Baggy Paragraphs

Percy told me about the Indians' fish weirs, like the one seen in the background of this picture.

This morning was the second time I’ve seen Percy walking along the beach with four rambunctious dogs. Today he carried a small plastic bag and was picking up trash.

My comment on the abundance of canines prompted him to start talking.

Of the dogs, he said he rescues them after they’re abandoned. He has two more at the hillside hotel he owns. People don’t know how to take care of dogs, he said. He was speaking English after hearing my accent, although he kept interjecting the Spanish adverb entonces, which is “then.” He went on about how he “fixes them,” and gives them to friends. He would interrupt himself to bend down and pick up trash from the tideline: a foam cup, bottles, pieces of plastic. He said all this plastic, when it washes into the bay, is bad for the turtles. Six-pack rings wash out to sea and animals get tangled. He grew up here and remembers the beach before the tourism. He wants it to be clean for his children. (Right about here in his soliloquy, one of the dogs went into a squat and crapped on the beach.) People come here from first-world countries and build their houses, Percy continued, and that’s it. They don’t do anything else.

He commented on the weather, that it’s cooler, due to Nino, and the surfing has been poor for a month. Global warming is causing higher tides, he said, pointing to the sandbags atop one resort’s concrete boundary wall. These tides are also changing the beach’s contours, making it slope more steeply. He has witnessed the changes. The offshore winds are different, too, and the seawater is warmer. When he was a kid, his hands would turn blue while he swam.

Before we parted, he showed me a couple of fish weirs that the Indians built, saying this was done 300 years ago. I snapped his picture and said it had been nice to meet him.

I shot this photo of Percy and his Gang of Four a couple of days ago, before meeting him and learning his name.

A howler monkey issuing protests about Iranian centrifuges at 4.00 a.m., which surely is what caused this morning’s clamor, is about as fun a surprise as being caught without a parka, boots, and mittens in an Arctic storm. It imparts a similar fear for one’s life, too. Howlers are called congos by the people of Costa Rica, who in turn are called Ticos, perhaps by congos and certainly by themselves. A congo’s enlarged hyoid bone gives his voice more horsepower per cubic inch than any other animal. His call is a slowly downward spiraling syllable inescapably repeated several times: “OOOh, Oooh, oooh.” Or maybe that was, “UUUrrr, Uuurrr, uuurrr.” It first erupts from his lips like a dragster from the starting line, like Malcolm Young’s guitar chords through his Marshall amp, but finishes like Congressional reform. The call has the same dire sonorities as a million gallons of water swirling into an open manhole in the street.  

(Bloggers note: Although it would be easily done, the reader should not confuse dire sonorities with dirty sororities.)  

On the other hand, trying an afternoon nap in Tamarindo means being prevented from sleeping. Two days ago it was the blaring announcement for a concert. A vehicle went up and down the street playing this notice through loudspeakers at ear-shattering volume. It would be impossible to miss, even for a semi-deaf, 94-year-old maxi-abuela­­ who’s still vigorously chasing her chickens around the yard thanks to the low-fat, high-protein, fishy, anti-oxidant-rich diet and the savannah-oak-solid family structure of this region. On my first visit two years ago, the noisemaking concerned the city’s imminent power shutoff while some work was being done to the system. Today, just as I was about ready for a nap, a dreadful racket went up: pop music and a woman’s voice interspersed. I couldn’t make out what our program hostess was saying, but the songs were of such vastly different styles that I concluded this wasn’t the weekly Friday afternoon free concert but some sort of karaoke free-for-all. Whence it originated, I couldn’t tell. I did manage to doze off for a while but snapped awake to a Michael Jackson number. Hey, it was time to go to the beach anyway. On my return, I found the source of the hullaballoo was right in front of the Super 2001, which abuts the Hotel Portofino’s property. It originated at a mobile signboard with loudspeakers. The sign, unmistakably in fuchsia, promoted the Saba brand of tampons. Inside the store, the team of five Saba girls, all uniformed in fuchsia polo shirts and black slacks, swarmed the small super and staffed an information stand, promoting their unimpeachable product.  

Claire says the Portofino’s ban on putting paper in the inodoro is a deal-breaker. I think a limited amount of paper is OK. Obviously, Danish people have been in town and clogged up the toilets with massive wads of paper, and therefore we have warning signs on the bathroom walls of Hotel Chocolate and Hotel Portofino. I suppose Danish people clog up the toilets wherever they go. It’s the predominant national trait. At home they’re used to unlimited supplies of tissue and super-powerful toilets that are capable of flushing clear to Norway piglets wrapped in knitted scarves of heavy homespun, two or (if the handle is held down) three bundled piglets at a time. Nothing, I say nothing—there is very likely J.D. Power initial quality survey to back this up–NOTHING lights up a Dane like a jumbo roll of Charmin. Their large, elongated Danish heads teem with visions of inefficacious Central American toilets and anemic Central American sewer systems that can be ­choked up, clotted, wadded, and utterly packed with paper. The hidden truth is now understood. That’s why charter flights from Kastrup and Billund are always jammed with Kirstens and Birgits, Kaspers and Bjarkes. The rest of the world suffers because of the Danes.  

Today, at the large supermarket outside Tamarindo, I found two brands of rice predominating on the shelves. But just as Ford and Chevy have long predominated in America, each with many different models, Luisiana rice and Tio Pelon rice present numerous offerings in different sizes. Luisiana boasts that for 50 years it has been on the table of Ticos. Uncle Pelon’s claim, I guess, is that it’s just friendly rice, like Uncle Ben’s, at home. Both offer two-kilo and five-kilo bags. Luisiana has several grades: enriched, classic enriched, premium enriched, and precooked enriched, which latter, I suppose, equates to instant. I’ll have to ask a Tico how the decision is made between the two brands.  

After the supermarket, I went to the ferretería, or hardware store. Except for the fact that there was no yard, this place was more lumber yard than hardware. I sought two items. First, I wanted a basket strainer for the kitchen sink in my apartment. How is it supposed to be possible to wash dishes and then keep all the pieces of egg and vegetables from washing down the drain if one lacks a basket strainer? (As expressed in some technical jargon I found, “The basket traps the unwanted material [eggs, vegetables,] while allowing the process media [water, fer cryin’ out loud!] to flow freely.”)  

Of course I don’t know the word for basket in Spanish, more or less how to express the basket straining concept. I don’t even know how to say “kitchen sink” or “drain.” The young man who helped me launched into quest this with tremendous ambition. He guided me down a dusty aisle—this ferretería was nothing more than an enormously long shed—and pulled out a cardboard box full of drain mouths.  

“No,” I explained, “I want the part that goes on top of that.”  

He indicated that he knew what I wanted. “But do you mind waiting a minute?”  

A truck had a load of a few long pieces of lumber, which he counted before stamping an invoice.  

Guano on Witches Rock

Then I was led up some stairs of steel, like those in a nineteenth-century steamer, and past a sign that said prohibido, to the very rearmost part of the building, inasmuch as it could be called one. I hoped there was no earthquake at that moment, for no trace of either of us explorers would have remained after the boxes of various odds and bits, as well as the pieces of corrugated metal that sheltered all this inventory, came down and cut us to shreds.  

The sales associate, who had a pony tail and a light beard, pulled out another carton and sifted through more drain mouths, all of them encased in plastic, until he actually found one with a gleaming basket silver strainer stuck in it.  

“That!” I said, tapping the pull knob.  

He led me back down the stairs to the front desk.  

“And there’s something else I want.” Again it was most difficult to describe. I wanted a lap board, which would allow me to put a sheet of watercolor paper down on my knees, where I could do a sketch. Then I could put masking tape on the sheet and apply the washes. “It should be very thin,” I stipulated.  

He led me back on the ground floor to a bin that contained shoe moldings. I pointed to some pegboard nearby that was nailed to a frame, saying it was more like this. It should be a meter wide and two-thirds of a meter tall.  

He led me to a stack of masonite sheets. One was broken, the end chipped. We agreed I would buy the whole thing for about $4, and he would cut off a piece of the required size. While he was using a T-square to mark his cut line, he mentioned that he’s in his final year of architecture studies in Santa Cruz.  

“That’s great,” I said. “Here you’re starting with the basics.”  

He agreed and said the basket strainer was thrown in at that price. I could come by and pick up the other part of the board whenever I wanted.  

“I don’t think I’ll be taking it with me when I go home to the United States,” I informed him.  

Maybe my hosts at Portofino can put it to use when I’m done. I’ll be sure to mention it.  

I walked the two kilometers back to town, carrying my grocery purchases over the shoulder in my big green shopping bag from Acme Mercantile while clutching my Masonite board with the free hand.  

Walking against the scant traffic, I caught up to a couple of guys ahead of me in their early twenties, obviously tourists by their neat, trendy, expensive way of dressing. (It turned out they came from Bordeaux.) Just as I moved right in behind them, a raggedy Rasta-looking dude pedaled past ever so slowly on a coaster-type bicycle.  

“What up, man?” he said to one of the French. “Buy weed?”  

Because it seemed such a cliché, I burst out laughing, and Rasta-man actually uttered a word of protest. I’d wounded his dignity. Eleven hours after the congos’ dire threats, it looked as though Rasta-man would take up my undoing.  

Sunrise surfer

Yesterday, my first full day in Tamarindo, was mostly cloudy, and this kept the temperature around 88 degrees. I got all settled in my apartment and made arrangements to stay here the entire two weeks. The plan had been to move to Hotel C. on Friday. I went up there and told the manager my decision. Thanking me for letting him know, he said he didn’t blame me, considering the savings I’m realizing. He seemed rather ill at ease, and it had nothing to do with me. His story was that he’d fled Philadelphia in December after a big fight with his family. He also mentioned owing money to a lot of people. I wondered if he’d been in trouble with drugs.

Just before going up there, I’d had a nap. Of course, as soon as I was first dozing off, a truck came up the road and then back down it, blaring the announcement for a concert. This is a fairly typical way of getting out your message in Costa Rica. Two years ago I missed the one for the electricity shut-off because of some construction work. Finding the apartment suddenly without power, I had no recourse but to go to the beach.

Another errand found me returning to Super 2001 because it had struck me that if I’m going to make my own gallos pintos (the black beans and rice), I’ll probably need something besides the beans and the rice, which I had purchased on Tuesday. A very nice girl who was stocking shelves told me to soak the beans for two hours and then to cook them two more hours with garlic. She also recommended adding cilantro and onion and sweet pepper and some “English sauce.” I picked up everything that’s needed, according to her formula. So the beans have been soaking and I’ll get everything going this afternoon. I should ride the free shuttle out to the big, modern supermarket outside town where there’s a better selection of groceries. I’d like to buy some frozen shrimp and include it in the gallos pintos. On the other hand, when I’ve been in the bigger supermarkets before, I’ve wondered why the hell anybody needs to choose from among dozens of kinds of white rice and dozens more of black beans. Meanwhile, one of my correspondents asked why I’d bother in the first place instead of buying canned beans. I guess it’s my quest for authenticity.

The Queen of the Mangroves

The maid is here again, this time Marisel’s sister, Diana. She tells me that she’s 21 years old and studies criminology at a private college in Santa Cruz, which is about 40 miles away. (It’s the largest city on the Nicoya peninsula.) She attends classes on Saturdays from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. and does her homework during the weekday evenings. Diana today and Marisel yesterday have both asked if my wife and I have children. I told Diana that we had some, but we ate them. And they were delicious! This produced a nervous laugh. She wasn’t certain I knew what I’d just said. I also told her it is currently minus six degrees Celsius in Ann Arbor.

“Hot or cold?” she asked.

“Cold,” I assured her.

Diana is the first person I’ve met who even claims to know where Michigan is, so I’m very impressed.

I’m still reading “Wyxie Wonderland” for my DBusiness story. Dick Osgood was a superbly lively writer and his account of the early years of radio in Detroit is fascinating. Now I’m getting to work.

A fishing party sets off around 7.30 a.m.

This morning’s awakening came courtesy of a elaborately philosophical bird that was asking me a question at 5.30 a.m. I forget the question but remember it had a dependent clause, something on the order of “Who are you when there’s no soap?” A very wry bird, or maybe just sarcastic.

Last evening and occasionally today I’ve thought of yesterday’s trip in from the airport. An iguana ran across the road, and the shuttle’s co-driver exclaimed, “Soup!” I believe there’s a standing joke among Ticos about Nicaraguans having an appetite for iguana meat.

I left at 6.30 a.m. for a stroll on the beach. In the alley leading there, I recognized a woman from my previous visits to Tamarindo. She was hosing down the dust. We said good morning, and I asked if there was going to be rain. It was rather cloudy, but she acted like I was nuts. Rain in the dry season?

A pair of Norwegian travelers catch an early bus.

I got the same reaction last night when ducking into Super 2001 for a roll of paper towels just before the 9.00 p.m. closing. I stood in line behind a shirtless hippie dude. When he left I told the cashier and assistant manager that in the States we have a saying: No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. The assistant manager was incredulous, rolling his eyes.

“Why?” he asked.

“Health reasons,” I said.

But I went away thinking that it might have more to do with fussy people, of the same sort as me, not wanting to look at hairy bellies.

Things to do today:

1. Go up the hill to Hotel Chocolate and inform the manager that I won’t be checking in there after all. I like Portofino much better. The only thing wrong with this place is the lack of a coffeemaker in the kitchen. However, I do wish I’d brought my own washcloth. I’ve already told Claudia, the manager, who is Colombian, that I want to stay through March 9. It’s $22 per night less, is far less dusty, sits closer to the beach, and has hot water. Neither place wants guests to flush paper down the toilet, so they’re even on that score.
2. Go shopping for matches for the gas cooker and a brush for washing dishes.
3. Get started reading the pertinent sections of Dick Osgood’s “Wyxie Wonderland: (An Unauthorized 50-Year Diary of WXYZ Detroit)” for my next “Closing Bell” story for DBusiness. Among many, many other programs that the station originated in the 1930s, it created “The Lone Ranger” and “The Green Hornet,” later selling screen rights to both.
4. Return to the beach for sunset.  

During breakfast today I learned that the Spanish word for squirrel is ardilla. I wasn’t eating squirrel for breakfast, just watching a pair of gray ones in the trees. I think it would be better to be a red squirrel in Michigan than a gray squirrel in Costa Rica, where it’s always hot. Squirrels shouldn’t mind a bit of cold.

All the e-mail and comments on the blog are appreciated.

Marisel, the maid, born in the city of Nicoya, is here, and I’m telling her about the snow, freezing temperatures, and cold winds of Michigan. Of course she’s never seen snow.

My 2-bdrm apartment has plenty of kitchen space and an inside sitting area to the left of the front door.

Greetings from Tamarindo! I’m looking through the dark at the light rope around palms in the courtyard of the Portofino, where I’m staying. It’s 6.38 p.m. The day started gruesomely more than fourteen hours, ago in Ann Arbor, where a foot of snow had fallen Sunday night and yesterday morning. Susan took me to the airport. Most of my in-flight reading was provided by Don DeLillo. Note today’s shorter sentences as the result. I flew through Miami to Liberia, Guanacaste Province, Costa Rica. There I caught the Tamarindo shuttle ($18) for the fifty-five-kilometer ride to Tamarindo. The other passenger, Mario, a tennis pro from Cincinnati, had come in on the Continental flight just before mine.

I arrived at Portofino around 4.00 p.m. After unpacking, I went to Super 2001. It’s only a few steps away. I spent the equivalent of $31 on groceries. Here I reproduce the list (prices in colones):

Imperio (rice) 680

Homogeneiza (?) 830

Frijol 5000 (black beans) 1,050

Huevos (15-pack of eggs) 90

Gouda 2.740

Aguacate (huge avocado) 640

Banano (3) 90

Tomate (from Michoacan, Mexico) 587.50

Papas (white taters) 372

Zanahorias (carrots) 139.08  

Ritz 210

Mantequilla (butter, 115 g) 720

Volio Café (ground) 1,170

Galletas Choclolates 590

Banq. (?) 450

Pringles 930

Sardimar (tuna) 1,050

Pilsen (single can) 690

Pilsen (liter bottle) 1,670

Agua Alpina 830

It came to $31. Three American girls were crowding me at the register. One was nearly popping out of her bikini. They were from Indiana and Illinois. I mean the other two girls. The leading, popping one spoke a bit of Spanish. I told her the reason I was paying with dollars was due to my recent arrival. That’s when she asked where I was from, and I said Ann Arbor and she lit up.

So far I’ve eaten one of the three bananas. Then I unpacked the camera and went to the beach for sunset. As I readied, howler monkeys were inveighing implacably against nuclear Iran. I waded cautiously into the water. Last year at this time, the water was cold, unlike 2008. The 2010 water is warm again. I asked a fisherman, who said it has to do with offshore winds. This season hasn’t been so windy. His name?

“Antonio.”

“Are you Costa Rican?” (Of course this was in Spanish: I’m in a Spanish-speaking country; therefore, I’m speaking Spanish: “Eres tico?”)

“Italian.”

“Really! What part of Italy?”

“Sardinia.”

I tried to remember the capital city as a way of impressing him, but couldn’t. I know Kathy Diehl will be disappointed, for she was there just a few months ago: Cagliari.

At a beachside gift shop.