I'm programmed. I've programmed myself. In many ways. One way in particular - I don't sleep late, regardless of when I go to sleep. Maybe if I had a blacked out room I would, but I've never had a blacked out room, as I've yet to travel into Alaska. So I slept for about four hours.
I did awake with the slightest of head boggles. As if I needed a reminder that I drank a lot the night before. Come on head, I know, it was only a few hours ago!
Hangovers and the like were not what I referred to in my lead off sentence in Panama I (no, you're not crazy and you needn't scroll down - I just changed the title). I can do that, seeing as I wrote it. That mild discomfort left almost as quickly as it came. And I had put nary a mood or mind altering substance into my body since arriving on the Osa Peninsula almost a month prior. Unless you count caffeine and sugar. If you do, I've been rolling!
The banged up and bruised came from a few factors. The owner here is a piece of work. Shit, owner's everywhere are pieces of work. That's part of why I took off on my own, and yet I am glued to a universal international system of our human making whereby I must abide The Man, somewhere, everywhere, on some scale.
I had a few open wounds. Some big, some small. Fresh one's on my eyelids on down to a wound just near closing on the bottom of my right foot. Lots of bug bites. And I'd just recently acquired 1st through 3rd degree burns on all of my toes. My big left toe was the worst. It's now about 13 days since the initial injury and the wounds on that toe have yet to close. The rest have. Those will, too.
My serenity had been hammered. My choosing, of course. And I wasn't reigning myself in. I was working in resentment rather than working through it. I was feeling the fleeing call. Short-term, yes. And wondering if I needed to get the fuck outta dodge entirely. Panama wouldn't be a vacation from myself, but one where I could more clearly see myself and my wants and needs for myself.
Thus, I had planned to spend a decent amount of time online. Looking for jobs. We all know that routine. My computer was giving me fits, but I could have used the public one's at the hostel.
I basically said, "fuck it, mostly." My boys from the night before were beach bound, albeit about 3 hours later than they'd planned. I was leery, knowing that ways of afternoon rain in Latin America, and because I live on a beach now, but I don't live on one that people actually go to. Besides, Latin American's seem to take their Sunday rest day seriously, so there wouldn't be many options in David. And if the internet were gone when I returned, then there'd be bigger matters worldwide than a potential new job.
I go.
I almost get off the bus. I hadn't brought any writing materials. Or my book. Or a book. Just money, sunscreen, bananas, water, juice, a towel, and a camera.
That was enough. I decided to trust in myself making the best of the day with what I had.
We scope out the surroundings. We take a beach walk. They go off to eat an okay fish. I do yoga.
I'd been lacking in the yoga and stretching department recently. Sure, I do lots of labor. Sure, it keeps me fit and strong. And I'm also tired after working hours. Maybe I play in the water. Maybe I chill. I hadn't been doing the calming balancing poses yoga brings about.
Now I did. I built up a nice sweat. I had some onlookers. I worked myself. And then I got into triangle and another pose where I was seeing upside down.
I saw what appeared to be a mini or baby elephant cloud when looking upside down. I smiled. I went for my camera and took a series of upside down pictures, knowing in the digital age, any picture could be made to be upside down. It was a type of creative juice I was going with.
The pictures all sucked and were all deleted.
I returned to do more yoga. Mainly because I still had some lower back pain. I stretched and posed and worked it mostly out. I meditated. Focusing on some ideas that had been coming to me. Yes, that's it!
I would pitch my wanna-be senile boss a new angle. I would take clients on sea turtle tours. People would pay for that. And I'd happily walk that beach all day long, freeing baby turtles into the great ocean, chatting up interested people, being able to focus my attention onto 1 or maybe 2 jobs, and getting paid pretty well in tips, I'd imagine.
I feel great.
I play in the ocean. Then Fabio, Will, and I play in the ocean. Then outside of the ocean. Then in the ocean. They continue. I go to eat.
The burger. Yummy delicious. And cheaper than the fish that I was warned away from. And the $1.25 stiff drinks had me feeling a buzzing effect for the first time in a couple days, the oxygen depletion head rush experience from a prolonged yoga move on the beach, notwithstanding.
The greatness feeling continues. I know I have a quality plan and I'm allowing myself some peacefulness. Some rest. Rest from my own relentless nature.
A couple hours later I'm devouring a delicious 1/2 chicken baked in garlic and costing about $2. The natural fruit drinks might have been better. The $2 per box of Chilean wine after certainly satisfied. And as good as all these were, I think the topper was the outside hammock I reclined in a dozed off to sleep on.
My backache seems to have gone away after that rest. Later, I'd sleep in the bed I paid for. With air conditioning. Awake in the middle of the night, move to the hammock, and sleep for a couple or few more hours before returning to bed.
I took my time the next morning, but still made sure I left in the early part of the morning. Just in case there were problems re-entering Costa Rica. There were. Maybe because I wasn't totally honest. ie, maybe because I lied.
My stated story was that I'd be in CR for awhile. Weeks. Maybe a month. And then move on to Guatemala, where I had work. True, I had been offered a job there recently. Not true that I had taken the job. The border lady took my story and stamped my passport. For 30 days. When CR refused my request for more time, I had to look elsewhere.
That's where CJ comes in. I'd met him in line at customs. I could tell his shady deal straight away. Turns out, it was what I needed to return to my home for a reasonable amount of time. Yes, I'd have to pay. Yes, I'd make him work for it.
He led me to a shop where I tried my hand at machetes for about an hour. We went for lunch. He took my passport, left, and returned a few minutes later. This time, my passport read 90 days. When he tried to up the agreed upon amount, I basically demanded he buy my lunch, which brought the price up maybe $1. Deal.
Is this new stamping and numbering on my passport legit? I dunno for sure. It looks so. And CJ seems to think we can and will do more business going forward. Maybe we will. Only if this is legit. And if I decide to remain in a country where I have to rely on the underground system to get into, only to go to a job where I can live only on days I am working.
Yes, I could speak much more about CJ and the underground schnenagians involving him supposedly slipping my passpost to a guy he knows that works within the border bureaucracy. I could.
Upon returning to my "home," my sea turtle pitch fell on rather deaf ears. I knew that was a likely scenario. And still I've upped my stress level rather than keep on with the peaceful resting calm feeling. Being in flux does not mean I need to feel fucked. It does mean CJ and I probably will not be doing much business.
The greater world at large is calling. I am sending out feelers. And I am feeling the nervous excitement of tramping on and along. Maybe north bound. Maybe southbound. Maybe crossing the panama canal and making my way into S. America.
Carnival 2012 anyone?
.
I did awake with the slightest of head boggles. As if I needed a reminder that I drank a lot the night before. Come on head, I know, it was only a few hours ago!
Hangovers and the like were not what I referred to in my lead off sentence in Panama I (no, you're not crazy and you needn't scroll down - I just changed the title). I can do that, seeing as I wrote it. That mild discomfort left almost as quickly as it came. And I had put nary a mood or mind altering substance into my body since arriving on the Osa Peninsula almost a month prior. Unless you count caffeine and sugar. If you do, I've been rolling!
The banged up and bruised came from a few factors. The owner here is a piece of work. Shit, owner's everywhere are pieces of work. That's part of why I took off on my own, and yet I am glued to a universal international system of our human making whereby I must abide The Man, somewhere, everywhere, on some scale.
I had a few open wounds. Some big, some small. Fresh one's on my eyelids on down to a wound just near closing on the bottom of my right foot. Lots of bug bites. And I'd just recently acquired 1st through 3rd degree burns on all of my toes. My big left toe was the worst. It's now about 13 days since the initial injury and the wounds on that toe have yet to close. The rest have. Those will, too.
My serenity had been hammered. My choosing, of course. And I wasn't reigning myself in. I was working in resentment rather than working through it. I was feeling the fleeing call. Short-term, yes. And wondering if I needed to get the fuck outta dodge entirely. Panama wouldn't be a vacation from myself, but one where I could more clearly see myself and my wants and needs for myself.
Thus, I had planned to spend a decent amount of time online. Looking for jobs. We all know that routine. My computer was giving me fits, but I could have used the public one's at the hostel.
I basically said, "fuck it, mostly." My boys from the night before were beach bound, albeit about 3 hours later than they'd planned. I was leery, knowing that ways of afternoon rain in Latin America, and because I live on a beach now, but I don't live on one that people actually go to. Besides, Latin American's seem to take their Sunday rest day seriously, so there wouldn't be many options in David. And if the internet were gone when I returned, then there'd be bigger matters worldwide than a potential new job.
I go.
I almost get off the bus. I hadn't brought any writing materials. Or my book. Or a book. Just money, sunscreen, bananas, water, juice, a towel, and a camera.
That was enough. I decided to trust in myself making the best of the day with what I had.
We scope out the surroundings. We take a beach walk. They go off to eat an okay fish. I do yoga.
I'd been lacking in the yoga and stretching department recently. Sure, I do lots of labor. Sure, it keeps me fit and strong. And I'm also tired after working hours. Maybe I play in the water. Maybe I chill. I hadn't been doing the calming balancing poses yoga brings about.
Now I did. I built up a nice sweat. I had some onlookers. I worked myself. And then I got into triangle and another pose where I was seeing upside down.
I saw what appeared to be a mini or baby elephant cloud when looking upside down. I smiled. I went for my camera and took a series of upside down pictures, knowing in the digital age, any picture could be made to be upside down. It was a type of creative juice I was going with.
The pictures all sucked and were all deleted.
I returned to do more yoga. Mainly because I still had some lower back pain. I stretched and posed and worked it mostly out. I meditated. Focusing on some ideas that had been coming to me. Yes, that's it!
I would pitch my wanna-be senile boss a new angle. I would take clients on sea turtle tours. People would pay for that. And I'd happily walk that beach all day long, freeing baby turtles into the great ocean, chatting up interested people, being able to focus my attention onto 1 or maybe 2 jobs, and getting paid pretty well in tips, I'd imagine.
I feel great.
I play in the ocean. Then Fabio, Will, and I play in the ocean. Then outside of the ocean. Then in the ocean. They continue. I go to eat.
The burger. Yummy delicious. And cheaper than the fish that I was warned away from. And the $1.25 stiff drinks had me feeling a buzzing effect for the first time in a couple days, the oxygen depletion head rush experience from a prolonged yoga move on the beach, notwithstanding.
The greatness feeling continues. I know I have a quality plan and I'm allowing myself some peacefulness. Some rest. Rest from my own relentless nature.
A couple hours later I'm devouring a delicious 1/2 chicken baked in garlic and costing about $2. The natural fruit drinks might have been better. The $2 per box of Chilean wine after certainly satisfied. And as good as all these were, I think the topper was the outside hammock I reclined in a dozed off to sleep on.
My backache seems to have gone away after that rest. Later, I'd sleep in the bed I paid for. With air conditioning. Awake in the middle of the night, move to the hammock, and sleep for a couple or few more hours before returning to bed.
I took my time the next morning, but still made sure I left in the early part of the morning. Just in case there were problems re-entering Costa Rica. There were. Maybe because I wasn't totally honest. ie, maybe because I lied.
My stated story was that I'd be in CR for awhile. Weeks. Maybe a month. And then move on to Guatemala, where I had work. True, I had been offered a job there recently. Not true that I had taken the job. The border lady took my story and stamped my passport. For 30 days. When CR refused my request for more time, I had to look elsewhere.
That's where CJ comes in. I'd met him in line at customs. I could tell his shady deal straight away. Turns out, it was what I needed to return to my home for a reasonable amount of time. Yes, I'd have to pay. Yes, I'd make him work for it.
He led me to a shop where I tried my hand at machetes for about an hour. We went for lunch. He took my passport, left, and returned a few minutes later. This time, my passport read 90 days. When he tried to up the agreed upon amount, I basically demanded he buy my lunch, which brought the price up maybe $1. Deal.
Is this new stamping and numbering on my passport legit? I dunno for sure. It looks so. And CJ seems to think we can and will do more business going forward. Maybe we will. Only if this is legit. And if I decide to remain in a country where I have to rely on the underground system to get into, only to go to a job where I can live only on days I am working.
Yes, I could speak much more about CJ and the underground schnenagians involving him supposedly slipping my passpost to a guy he knows that works within the border bureaucracy. I could.
Upon returning to my "home," my sea turtle pitch fell on rather deaf ears. I knew that was a likely scenario. And still I've upped my stress level rather than keep on with the peaceful resting calm feeling. Being in flux does not mean I need to feel fucked. It does mean CJ and I probably will not be doing much business.
The greater world at large is calling. I am sending out feelers. And I am feeling the nervous excitement of tramping on and along. Maybe north bound. Maybe southbound. Maybe crossing the panama canal and making my way into S. America.
Carnival 2012 anyone?
.
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