It would be nice if we could all just get along. Just follow your basic "Golden Rule". But, oh no, someone always has to take advantage of someone else. There's always the free-loader, looking for a free lunch or worse, just taking your lunch.
Being green and attempting to work some food into our 50 mile diet, we've been growing our own vegetables in our community garden plot. What could be more politically correct? We help out by watering our neighbour's plots. We do our volunteering. We are righteous.
Our reward? Some jackass climbed the chain-link fence and harvested 80% of our carrots. I suppose the thief thought he was doing me some big favour by leaving me a dozen carrots. I figured, "that's Calgary for you!". Crime on the way up, caring and righteousness on the way down. "It won't be like that in Costa Rica", I thought.
Wrong. It's worse!
When we arrived at our rental, Donna pointed out the various banana varieties that were on the property. "Those small red bananas are the best. They're delicious and spicy". With directions on banana harvesting from our neighbour Peter, I found the machete in the store room, checked its sharpness (I have no idea what I'm doing here) and set it aside for next day's harvesting.
Well next day, like every next day is leisurely paced. You don't want to just jump out of bed and starting whacking down a banana tree. You need your coffee. You need your toast. You need to check out the beach. "Yup, still water in the Pacific". You need to check for wildlife. Interesting. "Look, there's monkeys in the trees". They were monkeys. As well, they were thieves!
Those cute little Capucine monkeys were having a relaxed time picking and eating all my red bananas. They were enjoying watching us while they ate every last one. Not 80%. Nope, all of them. Totally brazen and without remorse.
Showing more sense than us and obviously feeling somewhat responsible for the local monkeys, Donna kindly provided us with a bunch of bananas. "Hang them up until they're ripe, where the monkeys won't get them".
The lengths we have to go to in order to protect our property. It's absurd!
"And, make sure that you take them down when they're ripe. Don't leaving them hanging around".
I see. 'Cause it will only get worse. It's a jungle out there.
I've grown up with the Hawkins Cheezie and have always considered it a superior product. The Hawkins Cheezie is as Canadian as ... uh ... uhhhh ... as Canadian as, as ... as Ann Murray shooting a frozen horse turd at Stompin' Tom Connors in net at the Tim Horton's parking lot. Yeah! That Canadian. And she scores, too, 'cause Tom was busy stompin' on a sheet of plywood instead of properly playing the angle.
The Hawkins Cheezie is a solid piece of fried corn meal, misshapen and knobby, with crevices that can hold extra "real cheddar cheese". They are solid and crunchy. The Hawkins Cheezie will not melt in your mouth like those pathetic cheese puffs (poofs?).
If I line up four cheese puffs on a table and give each of them a name, like Bruce, Ellen, Lance and Roseanne and then ask you to memorize each cheese puff's name, I will wager you will never remember "who" was "who". The cheese puff is anonymous - a clone - manufactured by some repetitive puffing process (keep your dirty thoughts in check).
Now, let me line up four Hawkins Cheezies on a table and name them Wayne, Barbara, Terry and Mary-Lou. If you have anything approaching a memory, you will be able to identify each Cheezie when re-introduced. That is one of the great appeals of the Hawkins Cheezie. Not only is this a delicious snack food, each bite is a unique experience.
The Hawkins Cheezie humbly mutters its Canadian identity. Solid, dependable and maybe just a little boring. Check out the Hawkins Cheezie website to get a glimpse of some Canadian content. As mentioned in their earnest mission statement:
We believe that people, our managers, our permanent staff, our temporaries and our students represent the brick and mortar of our company. It is through people producing the finest quality product available, we will continue to forge our future. We will always recognize that our customers are the vital key to our future. We are obligated to our customers to deliver the finest and we have promised to do so in full measure.
Enough said! There are the Canadian values we can take pride in, in full measure!
It is telling that Eric Cartman is a spokesman for the Cheesy Poof. Who wants to be associated with any snack food endorsed by that little misanthrope?
Now is where I will begin my healing. The first step is to acknowledge my addiction. My new addiction. "My name is Earnest B. DeMille and I am addicted to Meneitos Clasicos". The Meneitos are the crack cocaine of the extruded cornmeal cheesy snack. I don't know what Meneito, with his wily Latin ways has introduced into these horneados. Whatever it is, these babies are physically addictive.
Yeah, the Meneito is anonymous. You couldn't tell Chico from Maria from Juan Alberto from Julita. But you will eat one and one more and again and again and again. Your mouth and fingers smeared with that cheesy coating that you lick clean, promising yourself, "just one more" and then "just one more" until the entire package is empty and you're planning your next trip to the mercado.
The Meneito is not a humble, solid product backed by a somnabulent mission statement that gives you pride in your humble, stolid snack food. Nope. The message at Jack's, the company that manufactures Meneitos, is upbeat and chirpy. Kids are being drawn into the addictive net that Jack throws with his cheese encrusted fingers. Contrast the dependable Hawkins message with what Jack's website projects. The kids don't have a chance!
I've taken the first step in my recovery.
Be warned. There is a free trade agreement between Canada and Costa Rica! It is now the time to petition my member of parliament and the minister in charge of trade. No Jack's products should be allowed into our country. I will be keeping you informed of my progress with my disease and my efforts with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and International Trade.
But first, I have to wipe all these orange stains off the keyboard.
I'm told that Costa Rica has numerous laws intended to support highway safety practices. These laws can be enforced with stiff penalties. For instance, helmets are required for both bicycles and motorcycles. I'm told the fine can be as much as $500 if you're caught helmet-less.
The police presence here is very close to non-existent, which seems to be working pretty well. The two officers that I've seen, ride together on a 250cc Yamaha, cruising slowly along. The officer on the front has a blue helmet, his partner on the back a red helmet. Red-helmet is the greeter and he happily waves to helmet-less families of three on a small motorcycle or shouts "hola" to bare-headed cyclists riding our dusty road.
It appears that it's enough that the law is on the books. The enforcement of the law is an entirely different matter that I suspect is a real hassle for everyone concerned.
Left to their own devices, the locals tend to play pretty fast and loose with road safety. I guess that when you're relaxed in your daily life you don't get as fussed up about what mighthappen. As evidenced on a road trip we took last week, stuff does happen, though.
Since the standard pick-up truck only seats 2 or 3 in the front and there's that enormous bed in the back, there really should be no problem with loading the back with whatever you're hauling and whoever wants a ride. It's not uncommon to see 4 or more people in the bed of a pickup plus all their gear.
We set off on a field trip with Donna, our destination Mal Pais, just across the peninsula. Donna slowed the Land Rover to negotiate the dust mitigation work being done by an ex-pat down the beach. He was spraying molasses on the road outside his home. This creates a pleasant smelling hardtop surface, eliminating the clouds of dust which would otherwise be spewed on his property.
We just passed by this roadwork and along comes a small car followed by a pickup truck, it's bed full of white plastic picnic chairs. The truck strikes one or more of the more serious potholes and loses the load of chairs, out the back of the truck. What's that in the chairs strewn on the road? Whoa! It's a kid who was riding on the top of those stacked chairs and he's not moving.
Donna and Tazy spring into action while I stay behind to guard the Land Rover. Triage indicates no broken bones nor much in the way of scrapes. The poor lad did, however, land from a fair height onto his head so he's woozy and likely concussed. A trip to the clinic is agreed upon. Tazy talks the driver out of putting the boy back into the truck bed with a steel wheel well for a pillow, negotiating a ride for him in the back seat of the car that was accompanying this chair moving procession.
We're back on our way and Donna translates some of the conversation, including "I was driving so slowly", "you are an angel of mercy sent from heaven" and numerous other things I'm sure Taz would be far too embarrassed for me to include here.
You may consider the title of today's blog entry to be somewhat melodramatic. All I can say is, you weren't here to witness the carnage that we were exposed to. I can only hope that I don't have to go through such an experience again.
We inherited a fellow tenant when we moved in - a feline tenant with a claim on the property. Squatting rights, even. We are told that this small, black cat walked into the house out of the jungle and proceeded to give birth on the premises. How are you going to evict such a visitor? The owner, with his Cockney rhyming slang ways, named this interloper China Plate (whatta mate?). Regardless, the cat answers (being a cat when she damned well wants to) to China.
During the day, China hangs out up in the loft or in the garage, sleeping the day away. At night, you can often see her in the yard, quietly waiting. Waiting for what? Last night we found out.
When the sun is up, China can be extremely vocal. If she thinks it's breakfast time and someone is up, she let's loose with a continuous stream of meowing. Meow, meow, meow. Meow, meow, meow. And so on. She's affectionate and wants a bit of a rub when she's getting her cat chow. Seemingly, a very, sweet, friendly little creature. Seemingly.
After the sun goes down we never hear from China. Not until last night. A pleased meowing was coming from the garage area. I went to investigate. I should have just gone to bed. China was proudly strutting around her fresh kill of rat. A nice big rodent, about her size. She had a feral, cocky, see what I've done kind of attitude. A don't mess with me sort of stance. I congratulated her and slunk off to bed.
Next morning. Oh the horror! It seems China has an excellent knowledge of rat anatomy and is a practiced vivisectionist. The spine and internal organs of the ex-rat were left at the killing site. The masticated body, China had moved to the work bench, a much better venue for a night of chewing and bone crunching. My beautiful Bicycle Components Extreme was exposed to this horror for the entire night. It may never ride properly again.
So far as China was concerned, the rat was not a proper meal. When I awoke to the horror which she still proudly surveyed, she was meowing as usual, demanding her cat chow. A night of dissecting and masticating rat only gave an edge to her appetite.
I fed the once again friendly black cat who graciously rubbed up against me as I spooned out her kibbles. Satiated she climbed her ladder, no doubt to sleep soundly in the loft, dreaming her Stephen King dreams.
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.
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.
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.
Those cute little Capucine monkeys were having a relaxed time picking and eating all my red bananas. They were enjoying watching us while they ate every last one. Not 80%. Nope, all of them. Totally brazen and without remorse.
