God Punishes Me At The Costa Rica-Nicaragua Border Crossing

Crossing the Nicaragua-Costa Rica border during Holy Week is anything but holy.  It's more like crossing the gates of Hell, only hotter and the wait to get in is longer.  This is how God punishes me for mocking the religious Holy Week processionals in Granada.

To be fair, I brought this on myself.  When I came from San Jose, Costa Rica with a Swiss travel companion we both agreed to book a nonstop TransNica bus in advance to Granada for convenience.  On this return trip I was alone, and being a total sadomasochist, I decided to take the local buses, which together cost almost half of what one TransNica/Ticabus ticket costs.  Pay $29 for a nonstop Ticabus or TransNica between Managua and San Jose.  Or research a little and pay a lot less, but wait a lot more.  It's a question of convenience.

Local buses do not go directly from Granada to the Costa Rica border.  There is a bus to Rivas that leaves once every hour starting at 5:45am.  The night before I made a reservation for a ticket at 9:45am...

Just kidding.  There are no reservations.

I left Oasis Hostel around 9am and arrived at the dusty parking lot off La Imaculada Street 15 minutes later.  I asked around and was directed to a random part of the dustbin where the Rivas bus would arrive "sometime around 9:30 or 9:45."  Eventually the bus showed up and I got in the back to avoid bumping passengers with my backpack and guitar.  Most of the local buses are psychedelically painted school buses, so you have the quicker option of (literally) jumping in the back.  The bus was already standing room only.  About 20 minutes after we left town a guy started shuffling down the packed aisle to collect the $2 fee.

It was hot and sweaty and smelled bad and all of those other things that Westerners complain about when they're in Central America even though they already knew they were traveling to the middle of a steamy rainforest.  My only personal complaint is that at 6'2", I am not designed for this size of transportation.  The seats are made for tiny Latinos, so even when I am politely offered a space, I turn it down since I don't enjoy having my knees in my teeth for several hours.

Standing up isn't any better.  The metal roof clears my head by a grand total of one inch, and I hunch over to get a little breathing room.  Despite this I still end up banging my head on the ceiling when we hit any large bump, much to the amusement of the short Nicaraguans.

One particularly funny guy asks me: "Does it hurt?"

"Not at all.  I can smack you on the back of your head if you want to get an idea."

This is what I want to tell him, but I refrain; because I'm a culturally sensitive, worldly traveler.  Plus I'm the only gringo on the bus.

Tall Gringos Don't Fit In Small Latino Buses

Once we get to Rivas, I swoop out the back of the bus while ignoring all of the generous offers from pirate taxis to take me to the Costa Rica border for a "good price."  The next trip is considerably shorter and less crowded.  I breath a little easier.  I buy some lunch from one of the many vendors who get on the bus during stops.  Some guys are laughing at my bad Spanish pickup lines.  The happy feeling goes away at the border; an infinite line stretches from the Nicaragua immigration building clear to the distant Costa Rica side.

Clearing customs and immigration takes an hour.  Normally I could dash across the giant, empty parking lot with nothing more to think about than weaving around a few transport trucks.  Today the line of humans resembles the entrance to the gates of Heaven, or more appropriately Hell.  It moves slow enough to take forever, but fast enough so that you can't sit on your luggage and relax.  The midday sun is merciless and there isn't a scrap of shade.  In a rare moment of foresight, I remember I have an umbrella.  I cower under it to prevent myself from turning into a bright, red gringo camarron during the 2 hour wait.

It's plenty of time to think.  My Nicaraguan Cordobas were all spent.  Good.  I had a little less than $8 American in my pocket.  It was sufficient to get a bus to Liberia where I could pick up a connecting bus to San Jose.  Normally you pay a tourist 'tax' to enter Costa Rica, but it didn't concern me.  Since I was employed by Berlitz language school, I had a medical card from La Caja (social security) which was proof that I was a working resident in Costa Rica, and not a tourist.  So they had told me.

That was a mistake.

The Costa Rica immigration building was under construction that had started in 1999 and wasn't expected to finish until sometime the next millennium.  It resembled a fenced-in chicken coop with a pack of wolves let loose inside.  The long line was bottlenecking in the building entrance and police were directing clueless people every which way around the orange, plastic construction fences.  Well, half of them were.  The rest of the police were laughing and enjoying the various fights, screams and scandals whenever some illegal got caught and sent back.  Babies wailed.  Money exchangers shouted. A large group of European tourists were sent back to the end of the line after some security informed them that they had been waiting in the wrong line for a half-hour.  I already missed the burning sun in the barren parking lot.  At least it was quiet out there.

Eventually I made it to the checkin area to get my passport stamped for reentry.  The lady who attended me was gruff and obviously didn't want to be there on her holiday.  I pulled out my passport and social security card in anticipation.

"Passport, please."

I gave it to her with the social security card on top.  She stamped the passport, stared at the social security card for a loooong moment and finally raised an eyebrow at me.  I detected a slight scowl on her face.

"Nine dollars, please, to enter Costa Rica."

(In Spanish) "This is my medical social security card for La Caja.  I live and work in Costa Rica for Berlitz."

"... It doesn't matter.  You need all residence papers with this.  Please pay $9 for the tourist entry tax."

"I don't have $9 with me."

"There's a cajero for Banco de Costa Rica outside.  You can get money there and return to the line."

"What, seriously? *teeth grinding*"

We were yelling at each other.  The line behind me surged forward with a will of its own and I heard shouts of "What's happening? Vamos ya!"  I conceded to the grumpy border bitch and left to find the ATM outside...and wait in the line again.

The ATM was easy to find.  It was right by the exit and looked practically brand new as it glistened in the bright blue, red and white colors of Banco de Costa Rica.  Despite the crowds of gringo tourists, vacationing Costa Ricans and Nicaraguan immigrants running around willy-nilly everywhere, the ATM itself was rather lonely.  There was no line in front of it.

That's because it didn't work.

Transnica: The easy way to cross the border

The security/police/random guys with guns couldn't explain why.  No one could.  A thousand people running about and no one knew what was going on.  My eye twitched.  My teeth were grinding.  God is punishing me for my Holy Week sins.  At that point I began to rage like the Incredible Hulk, fulfilling the common stereotype that Latin Americans have about gringos who don't keep their cool when shit isn't working. Dammit, I could have taken a TransNica bus direct from Granada andavoidedallthisshit!!!  I stomped my foot in the dust and breathed heavily.

OK, don't freak out and grow some cajones.

I returned to wait in the line, being sure not to return to the same border bitch I had talked to before.  A half hour later I was in front of a guy who was more agreeable.  I explained that the ATM wasn't working, and that I had almost almost almost enough money to pay the tax...  He accepted the $8 and some-odd cents.  I looked at my empty wallet, and thanked him.  He pointed me to a place where the next bus to Liberia would arrive in about 20 minutes.  I looked outside, but saw only a sea of thousands of lost people with a few islands of buses floating among them.

After asking more uniformed guys with guns where the next Liberia bus would arrive, I targeted a spot in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd where a bus might or might not appear.  Fifteen minutes later a bus slowly parted the undulating sea of people and stopped in front of me.

I didn't have any money, but I had a plan.  And I had cajones.  I waited in the line of people entering the bus until I got to the entrance.  The driver, who looked like the black violin player from Dave Matthews Band, asked me for my ticket.  I told him I didn't have a ticket and I had no money.  I showed him my empty wallet to drive the point home, then I spoke in an even tone:

"Drive me to Liberia, When we get there take me to the nearest cajero, I will withdraw money, and pay for the ticket after that, I am an honest man, Can you do that, por favor?"

He was wearing sunglasses, but his eyes opened so wide I could see the whites spill out from behind the dark lenses.  Once I saw those eyes, I locked my gaze with them.  His dreadlocks swayed a little in a slight breeze.  I noticed he bore a silver cross and it occurred to me he might need to do a Good Samaritan deed for the day.

"...Well...Ok...  That's fine... To Liberia."

The words came out slowly.  I thanked him.  He shrugged, then directed me to the back of the bus, where I had to sit on the floor.  The bus was standing room only (or sitting in the aisle,) and almost everyone was going all the way to Liberia.  A Nicaraguan family was behind me in their seats.  They had a little girl who stared at me shyly.  I offered her some snacks and water I had in my backpack.  She happily took them.  Her parents smiled, and soon we were chatting as the bus inched through the crowds towards the road.

Two hours later the dreadlocked bus driver dropped me off in the parking lot of Maxi Bodega supermarket in Liberia.  There was an ATM inside.  We agreed to meet in 10 minutes in front of the supermarket after he went to the bus station to drop off other passengers.  I soon found him outside, parked on the side of the road.  I paid him for the ticket and he drove off with a "God Bless You."

A hour later I got a direct bus to San Jose.  It was standing room only.



  


 

"Cantas En Espanol?" Calle La Calzada In Granada, Nicaragua

Granada has some beautiful churches.

Despite my very antagonistic views on religion, I still enjoy looking at churches, temples, mosques and other places of worship when I travel. It's amazing what peoples' incredible blind faith will cause them to construct in honor of their invisible deity.  If I sound like a heathen, just remember that thousands of people still visit the Great Pyramids of Egypt and the Greek Parthenon everyday.  Does anyone believe in Anubis or Zeus anymore??

Iglesia de Xalteva and San Franciso are two of the largest churches in the city.  They certainly command the most attention when you walk by them. Xalteva is more well-maintained, and like much of the city has been recently renovated to appease the growing number of tourists to Nicaragua.  People are finally realizing that Central America isn't just about Costa Rica.  Strangely enough, long before Costa Rica became the textbook definition for ecotourism, it had nothing to offer to its original Spanish conquistadors; they left it practically untouched to focus on Nicaragua.  The result is that Costa Rica is quite devoid of any historical, colonial-style buildings, while places like Granada are filled with architectural gems.  Most of the old buildings have high spires and are painted in bright, eye-catching colors that shine in the midday sun.

A walk through the city is pleasant, just remember to bring sunblock.

All of this wandering in the unbearably hot sun lead me to cool off in the nearest body of water, the massive Lake Nicaragua.  There is a beach that looks out to Ometepe Island where Ometepe Volcano dominates the view.  I hear there are nice, beautiful, unspoiled parts surrounding the lake, but there is nothing nice I can say about this particular beach.  It's dirty, smells bad and the locals stared at me in a rather unnerving way.  Apparently gringos never make it this far from the city center. When I said the lake is 'nearest,' I should clarify that it's a good half-hour walk from the Calle La Calzada, which is the furthest that your average tourist in Granada ever strays from the center.

I don't blame them.  After one day of fulfilling my tourist quotient, I regrouped with some people from the Oasis Hostel then resigned the rest of my long weekend to lazy, people-watching on The Walking Street, or Calle La Calzada.  Why bother going anywhere else?

In another notable difference from Costa Rica, Granada's tourist strip is lined with restaurants and bars where the tables and chairs are placed directly on the streets like in many European centers.  I haven't yet encountered this kind of cafe culture in Costa Rica despite their fame for quality coffee.  Even in San Jose's wide Avenida Central, all the businesses keep their tables within the four walls of their property.  Considering that Nicaragua typically reports higher crime rates and higher rainfall than Costa Rica, it seems even stranger to see such a vibrant street scene that lasts long after sunset.

I didn't think much about these things in Granada.  It was great to be sitting with a beer in the middle of the street of Calle La Calzada's urban activity instead of observing it from a balcony.  The musicians, begging children and street vendors that constantly bothered me only added to the excitement.    

Naturally I was drinking more than anyone else at the table.  I was the only one at the table who wasn't backpacking through Latin America.  My Swiss Couchsurfer travelmate was there with some Finnish girls, several Germans girls and one loud, extravagant Australian metalworker.  Tey were nursing one or two beers so they could continue budgeting their next month through Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, etc.  Meanwhile I was throwing back many Flor De Canas and Coke's on my meager teacher's paycheck that I had just received the past Friday.  "Wealthy" is all relative.  My teacher's checks are small, but still better than some backpackers with their "five-dollar-a-day-budget."  Then again I always budget a lot for alcohol.

The Australian had budgeted for other fun things.  He was approached by a Nicaraguan "friend" at the table and excused himself.  Ten minutes later he returned with a smile and opened his hand, "Look what my 'friend' found."  A small plastic bag of off-white powder sat in his palm.

No one was surprised.  The Australian had the best travel stories (like most Australians,) and many of them involved various drugs binges at Thailand Full Moon Parties, cocaine in Honduras, etc.  My only concern was whether or not he had been ripped off.

"Are you sure it's real??"

"Yeah, haha...he probably cut it with baking soda and charged me a 'gringo' price.  It's OK for tonight.  I've paid more before."

A little off Calle La Calzada

He stashed the bag in his pocket then started on another long story about 'accidentally' landing in San Pedro Sula, one of the most dangerous places on Earth, where he was threatened by machete-wielding locals at every corner.  We continued bullshitting until the bar closed around 11pm.  The Germans and Swiss Miss --true to form-- quickly excused themselves back to the hostel since they had early morning obligations.  The rest of us wandered to a late night "Irish" bar (Kelly's??) hosting karaoke a few blocks off La Calzada.

The Australian and I did shots while one of the Finnish girls sang...a Finnish reggae song.  Although we didn't understand a damn word, everyone applauded her beautiful voice.  Eventually I worked up the courage to try my first karaoke song in Spanish.  It was "La Ciudad De La Furia" by Soda Stereo, and I'm glad I sang it since I spent the rest of the night with a cute Nicaraguan chica who couldn't believe a gringo was able to sing in Spanish.  Gracias, Gustavo.

Unholy Holy Week Processionals In Granada, Nicaragua

God doesn't want me to smoke.

That must be why I couldn't go the Plasencia Cigar finca in Esteli, Nicaragua for Holy Week in April.  It was the longest holiday I would have from the hell that my teaching job at Berlitz Costa Rica had become since January, and I planned well ahead.  So I thought.

(I realize simply because I smoke cigars, many Americans have already put me in the same category as Nazis, child rapists and baby seal murders.  You can go return to your healthy lifestyle of eating bacon & maple syrup milkshakes and getting important updates on Kim Kardasian & Kanye West's baby.)

Three weeks before the holiday I contacted a Couchsurfer who fortunately was an executive manager for Plansencia.  He offered me a place to stay and arranged a personal tour to show me around the expansive tobacco farms - cigars included.  Once I got that arranged I went to Transnica in San Jose to find a bus to Esteli, Nicaragua.

"We have no buses to Esteli for Semana Santa.  All cancel.  Only to Granada."

It's a culturally-significant object

Shit.  I'm going to Granada then.  At least I can renew my visa, get drunk off cheap Flor de Cana rum and buy some real Nicaraguan cigars.  I heard Granada had exceptionally beautiful Spanish colonial-era architecture, so it would be worth visiting for a weekend of picture-taking.  Sometime I care about those cultural things.

The week I was to leave for Granada a Swiss Couchsurfer showed up at our San Jose apartment with no specific plans.  Thanks to my American charm, I convinced her to travel to Nicaragua with me before she continued on to the rest of Central America.  Fortunately, she is as equally sarcastic and cynical as I am, otherwise we would've ended up killing each after the 3 days we spent in close quarters going to Nicaragua.  She did have a Swiss Army knife.

That's not a joke.

Crossing the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border is a pain in the ass...especially during Holy Week.  Basically every single Nicaraguan that works legally (and illegally) in Costa Rica goes back home to see their families and join in depressing religious processionals.  The temperature also magically goes up about 100 degrees when you enter Nicaragua.  This one time I was glad I took Transnica and not the local "chicken buses."  Between borders you have to switch bus routes, which means waiting hours in a infinite line to cross the actual border.  With Transnica you stay on the same bus.

I did return alone by local buses. Ugh.  That requires a separate post.

Swiss Miss and I had a reservation at Hostel Oasis Granada.  She was a serious backpacker, and had many things she wanted to see and visit in the area.  I had put in 3 months of teaching 50+ hours a week, so I didn't want to do shit other than drink, smoke, sleep and get laid.  We agreed to see some of the depressing Semana Santa religious processional and go out in the evening together, but didn't see each other for most of the trip.  It was for the better.  The hostel was in a beautiful historical building with a central garden, a pool, lots of hammocks and free coffee.  I walked around town and took some pictures in the mornings, but spent most of the afternoons sleeping in the hammocks, swimming and playing guitar.  It's too damn hot in Granada to do much else.

We did see one of Granada's Semana Santa processionals (there are many.)  It was depressing.  And extremely religious.

Holy Week Processional

Catholicism is all about suffering, and this ceremony certainly emphasizes the suffering.  You are in the middle of the humidity and blazing midday sun.  There's a sweaty crowd following around a giant statue of a cross-bearing Jesus as a ragtag brass band plays a sad cacophony of noise.  Possibly it's the unbearable heat, or maybe the musicians are hungover from the previous night's party, but no one can find the rhythm, and no one is in tune.  As a musician myself, I felt an urge to smash the uninspiring musicians over their heads with their own instruments.  The cacophony is occasionally disturbed by a long Bible sermon delivered with all the excitement of a Board of Directors meeting fueled by Quaalude & Sizzurp martinis.

I'm sure many Christians are wishing me a swift trip to hell now.  Ironically, this scene of religious fervor is one of my many imagined dreams of what hell is.  Listen:

Neither Swiss Miss or I are suddenly inspired to praise Jesus.  We heard about the nighttime processional and have no desire to see it.  We leave the sad Catholic processional before the sheer depression of it causes us to commit suicide.       

"Teacher, Do You Like Our Bitches?": Teaching English In Costa Rica

A year of decadent, dangerous Costa Rica hostel management is over.  I ungraciously return to a quiet life of English Teaching to support my traveling/drinking addiction.  I had already spent two strange years teaching in Thailand and Slovakia before, so it had the feeling of accidentally bumping into an old ex.  The familiarity feels good at first, but after a few moments you remember why you broke up in the first place.

Teaching English abroad is an exercise in humility.  You realize how little you know about the very language you've been speaking since you were a child.  You pathetically try to correct students' grammar errors and questions without screaming out: "Dammit, because I speak English, that's why!!!!"  You have to keep a straight face when students pronounce "beaches" as "bitches."  Your local coworkers quietly resent you because they had to put in years of education to get the same job you got simply by being a... dah dah dahdah: NATIVE SPEAKER!!!! (cue applause, shouts of, USA! USA! 'Murica! 'Murica!)

If you don't take students' errors too seriously; however, it can be a very funny job.  And I do mean funny...not fun.  The ESL teachers know what I'm talking about.
  
My interview with Berlitz, which coincidentally happened the same day I got robbed, went well and I started training the day after I left Castle Tam Hostel.  Ever the cynic, by the time I'm one day into training I already see problems with teaching in Costa Rica, as compared to Thailand and Slovakia.  My salary is lower than it was in both of these countries.  Given that Costa Rica has the highest cost-of-living for Central America, this means I'm sitting above the poverty line, but still sitting at home for two weeks doing nothing until payday to make rent.  Remember that alcohol factors importantly into my budget.

My awkward work schedule means 4 hours of teaching at 6 in the morning, followed by a 6 hour empty gap, then 4 hours of teaching until 9 at night...Saturday mornings included.  Even though Berlitz is an international language school, none of the administrative staff speaks English, and it's only by virtue of speaking Spanish that I'm able to wade through the paperwork involved with getting hired.  Fortunately, I am part of the government healthcare system, but that is not exceptional since Costa Rica has a social healthcare system anyway.

Berlitz is a giant, global American-based company, which is its justification for charging students an arm and a leg for 'professional language services.'  Unfortunately it's encumbered by local, self-serving Costa Rica-based labor practices, so all of this money is rarely used in a professional way.  My teacher training was a perfect example of this; two weeks of American-style corporate jargon, pretty colored pamplates, fancy, scientific-based teaching theories and the official Berlitz Method©®℗ - which did nothing to prepare me for the real classroom.  I've had 2 years of teaching experience previous to Costa Rica, so I spent most of the training catching up on sleep and spitting out funny anecdotes from my previous jobs.  The new teachers thought I was a genius.  I felt like Bill Clinton at a grand testimony defining the meaning of the word "is".  Bullshit taken to an art form (he was a teacher too.)

The training did have free pizza and soda.

At the end of two weeks, Berlitz assigned me a 40-hour work week at their San Pedro Equus center then promptly forgot about me.  I was disconcerted to find out that my manager was from England -since everyone thinks British English is better than American English- but when I saw his blue scorpion tattoo, missing teeth and bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey prominently displayed on the shelf, I felt strangely comforted.  When I walked into the teacher's office, I was surprised to hear only the sounds of Spanish.  Isn't this an English language center?

The next year became a mire of forced Berlitz Method©®℗ lesson planning, 5am workdays, bad grammar mistakes and intravenous coffee injections.  Classes were full of nervous, awkward long silences and freakish, blank stares followed by bursts of incomprehensible sentences with comical Hispanic accents.  It felt like watching the old Cheech & Chong sketches, but the students weren't stoned.  I wished I was.

The first 3 months sucked horribly.  After that the wounds healed, leaving just a dull, numb feeling that only hurt when it rained.  It rains a lot in Costa Rica.

I won't write much about the year I worked at Berlitz.  I'll leave that to the studious ESL teachers who take their jobs seriously.  Teaching paid the bills (barely), and I made some really good friends from working there who frequently shared the same hangovers with me.

And now I know the most beautiful bitches in Costa Rica are in Guanacaste.


Some People Came Here Because They Thought There Would Be Practical Advice For Teaching In Costa Rica.  HaHaHa.  If You Want To Work On The Beach, Don't Expect To Get Paid.  Here's Some Links For Schools (With Salaries) In Beautiful San Jose:

Berlitz: http://berlitz.co.cr/

Prolanguage: http://www.prolanguage.org/

Centro Cultural Costarriccense: http://www.centrocultural.cr/

Idioma Internacional: http://www.idiomacr.com/

Intensa: http://www.intensa.com/

Universal de Idiomas: http://www.ingles.co.cr/

Universidad Latina: http://www.ulatina.ac.cr/

Believe it or not, if you have any questions about teaching in Costa Rica, I will be happy to answer them.


         

Return To Costa Rica And The End Of Hostel Management

January was half over and so was my holiday.  There were still fresh memories of Missouri red wine, snow-covered hills and holiday parties in my mind, but it was time to leave that and return to work in the sweltering 'winter' heat of Costa Rica.  I wondered how the owner, Jon, had taken our fight over the robbery and if there would be any repercussions.  He hadn't answered any of my emails.  While I was in the United States, I continued to check my Castle Tam Hostel work account to keep track of guests that were arriving and leaving.

One day before returning, I opened the work email up.  I typed in the shared password.  The email didn't open.  I tried again.  Again it didn't open.  I've been typing it in daily for the past year, so I didn't see any reason why I would forget it.  Still I checked my notebook where it was written.  I typed it in letter for letter, and still no success.  Dammit, Jon.  That sonofabitch had changed the password.  Rather than telling me to my face how he wanted me gone, he was simply going to squeeze me out of the hostel business...

I returned to Castle Tam in the late sunny morning.  January is high tourist season in Costa Rica, and I fully expected to find guests hanging outdoors on the porch or in the lobby.  To my surprise, the place was completely empty.  I walked through the garage bar and found it empty as well.  I called both Jon and Manual.  There was no answer.  I shouted their names.  Silence.  Not even a guest was around to see me.  The bright, tropical sun shined in through the glass door of the porch, but the eerie silence inside made the place feel lifeless. 

I was inside, so at least I knew Jon hadn't changed the locks yet.  I checked my room for any things I may have forgotten, then unlocked the secure office door behind the reception.  My other suitcase was already packed in there, and I had a few important documents in the safe.  The safe code I also had committed to memory.  Would he have changed it?

I spun the lock to the right and left and the small steel door opened quietly.  I grabbed my documents then stared inside the safe.  All our profits in large bills were taken from the reception cash register at the end of the day and guarded here in envelopes marked with the bills' denominations: twenties, fifties and hundreds for American dollars; ten thousands and twenty thousands for Costa Rica colones.  Once or twice a week, Jon would take the envelopes to deposit in his Costa Rica bank account.  He had not taken the money out yet this week.

For a moment, I stared inside the envelopes.  There was a security camera directly on me, but no one was around in the hostel.  Although it fit Jon's military style, I highly doubted he was hiding in a room watching me on video at that moment.  Normally he would be in the garage.  Besides I knew where the videos cables were connected and could disconnect them if I wanted to.

I was sitting there with at least five-hundred dollars in my hands.  I thought back to the past few months when Jon had stopped talking to me, his indifference to me being robbed and the following morning when he had raised a fist as if to hit me.  As if being robbed was my fault.

Before the hostel, we had hooked up with sexy European girls, happily terrorized other hostel guests and staff in Nicaragua and partied at Rocking J's Hostel epic birthday party.  During the hostel's beginning we had crafted a mad revenge plot on a scam artist who robbed us that eventually landed him in jail; changed the property from a creepy dump for transient, gringo whore-mongers into a proper, lively youth backpacker hostel; held live concerts for guests and planned for an eventual European sister hostel.  Through it all we had developed a private, sick politically-incorrect sense of humor (the worst of the political left and right) that no one else understood.

This video was from the good times.  What had gone wrong in the last 6 months?

The easy answer would be marijuana.  Jon came from a conservative family, and had been in the military until just before he left for Costa Rica so - to the best of my knowledge - at 26 years of age he had never smoked weed before we started traveling together.  Certainly he behaved as if he had never smoked; to this day he still can't roll a joint.  In the past year he had gone from gingerly inhaling small blunts we shared to hitting 3 or 4 bong loads everyday by himself.  I have no objection to marijuana (indeed, I support legalization), but this was far too much even for me.  He already had a guarded, structured military personality and this only grew into full-blown paranoia when he was high.

...But I'm lying to myself.  As with most men who think too highly of themselves, our greatest downfall is women.  It was a guest.

While Jon made sure guests were paying for their stay, I made sure they were enjoying their stay.  He has a great mind for numbers, which is why he kept track of the finances; but his people skills are lacking, which is why I always handled marketing and publicity.  This entailed taking guests out to tour the city, seeing cultural activities, eating at restaurants and drinking at bars (a lot) in hopes they would recommend us later by word or in writing.  Naturally, many of these guests were single women.

She arrived from the Netherlands for a semester abroad in Costa Rica.  Her plan was to stay at the hostel for a week or two until she found an apartment to share with other students.  Jon was determined to get every penny (Colon?) out of her possible.  She had barely unpacked her bags when he started spitting out his long-term stay options: student pricing, long-term monthly rates, privates with hot water blah blah blah...  I saw it from a more human perspective.  At some point while he was rapping, I got his attention and whispered, very business-as-usual, "If you really want her to stay longer, just fuck her right."

And that is what I did...the asshole that I am.  While Jon stayed in drinking and smoking, I took her out and we hooked up that same night.  She said she had just gotten out of a long-term relationship and had no desire to start anything serious.  Like a fool, I believed her.  We had our fun, and as predicted within two weeks she forgot about moving to a student apartment.  By then I had moved on to another girl.

...no fury like a women scorned.  She couldn't accept it.  She went after Jon, and he was willing.  Initially, I was happy for him.  When we started the hostel, we shared fantasies of young, horny university girls on vacation in Costa Rica showing up at our door and looking to behave badly...preferably with us.  I was perfectly OK with "hostel groupies."  I did not expect him to fall for one girl so bad; and I did not expect her to change him so much.

She had her revenge.  They locked themselves in the garage bar for hours some days.  Whatever she said and did to him in there was worse than any drug.  Within a few weeks Jon's conversation with me dried up to pure business talk: no politics, no sports, no sick, politically-incorrect jokes.  All of my faults (I have many) became magnified through her: any error I made in calculating profits or construction, any inappropriate comment, or any woman I brought back became another problem.  Just to make a point she cooked meals for Jon, the employee Manual and other hostel guests, but never for me.  Her hatred for me turned into his hatred.  I ignored it to the best of my ability and kept working, but this invisible wall continued growing between us.  I was getting irritated, tense and less motivated to work.  One of the cardinal hostel rules we agreed on was, "No free rooms for sex," and the day when she whispered to me with a smirk that she hadn't been paying for the past month, I knew I had to leave.  The business was finished...

I sat in front of the open safe and thought of these past bitter months.  The money envelopes were in my hands.  I could just rob this damn hostel, disappear, and never be heard from again.  Even if I were caught, criminal justice is slow in Latin America, I have connections and my clean record would work in my favor.  But I couldn't.  Revenge doesn't motivate my life.  I left the money in the safe.

With my bags in hand, I walked out the front gate, dropped my keys in the mailbox and left to figure what I would do with the rest of my life in Costa Rica.  I haven't returned to Castle Tam since.

My Midwest Paradise: Missouri Wine Country (Plus Craft Beer)

I was back in St. Louis for the holidays.  The robbery in Costa Rica and the fight in Castle Tam Hostel had happened two days ago but they were a thousand miles away.  For a short time I could forget them.  I'm going to the place where I always go to forget worries when I go home: Missouri Wine Country.

Ever since I turned 21 my family and I, plus family friends, always try to make it here once a year to share wine, craft beer and fine cigars.  Even before I was old enough to drink or smoke (legally) I became familiar with this area from its various state parks that I hiked as a youth.

 Before I continue, I will make it clear that Missouri Wine Country is actually two regions: the historically Germanic area located on the Missouri River Valley to the west of St. Louis, and the more French Route du Vin located south of St. Louis near Sainte Genevieve.   Both regions are full of wide rolling hills and valleys, rocky cliffs that dive into babbling creeks and lush hardwood forests that look their finest in autumn when the leaves burst into fireworks of color.  The beautiful scenery not only has merited these regions designations as Missouri state parks, but the rolling hills are also ideal terrain for cultivating wine grapes.  Many German immigrants of the western Rhineland and French immigrants from the neighboring border regions settled here because it reminded them of home.

The Missouri River Valley west of St. Louis has two specific wine regions: the Weinstrasse, located on Old Highway 94 north of the Missouri River, and the longer Hermann Wine Trail which winds south of the river along Old Highway 100.  There're both easy trips for anyone unfamiliar with the area since the wineries are practically in a row on the roads and well marked.  The Hermann Wine Trail has seven principal wineries and they majority of them are located in Hermann within walking distance of each other.  The Weinstrasse has only four wineries and is more spread out, but it is on more scenic, hilly terrain.

 These are wonderful places which I will talk about more at another time.  This year I went to the bootheel of Missouri for the Route de Vin, a good hour drive south of St. Louis on Highway 55 to Exit 150 (Ste. Genevieve.)  Here you can spend the morning burning calories hiking on the white pine-covered trails of Hawn State Park; and spend the afternoon gaining those calories back with bottles of wine at the wineries.

Hawn State Park is located approximately in the middle of the wine trail.  The park encompasses several old growth forests of "Whispering Pines," so called for the hushing sound they make whenever a strong wind blows through them.  There are several trails that wander through these pine forests; two short 4 miles trails, one of 6 miles and a long rolling 10 mile trail.  In the interest of time we chose the 6 mile trail so that we could have more time for drinking, but still work up a sweat.  Somewhere around the 3rd mile we started climbing a hill and at the top found ourselves in the middle of the largest of the white pine forests.  In the silence of winter the whispering pines practically scream.

 After the pine forest, we continued over the hill to a series of rocky cliffs overlooking a wide valley.  Somewhere below us was Pickle Creek, a babbling stream that meanders through the park.  The 6 mile trail goes in a loop that crosses the creek twice.  A mile after looking over the big valley we came to some more sharp cliffs that dove directly into the creek before the trail finished.  The look down gave me just enough vertigo to be happy we were almost finished and ready to begin drinking a strong red Norton in the firelight warmth of a winery.

Our hike lasted into the afternoon, so we only visited two of the wineries that day.  Why would you want to rush wine anyway?  From Hawn State Park it's about 15 minutes on Highway WW to the nearest vineyard, the large Chaumette Winery.  Once at the bar inside, our server gave us their wine list and asked us to select 5 tastings.  I've never been to California's famous Napa Valley, but I imagine it would shock me to have to pay for every tasting.  Most Missouri wineries have totally free tastings from 3 up to 7 glasses depending on the size of the place.

For this reason we skipped the nearby Crown Valley Winery in favor of going to the smaller Charleville Winery.  Crown Valley is a massive, impressive place modeled after the California wineries, with nationally award-winning wines to match; but it charges for tastings and it's frequently too busy.

Our group of drinkers has gravitated to quiet, little Charleville because it has better scenery, a more family-owned feel and (most importantly) good craft beer.  Although other Missouri wineries have recently started homebrewing in an attempt to follow the burgeoning craft beer movement, Charleville started before it got big and their experience shows.  Driving to the end of Highway WW and winding up the rocky road in 3rd gear to this isolated spot is well worth the extra effort.

This was the last stop for the day.  There was no rush.  We tasted a few wines and followed them with a beer sampler.  Here you can find an IPA, their big Tornado Alley red ale, a Belgian ale, several stouts and some creative seasonal brews, including the Box Of Chocolate, a special Belgian Ale brewed with chocolate.  We bought pints of the beer that best suited us then went to the porch to pass the afternoon by the fire-pit smoking cigars and shooting the shit.  For me, no trip to Missouri is complete without stopping here.

Why I Don't Work At The Hostel (Or First Time Getting Robbed In Costa Rica) Part 2

I awoke before 8 o'clock.  My flight was leaving just after noon and our personal hostel taxi was already scheduled to pick me up at 10am.  My suitcase and guitar were already packed.  I had no memory of packing them last night.

I wondered why I would have packed in such a rush when suddenly all of the events from the previous night rushed back to me: the motorcycle chase, the man with the knife, the glint of a gun, the stolen backpack and the final frantic sprint to the door that ended with me bursting in the door screaming and receiving a blank and emotionless stare from Jon, the hostel owner.  I didn't have much hope for him, but I thought that today we could talk about it.

All of my anger and adrenaline from the assault disappeared overnight.  That morning I felt small, scared and confused.  Something had changed inside of me, and I knew I would never feel right in Costa Rica anymore.  I wished my flight back to the USA had been one-way, as I had no desire to return to Castle Tam or Costa Rica.  I needed a morning shower to clear my head so I walked from my room across the small lobby to the nearest shared bathroom; the same lobby where I had burst in angry last night.  I stepped into the bathroom, took off my shirt, and then realized in my bewildered, dazed state that had forgotten to bring my towel with me.  I still had my shorts on, and looked back into the lobby to see if any guests were around.  It was clear so I quickly dashed to my room for a towel.  With towel in hand, I returned to the bathroom.

At that moment Jon walked through the lobby.  Unlike the previous night, he did not stare at me blankly, but came straight up to me with a grim, dark look on his face.  He stopped no more than a foot in front of me, and said in a controlled but unmistakably angry tone:

"Why aren't you wearing a shirt inside?"

I was unfazed.  After months of virtual silence between the two of us save for updates on new guests, he had not stopped me in the middle of the lobby for a military lecture on appropriate dress code.  Whatever bad blood had been building up between us over the past few months was about to be spilled at that moment.  Oddly, although we were seething, we still stayed professional and kept our volume down so as not to disturb guests.  Our conversation was over a year ago, but I remember it well.

"Oh, C'mon! This is not about my shirt!"

He snapped, "What was all that noise about last night??"

"I was robbed right outside the door last night by two men! No more than 50 meters from the door.  I was running inside from a motorcycle!"

There was a pause.  He was ready to explode but continued in the same tone.

"Look, I know you had a bad night, but this is a place of business, and you don't do that."

I thought to myself: Bad night...  

Bad night!?  A bad night is having a little argument with your girlfriend.  A bad night is drinking a little too much and getting sick.  A bad night is watching you football team lose after being ahead.  A bad night is not being held up by two men with a knife and a gun, getting robbed and watching your life flash before you eyes.  I didn't if he had been in the Navy.  Military training doesn't mean you can't show some humanity.  I hissed through closed teeth:

"Look, when you have knife in your face and someone's threatening your life, let me know if you'll be calm."

Jon didn't respond, and I didn't wait for his response.  I walked past him towards the bathroom.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw him turning after me with his hand raised up in a clenched fist.  For a moment, I thought we might brawl right there in the lobby of Castle Tam; but he turned back and marched the opposite direction through the lobby.  I finished my shower and returned to my room to wait the final 20 minutes in silence before the taxi driver arrived.

I had one suitcase and my guitar for the short Christmas trip back to the USA.  I briefly considered gathering my other bags and leaving Castle Tam forever, never to return again; but my stubbornness told me to wait and decide when I returned in January.  I was still by title the "manager" and had a set of hostel keys, access to the safe and the passwords to our online resources such as email, website and booking engines.  Surely Jon wouldn't change the locks or passwords while I was gone...

Why had things turned out so bad?  I thought on it later. When we started the place in April we planned to make it a Costa Rica success and I would carry our legacy on to a partner hostel in Europe.  Now I felt almost as unsafe inside these walls as I did outside where I got robbed.  Instead of support from a friend, I received more aggression and someone who seemed to think it was my fault for getting robbed.

The taxi was here.  I needed to go home and forget Castle Tam and Costa Rica for a while.