Night On The Town

We enjoy going into town for dinner.  It's been our practice to head in to Montezuma once a week and treat ourselves to life in the Gran Manzana (Big Apple to the those who don't know how to use translate.google.com like I do).

In the past few weeks, we've walked into town, ridden our bikes in or taken the bus.  All are excellent options.  Last night we walked.  Other than being dusted down by a couple of ATV's it was a very nice walk.  A big flock of campers have hit town and are camping out on the beach south of town.  There don't appear to be any rules about camping on the beach.  If there's room, you pitch your tent.  Everyone camps under the trees, off the beach.  Your tent would reach blast oven temperatures if you were out under the sun.  What this means is that tents are packed side by side.  It's a nice scene, however, everyone in a good mood, the odd camp fire, some meals being prepared, kids running around and good cheer all round.

As is our habit we stopped off for a pre-dinner cocktail over which we discussed the events of the world (I think, it's a bit of a blur with all that walking).  After the sun goes down, the temperature drops from it's mid-day 35 celcius to something in the mid twenties, making for a very pleasant outdoor dining experience.  I don't think there are any restaurants here with windows.  The higher-end establishments often provide a roof but that's pretty much unnecessary this time of year.

Next up, a very nice dinner.  I enjoyed a tasty piece of beef, something that's not available in the local stores so it doesn't get cooked at home.

Final stop of the night, a grocery run.  After that, we're loaded up with provisions in our durable and handy Sunnyside Market reusable grocery bags (blatant plug).  Now to find a taxi.  We've always had success just hanging out at the crossroads of main street and the highway (ha-ha).  A taxi usually shows up in a few minutes.  Not tonight, so we head back on foot.  We're in luck though and flag a cab heading the wrong way, with a passenger for town.  After a brief discussion with the cabby we negotiate his return and settle down to wait.

Five minutes later he's back and we're on our way in air conditioned SUV comfort.  These blog entries  tend to have some discussion of the difference between life here in Costa Rica and back home in Calgary.  I think I'm getting there.  The taxi driver introduces his son, Manuel, a pleasant twelve year old enjoying Friday evening with his dad.  Don't get that at home.  The language barrier with the driver is much the same as at home but we handle all that with good grace.  The taxi stops and we all peer out the front window.  Slowly, we back down the road, looking, looking, looking.  Que?  What?  It turns out we're looking for a Coati Mundi, a Central American racoon.  Nope, didn't see it.  This is more like a nice drive with Manuel and his dad than a business transaction with a destination.

Our ride is over quickly and we're deposited at home.  No excitement.  Nothing dramatic.  A pleasant night on the town.

ATV Cultural Lesson

I have always considered the ATV or quad to be part of some kind of culling operation put in place by "The Secret Government" or perhaps the Illluminati.   I'm not quite sure (more research is required, "The Secret Govenment" is perhaps the Illuminati).  Regardless, the only way I could understand why these machines existed was as part of the initial steps in a major population cull.  Like, getting us used to lemming like behaviour so that when additional culling mechanisms are initiated, like invading countries or banning cream pies to protect us from terrorism, we respond willingly.

Costa Ricans have detected different possibilities for the ATV.  The roads are crappy here and vehicle taxes prohibitive.  The economic power of the invisible hand has acted as it should.  The creature of this power is the ATV which has inserted itself into a multiplicity of roles for the vehicle impoverished population.  I've seen the family sedan ATV bouncing along with a family of four.  The minivan ATV with mom, dad, baby and groceries.  Too numerous to mention are the various implementations of the cargo van ATV.

I have been hopeful that North Americans could embrace the utility of the ATV and strike a blow against the Illluminatis' intentions.  Unfortunately, American tourists here embrace what they know of the quad and become ATV bandidos;  looking for opportunities to off themselves with their rented charges.

The more things change ...

Homely Produce

At our supermarkets, we are accustomed to seeing aisle upon aisle of shiny unblemished fruits and vegetables.  Deep green broccoli - with stalks, crowns only or mixed in with a bag of salad.  It's always attractive, so easy to be smitten by, bagged and put in my cart.  The downside is it doesn't taste like anything.  Tomatoes?  They come in many varieties, they too are beautiful, glossy red - and tasteless.  Bananas, shipped 8,000 miles are looking good but equally as disappointing when it's time to take a bite.

The produce here is often quite ugly.  The one available variety of tomato is dull red with green mottling.  They are delicious.  I'm not a big tomato fan but I'm putting them in sandwiches, salads and spaghetti sauce.  The bananas look spotted, scabby and a colour that is not quite yellow.  They are SO good!  Everything we've sampled in the fruit and vegetable world here tells the same story.  Ugly but delicious.

I know we've got to ship food half way around the world to fill our supermarket shelves.  There must be some nutrition in the produce; I've not read of many cases of scurvy or rickets in our cities.  It's only when you get somewhere where produce is grown locally and picked when ripe that you can appreciate what pap we consume regularly at home.  The produce here is just better.

They've not figured out how to genetically alter their hens here to produce extra large eggs that have no taste.  The eggs look like something a normal hen could deliver, not a behemoth the poor creature would require a caesarian to produce.  But, the eggs here have yellow yolks and taste like an egg.

There is a downside I'm sure.  Maybe it's the beef.  Other than ground beef there isn't any in the local mercados.  Beef requires a trip to the butcher who is out of my bike range.  That is likely just as well since it would likely have me producing yet another tiresome diatribe on how good the food is here.

Don't get me started on the fish...

Highway Fatalities

Normally we wouldn't be riding our bikes into Montezuma on a Saturday morning.  The road is hilly and it's a hot, sweaty ride into town.  We had an emergency, however.  Two emergencies, in fact.

The noble emergency was my lack of any reading material.  There's a nice lady in town who runs a used bookstore / libreria.  For about $1.75 you can take out one of the library books for a couple weeks.  Alternatively, you can buy a used book and sell it back if you so wish.  The library books are of a more refined sensibility than the used books.  A lot of Thomas Hardy, William Faulkner and your more serious writers.  Basically, the stuff you just can't read in a hammock.  I lasted four chapters in "My Name Is Red", a Noble prize winning novel by Orhan Pamuk.  I'm sure it's a terrific book, I mean, it won the Noble Prize for gawd's sake.  It appears, however, I'm looking for something more like Mickey Spillane or John D. Macdonald.  That's the ticket!

The less than noble emergency was our current beer shortage.  None.  Nada.  Beerless.

So in to town we go.  It's necessary at some point in this narrative to fess up.  Embarrassing as it is, I've installed a carrying basket on the handle bars of the Bicycle Components Extreme.  Donna has lent it to me.  Her husband, Tito wouldn't be caught dead with it on his bike, so being somewhat secure in my masculinity, my piece of crap bike has one more strike against it.

I pick up a schlock mystery novel at the bookstore.  We score a dozen Imperials, the beer of choice, at the Montezuma Super and we're good to go.  The beers are securely stowed in the basket, which I should mention is detachable.  Detachable so I can gaily prance about town doing my shopping.

A word about the road from Montezuma to our house.  It is a bad road.  Potholes, dust, boulders, gravel, ATV bandidos racing at top speed, trail bikes blazing past and the odd dog wandering about.  I'm wanting to get home and refrigerate the Imperials so pedal furiously up the inclines and coast at speed down the steeply sloped road.  I'm doing pretty well, shaking the beers up a bit but nothing tragic, until - a serious pothole is in my path and I'm going too fast to avoid it.  SLAM!  The detachable basket detaches, releasing the brilliantly engineered quick-release brakes on the front wheel of the Bicycle Components Extreme on its way by, locking one of the brake pads against the wheel, resulting in a quick stop.

A motorcycle races past, beeping it's irritating horn, the nice lady on the back of the bike boisterously laughing at me.  It's so nice to provide pleasure.  I survey the destruction.  The Imperial troops are scattered about in the middle of the road, escaping both the gay basket and their plastic nooses.  Some of the soldiers are spraying their contents in the midst of the destruction.

I transfer the dead and injured back to the detachable basket which I once again slide into place.  I more or less get the front brake back into place.  Adrenaline is my friend.  I ignore the partially engaged front brake as it screams at me.  I power up the last hill or two, glide slowly down the slopes, careful to ferry home the casualties of this tragedy.

A pin hole leak in one of the Imperials has released sufficient pressure so that when I put it out of it's misery, I'm not showered with any contents under high pressure.  I've got a book, I've got a some beer.  A lesson learned.

The lesson?  Only carry a six pack in the detachable basket.  If we buy a dozen, Tazy can carry six in her backpack.

Fecundity

I trust that the majority of my readers are not offended by the title of today's blog.  Consider this my attempt to arrest the shrinking word count that we employ in our vocabulary.  Shakespeare used around 33,000 words in his writing.  My research indicates that the average speaker of English uses less than 5,000.  I believe that to be extremely optimistic.  I suspect it's more like 500 words with a word that sounds a bit like fecund sprinkled in regularly as a noun, verb, adverb and adjective.

It's generally acknowledged that Shakespeare was a clever man who produced material that makes for pretty good reading.  For sooth, gentle reader, may you have a fecund intellect.

Sorry about that.  It has nothing whatsoever to do with my intended topic, fecundity.

My small piece of Calgary is not particularly fecund.  I've attempted to grow tomatoes;  bringing them in at night, covering them up so they don't get frost-bite, moving them against the house so they can warm their leafy parts and not get upset.  Quack grass seems to grow pretty well without my assistance.  Ditto dandelions, thistle, clover and chickweed.  Most everything else requires constant babying.

Storm clouds gather on a hot summer day.  A beautiful dark sky full of thunderheads.  It's a wonderful sight but comes with a price.  Grab every potted plant you can get your hands on now!  Move them to safety and cover anything else you'd like to save with sheets and blankets, careful not to crush the delicate little babies.  Every last plant you so carefully planted and nurtured can be wiped out in 30 seconds as golf ball sized hail stones demonstrate how pathetic our efforts to nurture our little swathe of glacial till are.  It's better just to stick with some desiccated prairie grasses in a nice rock garden.

It's a bit different here in Costa Rica.  Are you getting sick of this yet?  There are a lot of coconut palms along the beach here.  Walking along yesterday I spotted an unusual coconut in the sand.  I was astonished by the obvious.  Coco nuts turn into coconut trees!  It falls from the tree, it hits the sand, no one eats it, it becomes a tree.

With a small amount of encouragement, the same sort of thing happens with pineapples.  I asked Donna what to do with the tops of pineapples (see my previous post on composting).  She looked at me with the look she often gives me.  The "this guy is pretty dim but I'll try to be polite" look.  "You stick them leafy side up on the ground and they'll grow you a new pineapple."  She pointed out a few of the children of previously eaten pineapples in our compost field.

Hoping to kill two birds with one stone, I've "planted" our last pineapple leafy bit in one of the subterranean entrances.  What's the worst that can happen?

Subterranea

There is something disquieting about creatures that burrow in the earth.  What are they hiding?  What plans are they making in their underground bunkers?

I have experience with the gopher.  I admit, this little rodent is an exception to the rule.  I don't find him the least bit frightening.  He is, also, so darn pathetic.  Sticking his head out of the ground, making those sweet peeping noises.  Frolicking about with his buddies out in the wide open where they turn into meals for the local hawk population.  When it comes to our road network and the practice of safety procedures, they are absolutely clueless.  We see scores of these poor little blighters offering up their crushed entrails to crows and magpies.  So sad.

I'm not afraid of the Richardson's Ground Squirrel.  He is cute and inept.

Lurking beneath the property here, however, is a beast of a different colour.  I think.  I can only posit what the local underground denizens look like and are up to.  They won't show themselves.  They continue to expand their subterranean city.  That, is obvious from the heaps of sand appearing around the entrances to their lairs.

If there were just a few holes in the ground I'd have little to worry about.  If the holes were widely dispersed that would make me feel more settled.  If the inhabitants of terra not so firma would reveal themselves as cute, cuddly little leaf eating rodents I could sleep better at night.  Not these creatures.  They hide in their ever expanding network of tunnels.

I once had a gopher situation at home.  One little fellow decided our deck was interesting.  Rather than just politely crossing the deck as you or I would, he completed a tunnel under the deck, burrowing up next to the house.  I easily put an end to his explorations by stuffing a large pointed boulder down his hole.  Hmmm.  I'm wondering what googling visitors I will be getting on this blog after that last sentence.  As they say, any publicity is good publicity.  Regardless, the gopher situation was resolved.

I will be preparing my pointed boulders this afternoon.  I'm thinking something in the range of 2,000 should be sufficient.

Yard Work

The fate of all home owners is yard work.  Some people thrive on yard work;  to them it's a hobby, something they anticipate with pleasure and execute with joy.  To me, the salient word in the phrase yard work is work.  Ugggh.  Work is not something I associate with pleasure or joy.  A good book.  A refreshing beverage.  A refreshing beverage and a good book;  these are things I anticipate with pleasure and execute with joy.

Fortunately, yard work in Calgary is minimal.  My lawn is approximately the size of a postage stamp which means the sprinkler is moved once; from it's sprinkler home to the center of the lawn.  If I just leave it in the center of the lawn, subsequent moves are unnecessary.

The growing season is very short in Calgary so any harvesting of yard produce, some herbs I've planted or the odd spray of lilacs can be accomplished with a pair of scissors following a direct path from the deck to my intended victim.  My yard harvesting experiences have never caused me any alarm nor have I ever felt threatened.

The same cannot be said for my yard work here in Costa Rica.  Indeed, it is fraught with peril.  The area carved out of the jungle serves as garden and lawn.  This area is quite extensive with two separate water spigots for the 500 metre hoses which can be threaded through the underbrush.  For starters, I have to get past the monster that guards one of the water spigots.  I am speaking of what I've come to call the "Big Assed Spider".  This guy is large and creepy.  In my minds eye this creature is the size of a dinner plate.  In reality he is about 3 inches from tip to tip.  So far, he has always allowed me to turn the water on or off.  Hopefully, this truce will continue.

A number of the Big Assed Spider's mates (mistresses?) build their webs between branches in the undergrowth which I must navigate when moving the sprinklers.  When I run into a spider web at home, I hardly notice and disgruntedly wipe it away with my hand.  Not here.  This web resembles a trampoline in its strength and elasticity.  I've run into these and will not attempt any wiping away.  Impasse.  You win, Big Assed Spider.  His web is left intact.  I'll take another route.

Various produce grows on the trees here, some of which we're harvesting.  Limes, peppers, bananas and mangos are all on the property.  While out checking for mangos yesterday I encountered a tribe of  howler monkeys.  The howlers don't seem much bothered by humans and just continue to go about their business which entails snacking, hanging about, showing off and of course, howling. Now, while the howlers aren't much bothered by us they really have a low opinion of people hanging about under their tree.  I came to this conclusion when a number of them let loose with a shower of urine.  Were they just excited to see me and lost bladder control?  I think not.


The howler has a sense of irony which I respect.  If some monkey was taking my picture while I was hanging out, just reading and enjoying a beverage, I know what I'd do.

Dog Eat Dog

There are quite a few dogs hanging about in this part of Costa Rica.  The dogs on the beach all appear to be loosely attached to an owner.  These are unlike the town dogs who look after themselves.

The town dogs are mongrels, the most refined of the canines.  They are the Heinz 57 breed.  Mix all these inbred master race dogs together and what comes out of the genetic stew is a smart, short furred, athletic, twenty-ish pound creature that looks Dog.  Time for a lie down?  Dig out a depression in the shade and catch some z's.  Hungry?  Check out the back doors of the restaurants.  Feeling like a little action?  Whoa!  I can smell Lola somewhere!  That's a town dogs' life.

As I now veer off from my extremely interesting discussion of pure bred dogs versus mongrels I foresee problems.  Perhaps you can see where my sensibilities lie and where this might be going.  Pure bred dog owners (one of which I've become) are a misguided lot.  Do you want a dog or some pathetic manifestation of your struggling ego?  I have discussed this issue with Jake.  He is secure in his dogliness and has informed me that he feels more Dog than Labrador Retriever.  He has let me know that if he still had all of his parts he would happily breed with mongrels or pure breds.  He draws no distinctions.  With the exception of course of the Jack Russell Terrier of which he cannot abide.

The town dog is noble, being free.  The beach dog, unfortunately is enslaved.  As Cesar Millan, of Dog Whisperer fame has noted, "my job is to rehabilitate dogs and train owners".  Obviously, the training of owners is the only difficult part of Cesar's equation.  Unfortunately, we have discovered from the numerous schools of psychoanalysis, the hundreds of religions and thousands of self-help books that the training of humans is impossible.  No more evidence is required than one of our neighbours here.  We know them as "The Italian Family".

Now if I had a serious ego problem and was pretty much a total mess, what sort of dog would I bring to a tropical country.  Any guesses?  If I thought that anyone was actually reading this blog, the savvy thing to do would be to put in a "voting widget" and have my audience wait until tomorrow's blog for the answer.  No sense indulging that fantasy.  The Italian Family has elected the Siberian Wolf as their beach dog of choice.  No Siberian Husky or any sort of cross breed for these folks.  They followed logic, such as they know it, and shipped down a breeding pair of Siberian wolves.

Donna has warned us of the wolves and shared some of their bloody history of encounters with other dogs.  Needless to say, as we approach the beach we take a quick peek for the wolves.  If there are wolves on the beach, we walk a little farther down the road before heading shoreward.  This morning the wolves were having a swim.  The male wolf is always on his lead so when he spotted Jake his owner was required to put her considerable weight behind her efforts of restraint. (Me, passive-agressive?)

Under what fantasy-land scenario are these wolves and these Italians happy with their situation?  I put this question to Jake but he was pissed off from having to shower down after coming back from the beach and wasn't speaking.  As usual, to show his disdain for my ideas of cleanliness he went and had a good rub down in the grass and dirt.

There Is A Tide In The Affairs Of Dogs

Being a prairie boy I've always had a vague notion of tides.  My reading of historical fiction has given me to understand that press gangs raided coastal pubs for sailors just in time to get the poor souls onboard to make the last tide.  I am lead to believe there are tidal powered electrical generation facilities.  And of course, Shakespeare.  Brutus declaims in Julius Caesar,
"There is a tide in the affairs of men.
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries."

Now that's pretty serious stuff.  It seems these tides are not something to pass off lightly.

Jake seems to get the tide thing.  Though a prairie dog, he has some internal wiring that is tide aware.  The tide can be out as we set off on our beach walk with lots of room to wander about on the sand.  Jake, who would normally walk a bit ahead of us and keep going until we let him know it's time to turn around, lurks behind us, unsure of going forward.  As soon as we turn to go home he is much relieved and bounds ahead of us, anxious to get off the beach.  Back at the house, we check the tide tables.  While we were walking the tide was coming in.

Of course, this marine savvy dog understands the opposite.  The beach can be covered with water.  The tide is in.  No problem for Jake who happily goes ahead, splashing along, thoroughly enjoying himself.  When it's time to turn around, he's not that interested.  Back home a check of the tide tables confirms the obvious.  The tide is on its way out.

I'm as proud as the next homo sapien of this large brain case we own.  Hopefully, my lack of the tidal awareness that a labrador retriever has, keeps me from getting too smug about the value my three pound brain offers versus Jake's three ounce brain.  

As Jake keeps reminding me, "it's not the size that matters".

Bicycle Components Extreme

About 2 1/2 kilometers to the north of us is a tourist town.  The same distance to the south is a Tico village where the local fisherman keeps his shop.  A bus trundles between the two villages every couple of hours until late afternoon.  A limited and relaxed schedule.

Both villages are easily walkable but between the local quad drivers churning up dust clouds and a temperature that is rarely below 30 celcius it's not that much fun walking back from town with a few bags of groceries.  Transport is required.

I pondered purchasing a little motorcycle and selling it off when we head back north.  However, the price of the motorcycle and my determination to get some exercise steered my moral compass in the direction of a pedal bike.

Our new friends Donna and her husband Tito invite us along on their weekly drive into the commercial center about 1/2 hour inland from the beach.  That half hour is not because the town is thirty miles away but because the road is so bad it takes a half hour to negotiate the eight mile trip.

We set off in the 40 year old Land Rover.  It was being taken into the shop for some exhaust repairs.  Climbing a steep hill the exhaust issues reveal themselves as a cloud of blue vapours leaking through the floor boards around the shifter.  "Don't worry", says Tito.  "That only happens when we're going uphill".  Well, most of an inland trip from the coast is going to be uphill.

We stop at the local cycle shop.  The only bike for sale is a relaxed cruiser style job.  That won't cut it for my needs.  My purpose is not to cruise down some hard packed beach showing off my new wheels.  I'm going shopping on pot holed, wash board roads.

Naturally, the appliance / furniture store is selling bikes.  A helpful lad pumps the tires up on my choice of wheels and off I go on a test ride.  It's 35 degrees with the noon sun scorching down on my head.  It's a short test ride.  The gears change, the pedals pedal and the brakes brake.  I'll take it!  This bike even comes with a one year warranty on the frame.  The wheels can fall off, the brakes can fail, the gears can lock up and you'll get, "es lo que es".  It is what it is.

I get it.  This new 15 speed, full suspension bike is costing me about $125.  It's bound to be a piece of s**t.  Es lo que es.  Will it get me to town for a few months?  I'm thinking it might.  The sales clerk supplies a useful piece of advice.  Since this is a new bike, take it to the bike shop up the street so it can be tuned.  Huh?  I have to assume my new "Bicycle Components Extreme" arrived here as a box of parts that someone in the back of the appliance store assembled as best they could.

I wheel my new acquisition back to the bike shop to fuel the local economy.  A couple of cervesas, a nice lunch and grocery shopping fill in the rest of the day.  The bike is wedged into the back of the Land Rover.  Tazy and I pile in with our bags of groceries.  Home we go, free of diesel fumes (it's either because the return leg is downhill or the mechanic actually did fix the exhaust).

Freedom!  I've got wheels.

Things That Go Bump

Wherever I've lived in the past, I've occasionally been startled by some crash outside or nearby the house.  It might be a thump.  It might be some crashing about.  Regardless, coming out of a sound sleep or being disturbed while otherwise occupied I've got to go investigate the source of the noise.

Living in a forest in Costa Rica, I've had to dispense with my investigative habits.  There's a crash, thud, scraping noise or other disruptive audio phenomenon numerous times during the day and night.  Usually, there's no way to determine what the cause of the noise was.  I have, however, been keen eyed enough to spot a few culprits.

1. The falling coconut.  Evidence is abundant on the ground.
2. The leaping squirrel.  I've seen this guy take a mad leap and trust his fate to there being foliage sturdy enough to save him from plummeting to the ground.
3. The stick throwing monkey.   The white faced monkeys don't seem to like labrador dogs hanging around under their tree.  Their solution?  Break off a branch and toss it at the dog.
4. The tumbling iguana.  This is my favourite.  Every day one of the local iguanas uses the eaves trough as a personal subway.  It sounds like a clock-work device in the eaves trough as his little nails click, click, click their way along the gutter.  How does an iguana proceed on their journey at the gutter terminus?  Why you just fall 12 feet landing on your back.  You then roll over and scuttle off on your way.

This carefree falling off structures is something I admire and see a need for.  Many has been the time when I'm doing some job up on a roof.  It's a real pain to ensure that the ladder is secure.  I never trust my ladder site engineering.  I tentatively position myself, always fearing some DIY caused injury.  Why couldn't we have evolved like the iguana?  Take a quick peek over the edge of the roof, roll off, land on my back, give a little shake, jump up and go about my business.  That and the opposable thumb and our species could make some real progress.

Composting

Recognizing that Canadians have done a crap job of looking after our share of the planet I've become greener as the years have passed.  I'm now a reasonably dark shade of green and one of my ecologically minded skills is composting.  My version of composting involves storing fruit and vegetable scraps and other "allowed" biodegradables in a sealed container under the sink.  After a few days, if you've not moved the putrid contents of this vessel to the outdoor composter, things start to gain a life of their own.  Not a pleasant life.

Before the contents become too ripe, they are transferred to the outdoor Earth Machine composter.  This can be very entertaining in December when the patio door is frozen shut.  After prying the door open, out I venture into a minus 30 degree yard, through a snow drift where I manhandle the frozen plastic lid of the composter open.  In order to make this adventure just a bit more extreme, I've put on a pair of shiny soled slippers.  This adds just the right edge to negotiating the icy slope of the back yard with a bucket of rotting slop.  Nothing is composting at minus 30 but I'm green so in goes a new addition to the frozen sludge inside the Earth  Machine.   I scurry back indoors, dig the ice out of the patio door track and force the door shut.  After rinsing out the rotting residue (nice name for an indy band) of the transport vessel I take a deep breath of righteousness and retire to the sofa.

Composting is somewhat different here in the Costa Rican countryside.  I do have a transport vessel for leftover cooking bits and plate scrapings.  What goes in the vessel though is open to whatever will be eaten by the denizens of the jungle located 1 meter from the side of the house.  Land crabs, insects, racoons, monkeys and countless unseen jungle inhabitants are keen to look after our excess.  No lid is required for the transport vessel.  Walk 10 meters into the trees and chuck the contents.  A tip for the novice jungle composter.  Add a bit of water to the transport vessel.  This gives a bit of heft to the contents making it easier to chuck that extra meter or two.  Next morning, its all gone.

I wanted to do a video of the composting technique I'm employing here but Tazy went and discarded this mornings scraps already.  Now that, is something that would never happen back home.

Pura Vida

Leaving George Bush Intercontinental Airport is somewhat easier than departing Calgary for George Bush Intercontinental Airport.  From arrival at the airport, named by the way after George Herbert Walker Bush, to clearing security took about 10 minutes.  No pat down, no body imaging, no stern questioning of my carrying of illegal substances.  Within minutes I'm people-watching at Starbucks, reading my U.S.A. Today.


Tazy positions herself at the window by our departure gate, watching for the doggie van.  You see, if the dog gets bumped to the next flight due to excess baggage on our flight, that means he shows up ownerless in Costa Rica.  An ownerless dog at the airport means officials in the capital must be notified.  Veterinarians are required.  Paperwork must be shuffled between various bureaucrats and huge amounts of cash must be supplied by the sorry dog owner.


But, we're in luck.  A white van gaily decorated with cartoon dogs pulls up to our airplane.  A dog kennel emerges.  We relax.


As it turns out, showing up with a dog is in fact a benefit when clearing customs in the Liberia airport in Costa Rica.  This is because Max, the airports dog clearance official is personally involved.  Max, who is wheeling Jake's kennel on a trolley, obtains $40.00 U.S. for processing and departs to an inner sanctum of Liberia International.  His hands are full on his return, so is unable at this time to give me change back from the fifty I handed him.  Baggage goes on the trolley, Max ignores the immigration line and we are all waved through to our waiting shuttle van.  More busy-ness and we're loaded and outta there five minutes after I picked up the luggage.  Who can ask Max for the ten bucks change after service like that?  It seems like we've been profiled by Costa Rica security and having a huge dog in a kennel means we are in the harmless profile.  My kind of logic and there were no losers in this latest battle in the "War on Terror".


Four hours and one beer stop later, our talented and relaxed driver Alex deposits us at the casa that will be our home for the next three months.  Our rental agent, Donna, shows us around.  She gives us a few tips on the house and area, makes us feel at home and leaves us to settle in.  It's nice here.  I'm sure I'm gonna like this just fine.

Biker Look

I enjoy air travel and am a relaxed traveler. Getting to the airport, relaxing over a pre-flight cocktail, reading a book; all this is good stuff. This time, however, there were a few factors that would flavour the experience.

Deciding to take along a 100 pound black labrador complicates flight plans a little. Fortunately, all the negotiations were undertaken by my too kind partner, resulting in me simply supplying my ear as a receiver of the complicated tale of transporting a horse sized canine to the tropics.

The other travel complication was the result of some moron who decided to ignite his explosive laden underpants whilst enroute from Amsterdam to Detroit. The response? Let's everyone panic and overreact to show how flippin' serious we are about fighting the "War on Terror". Continental Airlines determined that the maximum carry on bag was the size of an 8 1/2 by 11 inch envelope. No connection there with the TAS website which was the online resource for just what one could carry on international flights. TAS indicated nothing more than the strict enforcement of existing carry on rules. No more putting wheels on your steamer trunk and breaking ankles as you drag your bloated cargo down the anorexic airplane aisle.

But hey, we're flying Continental and are strong adherents to rules, so a quickish repack puts everything in order. I'm bringing what fits in my pockets and a couple novels (even though warned by the friendly check-in staff that one paperback was the max). Quickly through the grumpy U.S. customs agent and then into the cattle pen for processing. What's this? Those folks who checked in on Delta are carrying backpacks that Edmund Hilary's Sherpas would have found extreme. It appears we have a slight glitch in communications here in Calgary International Airport's efforts to fight the War on Terror.

Excellent! The airport authorities have enlisted the aid of our trusty RCMP to assist in the frisking down of suspected terrorists flying out of Calgary. Lucky me! A youngish, smiling young officer is available to examine my crotch. There's a word that has been much underused until the "crotch bomber" invaded our airspace. I suppose "gonad bomber" or "testicle bomber" wouldn't have the same cachet or respectability that "crotch bomber" has supplied. But I digress. Before fondling me (and I suspect this is a new officer testing his newly-acquired counter-terrorism patter) I am drawn to make serious eye contact with my resolute examiner. "Sir, a question I must ask." Huh? Putting on his most professional and serious connecting with the terrorist demeanor. "Any drugs or alcohol"?

Whaaaaa??? The mind boggles. I have no carry on luggage. You've just fondled my testes. What in God's name are you thinking? A number of smart-ass answers spring to mind but I cannot suppress my chortling, which turns out to be the correct response. Remembering the last

RCMP airport story from Vancouver, responses like "Gee officer, you nailed me. Indeed I did swallow 12 condoms full of cocaine and am transporting them on my regular mule route, Calgary to Houston", or "Thanks for asking. You could obviously tell I was feeling a little guilty about the crystal meth I've hidden in an internal cavity. Sorry!", are not going to help.

Regardless, the three hour pre-boarding time arrival at the airport has worked for us. We now have two hours to imbibe at the Rocky Mountain Lounge before boarding. Well, make that three hours including the flight delay and de-icing fun times.

Up, up and away. An uneventful flight, a tardy shuttle to the airport Holiday Inn where the extremely nice desk ladies supply us with tooth brushes and tooth paste. One asks if I'd also like a razor. Before I can reply her colleague informs her, "no, he's got that biker look thing goin'. It's a real good look for him".

What a wonderful woman. My day is complete. I fall asleep with a smile on my face and sleep like a baby.

Here We Are

Two years ago we spent three months months driving from our home in Calgary, Alberta to Central America. Not being smart enough to appreciate how great that time was we endured the next winter back in Canada, with at least enough sense to start planning to get away this winter.

A man, a plan, Panama! Well, close enough, Costa Rica. This blog was not part of the plan. I seem to want to express myself though and it appears that the blogosphere is a better option than boring my friends back home with my constant emailing and Skyping. Not to mention the fact that they're slogging around in -30 degrees, trying to drive in their lane in the snow muck and ice

whilst being gridlocked on their commute. Telling them the temperature has been around 30 Celsius, the beach is pristine, the local fisherman's catch is cheap and delicious and I'm more relaxed than I've been in years just doesn't hit the right tone. My gripe that the howler monkey's woke me up too early this morning does not gain me any pity.

The pic's show just what I gave up back in cube-land. My new workspace, like my old workspace is air conditioned. There are creatures peering into my new workspace just like in cube-land. The gibbering that is going on in the new workspace is far more comforting than the old workspace. I have no need to pretend I'm paying the least attention to my new workmates. Smug? Moi?

To be continued ...