...Ju lookin' for some good weed?

I'm chillin' in Puerto Viejo Talamanca, Costa Rica, waiting for the daily deluge to stop, sitting in an oversize wooden rocking chair, listening to some Caribbean music and watching the woman who runs the budget hotel restaurant lose it over a broken branch on a plant.

"What the f*&^??!? Who the hell broke my f(*&ing plant? I'll kill who ever the f&*^ it is – god damn it!" screamed Michelle as she strode out the kitchen door, picked up the broken branch and started waving it around like a weapon.

"If you stick the branch in soil it might regrow, " I offered. She turned her focus on me. "I know," she barked. "It just PISSES ME OFF that someone would do this!" She strode back into the kitchen still cursing out the unknown fiend... Goes to prove that stress can exist even in the most peaceful places. Personally I think anyone who can get that worked up over a plant has been out of touch with reality for WAY too long. And there are a lot of people here who have been out of touch for awhile.

Puerto Viejo Talamanca is on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica and may as well be another country. This part of Costa Rica is heavily populated by ex-slaves brought over from Jamaica and Barbados when the English were first colonizing this part of the country. English is the first language of many of the people here – it was a welcomed bit of culture shock not to have to struggle with my Spanish, but also a bit strange. Puerto Viejo is a sleepy little town during off season, but I'm told just crazy during season. The local streets are dirt and mud and most of the buildings look like a strong wind could blow them over. Every other building seems to be a restaurant or retail shop.

I'm staying at the Hotel Puerto Viejo, the largest place in town with 35 rooms and bungalows. I met three girls from California and a guy from Florida on the 5-hour trip (make that 7 with the 2 hours we got to spend at a stand-still while the truck drivers at Dole blocked the one roadway to make a point about wages) and we're sharing a room for about $6 each per night.

The main patronage here is stoned surfers. It's gringo-ville featuring blond-haired boys with rasta hair talking about the awesome surf between tokes. There's a constant haze in the air.

Aside from the Rastafarian wannabes are a collection of oddball dropouts. We met Billy/Bobby – something like that – several times as he paddled around town on his bicycle trying to fill rooms at his pension. "I've been in this town for 10 years – before it had a phone – 90 percent of these people arrived in the last three years." He said that bit as if those arrivals brought the plague. Funny thing, I was told Billy didn't even speak Spanish, yet he considered himself more of a local than the locals... Billy was also a jack of all trades. "If you need a room, want a tour, I'm your man – it's slow season, gotta hustle for some coffee money. I sell the best pot in town – you want to buy some?"

He directed that question at my new reborn-Christian friend. "No man, I don't smoke thanks," replied Ben. "What's wrong with your generation?" Billy said in disgust as he rode off.

Then there's Eddy. A 50-something, sweet, but not too bright hotel reception clerk. I think the pot smoke haze affected him a bit too much as he kept misplacing our room key. Another in the cast of characters was "El Piquano (the little one)" as he was dubbed by one of my roommates, a frequent traveler to Puerto Viejo. She said every time she was in town he was trying hard to pick up some gringa and she had seen him succeed just once. When El Piquano approached me, I mentioned the word "boyfriend" several times in the first sentence. One of the other girls wasn't so clever and he kept following her around all night.

Apparently it's fairly common for gringa girls (especially northern Europeans) to come to town looking for a little Caribbean romance. I saw about 4-5 gringas backpacking with babies. Seems birth control is forgotten in the throes of marijuana-induced passion.

There are several supposedly beautiful beaches near Puerto Viejo. Since it rained so much, I stuck to a nearby surfer beach where we watched some pretty talented boys tackle the waves. Though I really relish jumping in big waves, these were a bit much for me because not only did they smash and tackle, there was a mean riptide. Being off-season, it was another practically abandoned beach. Just me, my sponger friend Ben, a Dutch/English couple and four stray dogs that seemed well-fed for their nomadic lifestyle. The dogs were very friendly in fact, and came over and plopped down on my sarong, waiting to be petted.

A friend of mine had told me a story that one time when he had to sleep on the beach for lack of available hotel rooms, five dogs circled him and slept near, keeping him warm during the chilly night. I forgot to ask him if he was really itchy after that from fleas...

These dogs had a curious habit of liking to chase surfers. They would sit watching the sea, and as a surfer came into shore, one would sound the alarm and the other three would stop whatever they were doing, turn toward the bark and then they would all take off in the direction of the surfer, barking and wagging their tales like dogs chasing cars. They would stop in front of the surfer, bark for awhile and then go back to whatever they were doing. It was a very funny thing to watch.

All these cute dogs almost got me in trouble one night when I made the mistake of petting a dog that was walking across the dance floor in a local club. (dogs are truly EVERYWHERE) "Aaah, if you love de chicken you must love de chef," whispered a local who had approached me earlier at the hotel. "Huh?" I replied. He repeated himself twice, finally realizing I had no idea what he was getting at. So he went for the direct approach.

"If you love de dog, you must love de owner," Ah, now I got it. I was trapped by this guy once again. As he had done at the hotel , he kept telling me that I was acting "unfriendly," like I "didn't want to talk to anyone" (how perceptive – too bad he didn't realize I didn't want to talk to him). He said I needed to relax and leave my troubles at home. Finally he said that he was "just what I needed." To keep from laughing out loud I had to go back to the hotel, where I just beat a rainstorm that lasted 24 hours.

Found lost list. What I lost this week: some socks.

Questions?
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