similar material continuing in the same vain, "COCONUT OIL MAKER". We discussed trying to procure some of this oil for days, often thwarted by the ostensible lack of an occupant inside the promised dwelling. Last week we skittishly approached the abandoned-looking shack, more reminiscent of a Unabomber's abode than oil palace, along the main road in town.  Enter Elvis Nunez - local fisherman, horse guide, and most importantly purveyor of all things coconut.  

Elvis is quite the eccentric character. He greets you with a cigarette in his mouth, a mere decoration for not once did we see him inhale, dangling an ash that droops like a beak toward the floor, guava residue in his hair to counteract the effects of the morning sun. Not to mention he is named after the King. This is Costa Rica (or are we ignorant of the reach of the late musician's audience?). Enough said. Introductions were brief and we, still unsure if we were talking to the right person, posed "Puedemos comprar un pequito de su aciete de pipa coca senor?" Already excited by his visitors, our request lit Elvis up, inciting a deluge of banter regarding the potential uses of the oil and its derivation in what may be the best English we've heard out of a native Costa Rican yet. Most of this information was new to us and we soaked it in like parched sea sponges. He gave us a demonstration of how to prepare the oil using a metal tool that he crafted himself before presenting us with the oil that was to be ours, packaged it in a glass pint that most likely once held alcohol and sealed with a Coca-Cola bottle top. Eager to try it out on our crispy skin and realizing that we were perhaps spending a bit more time than we had originally intended to with Elvis, we headed back to our room and began to delve into articles concerning coconuts and their potential health benefits.

This is what we found:  The consumption of coconuts in their entirety, meaning their milky water, meat and oil, yield a plethora of health benefits. Lauric acid in coconut oil, naturally found concentrated elsewhere only in mother's milk, has been proven be both an immune system builder and anti-bacterial. The meat of the coconut works to destroy intestinal parasites and the water is useful in remedying both kidney and bladder problems. Used topically, the oil is said to have tremendous healing properties - healing of sunburn and cuts and it also acts as an effective moisturizer for dry or flaking skin (including care for ailments such as eczema and psoriasis). The oil can be applied to the hair and scalp to help retain moisture and sheen. Coconut is a fruit that is relatively high in protein, high in fiber, vitamin E, vitamin K, and other minerals such as iron and calcium. Coconut oil is comprised nearly entirely of fats, which at first glance may be disconcerting, but the majority of these are medium-chain triglycerides which assimilate well into the body. Coconut oil contains fewer calories than other oils, and these fats are easily converted into energy without causing build up in the heart or arteries making it popular with those who are dieting or weight-conscious. Similarly, it is a great addition to athletes' diets because of its ability to boost energy and endurance while catalyzing muscle growth. 

Needless to say, we will continue indulging in this tropical super-food and it's oil! Bueno!

#3

I awoke this morning dazed and confused. There was a lone black bean in the bed and my dear was nowhere to be found. How surreal, and seemingly, how fitting all the same. Some sort of strange convolution of "The Princess and the Pea?" It made perfect sense; one can only consume so many black beans, until they too are consumed by the bean.

We've been in Uvita for ten days now, and the sight of beans catalyzes fits of nausea deep within the pit of my stomach. Day old rice in the cooker, taking on the humidity, reeks like slow death, spongy cow's milk cheese turns my smile upside down, and corn tortillas are put to better use lining the sole of my old birkenstocks than for human consumption. Tersely put, when Noelle sets the table for dinner I just want to strap on my wings and fly into the hills like Icarus. 

Turns out she did not turn into a bean after all. She had been consumed by the mattress, lost between the four wooden support slats that no matter their configuration will inevitably lead to sinkholes large enough to swallow a man (or woman) whole by the middle of the night. The Costa Rican sun, cheerful and inviting in the morning subtly morphs into a punishing mass by midday, the power of which we quickly learned must not be underestimated. Our hides have been tanned and the looming threat of trading our browned skin for the leathery epidermis of a Florida retiree has us accepting the sun's early bird special. Climbing out of the deathly hollows of our thinning mattress, we've fallen into a familiar morning routine here in Uvita - rise, stretch the kinks out, groan a bit, brew some cafe, rearrange the slats, and climb back into the abyss to knock out a few chapters or ruminate in our respective journals. After a breakfast that undoubtedly includes some variant on rice, beans, eggs, and fresh fruit, we fill the water bottles and jog a few miles down to beautiful Marina Ballena National Park.

Arriving at the water each morning is pure, unadulterated bliss. The sun is brutally hot here even in the early morning hours, and nothing is more refreshing than our daily plunge into the Pacific tide. We tend to scamper to and fro on the beach for a few hours each morning - perfecting our handstands, practicing yoga postures, or merely doing battle with the succession of waves relentlessly groping closer and closer to shore. By noontime our skin is bronzed, our bellies' ache for sustenance and our feet take the familiar steps towards home.

The afternoon's pace is slow and steady - the turtle to our morning hare. Most days we pray for the forecasted 4pm thunderstorm; over-saturated cumulus clouds burst, releasing their torrents over the arid jungle, cooling our minds and bodies. The patter on our tin roof drums a familiar rhythm, echoing the tempo and beat of days past as we sink once again, enveloped by the mattress.

#2

The sun pokes his head over the cresting waves at about 6:00 am here in Uvita, the  same time that we typically rise from our androgynous double to give a quick yawn and stretch. Our bodies' internal clocks have adapted and settled remarkably; these days, our ups and downs mimic that of the sun and moon. It is a astoundingly simple, yet beautiful life here in Uvita. After all, its Uvita de Oro.

Five days ago marked our welcome departure from the sweat-lodge of a bus that carried us to this nugget of Costa Rican gold.  Noting the kilometer markers as we drove down coastal Rt. 34 - Dominical 18 km, Uvita 34 km - a moment of sedentary panic set in. The bus was still yet to make a stop since our departure nearly four hours before from San Jose. And soon, past Dominical - Uvita 10 km! Sure this was the right direction, but were we on the fast track to Panama or something? After quick deliberation, we decided that one of us must make a move towards the front of the bus to alert the driver as to our desired destination. Stumbling over various limbs and awakening quite a few ticos form their slumber along the way, Nick ambled up to the driver with a declaration, "Pardon senor. necesitamos Uvita!" After mumbling something about equipaje to him, it seemed clear that he got the drift and before long we were veering off the road and coming to a stop. There was not a semblance of a town in sight, not a single dwelling or street sign, a lonely power line our only compadre. Somewhat begrudgingly we stepped out into the mid-day sun, grabbed our packs and took off down the road in search of our Atlantis. The walk was not terribly far, and in no time were emptying our backpacks, assembling our belongings in the one room apartment we now consider our home.

For those of you who know Nacho Libre think of Nick as a slightly taller, marginally more attractive Jack Black interrupting a group of playing children, "Ninos! Necisito su ayuda! Donde esta la playa?" He pulled it off exquisitely. They pointed west, and we arrived at the water just in time to soak our bones in the warm, Pacific backlit by diminishing pinks, purples, and reds in the sky. The sand here is as fine as we've ever felt; each step our feet are elegantly swallowed, as if the beach were dining in the haughtiest of brasseries. Jungle palms form a sort of Maginot line, a clear demarcation between the lands of earth and sea that collide with explosive inevitability here in the Costa Rica. The land is a rustic, bucolic paradise. 

Our days here have begun to coalesce, absorbed into one and other like a set of Russian nesting dolls. Each sunrise marks an indistinguishable beginning; each day is both a derivative of the one before it and an independent entity all its own. The meal we eat for breakfast could be the meal we eat for lunch, or the one eaten the previous evening for dinner. Our morning jogs always lead us to the same destination, the only variable the solvency of the earth beneath our feet, a reminder of the torrents that fell from the sky the evening before.  The afternoon playlist differs, but our embrace as we dance delicately around the chairs and tables of our one-room always echoes the same sentiment. We are home here, together, for today.

xo,
nick tiberio and noelle graupner

#1

San Jose is a Z. This can be taken most literally - a zany zoo perhaps. Or symbolically - representative of its foolhardy foray into urban planning; an intentional grid skewed into s-curved obscurity. One may go so far as to say zealous - taxi drivers salivate over the prospect of a fare from two gringos, balding men with four fingers forcefully make your acquaintance, and all the while you just want to retreat like a defeated soviet army and wrestle the wilderness with reckless autonomy. And so, like a modern day Thoreau (or is it Snyder) we were off.

When traveling on a budget in Latin America your relationship with buses is akin to an arranged marriage of sorts. You roll the dice hoping for a seven, when you know   snake eyes are far more likely. Blind faith though, is all you have to hang on to.  Having expectations met then on a bus in San Jose, would be like opening your front door to a tall goddess named Svetlana holding a pot of her mama's borscht. 

There are a few things you can bet your bottom dollar on when it comes to bus transit in Latin America. One, you'll wish you had some sort of avian flu type mask to filter the acrid, non-EPA approved emissions that swirl into your nasal cavity, pirouetting their way deep into your respiratory system. Secondly, you will be moving sssslllooooowwly. We won't go on to diss the mechanical capabilities of the buses and place the blame on these prehistoric beasts entirely, as infrastructure development in this neck of the woods is also out of the triassic era. Points A and B are connected by one sparsely signed roadway. There's no "maybe I'll jump on 84 and hit 91, or should we take the Post Road rather than the Merritt." Its A to B, and a jumbled mess in between. Third, centralization must not have a Latin American equivalent. No MTA, RTD or monopolized (although comfortingly efficient) transit services of any kind. Local, regional, and international buses dominate the roadways. Was it the lime green Busscar bus we wanted? Or the dilapidated white Transportes Blanco? No Port Authority-like bus terminal either. Each company leaves from a different nondescript intersection in San Jose, the city of no street signs where chronology has apparently not caught on either.  Bus schedules in San Jose are posted, yet rarely adhered to. We surmised that this was a ploy on the part of the ticos to keep the gringos as far away from the beach as possible.  And don't count on leg room. The buses are designed with the diminutive Latin American fellow in mind no doubt, exacerbated by the ostensible necessity of ticos and ticas of all shapes and sizes to recline into a nearly horizontal position. With an unwanted guest in your lap, you ride down the road to perdition wiping beads of sweat from your brow and praying to some sort of almighty spirit that the man seated in front of you will crack his window and let the breeze flow. But alas, it is hopeless. You later find out that a majority of Costa Ricans sleep in kilns. 

Our stay in San Jose was unintentional, yet a great way to ease our assimilation into Costa Rica. A slight delay on our inbound flight meant missing a tight bus connection (and with our present knowledge an unattainable one) so we booked a bunk at a hostel for the evening. For those of you planning on a trip to Costa Rica in the future, Gaudy's Hostel was magnifico! Free pancakes, fresh fruit and coffee in the morning. Wi-fi, television (playing spanish translations of Man vs. Wild with a truly befitting and macho Bear) and outdoor space for after dinner smokes and cervezas. 

Here's what we learned about San Jose during our brief stay - 

1.) Spicy table salsa is not to be confused with the sopa del dia. Expect resultant tears and/or panting breaths.

2.) The city is comprised of roughly two districts. One which we paint with a broad brush and call the "commercial center." The other, the "auto body repair district."

3.) Just because a restaurant (or 'soda' down here) advertises a plato del dia, and a host even informs you of the day's offering after your inquisition, does not mean they will actually be serving the plato del dia that particular day. The local 'casado' makes a fine substitute however, satiating the belly with rice, beans, a protein of your choice, green salad, plantains and a mystery element for something like $4 US.  

4.) Making a living as a taxi driver or police officer, two professions intrinsically tied to a knowledge of the layout of your particular city, in no way holds you accountable for the location of cross-streets or city landmarks.  

5.) There's really not too much remarkable to say about San Jose.


xo,
nick tiberio and noelle graupner