Manuel Antonio National Park: A Million Tourists, A Thousand Monkeys And Lots Of Fecal Matter

You, and 3 billion other tourists, will love Manuel Antonio National Park.  Recommended travel gear includes a helmet and elbow pads.  It makes pushing aside the weaker tourists much easier so that you can be the first to get a perfect, once-in-a-lifetime picture of those cute Capuchin monkeys playing with themselves in the palm trees.  Try filming the iguanas.  They move a lot slower, and are less likely to throw feces.

This picture was not taken in the national park.  Thanks to a new camera with a 21x zoom, it was taken from a comfortable sofa on the porch of Backpackers Manuel Antonio Hostel.  I was taking advantage of the hostel's awesome free pancake breakfast before I hopped on the local bus to the park entrance.

Backpackers Manuel Antonio sits across the street from the village's "centro,", which in small town Latin American dialect translates to "soccer field."  The rest of the community consists of one winding 10 mile road squeezed in on both sides by hotels, restaurants and stores selling authentic Costa Rica handicrafts made in China.  At one end of this road is the national park.  If your lodging is close enough to the entrance, you can walk there.  The hostel is not close enough.

Manuel Antonio Park's ticket vending stand is well hidden within the vast virgin jungle of tourist shops that will greet you when you get off the bus.  The easiest way to find it is to "join" one of the millions of tourist groups being lead like cattle by Costa Rican guides dressed in Indian Jones-style safari gear.  Once you are guided to the entrance, you can safely leave the group and no one will know the better.  After waiting in line, I paid the ten dollars for my ticket, and practically ran into a deer right before I entered the park.

This is a common sight in Manuel Antonio Park: animals with no fear of humans.  The park was established in 1972, so there have been plenty of years for wild animals to get accustomed to non-indigenous humans wandering through the jungle.  You will find many indigenous animals here, including: raccoons, sloths, agoutis, coatis and the endemic titis monkey. Yes, these monkeys are called 'titis!'  They are highly endangered; most likely because of suicide due to extreme embarrassment.

I entered the main entrance with a elderly, sweaty overweight tour group being lead by a guide who was joking in Spanish with the park rangers about his elderly, sweaty overweight tour group.  He switched to accented English and directed the group down the wide, rocky path.  I quickly outpaced the herd, but within 5 minutes I ran across another tour group wielding cameras and pointing into the foliage.

They were not titi monkeys, but white-faced capuchin monkeys.

Chain Smoking Monkey

I pushed my way through the crowd and held up my camera in anticipation.  Thanks to the Discovery Channel, we all know monkeys have a biological tendency to do funny things.  This behavior has been recorded in many scientific documentary films such as "The Hangover 2, which features one of these little, spidery, long-tailed primates I was filming at the moment.

Unfortunately, they weren't doing anything particularly funny, like throwing poop, masturbating or chain smoking cigarettes.  They appeared quite bored with all the tourists around.  I put down my camera and listened to the guide while the monkeys scratched themselves.  Stupid monkeys.

The monkeys were attracting more and more tourists.  It was time to move away.  Far away.  I kept walking and what I found was that it was impossible to get away from crowds at the park.  Manuel Antonio Park, at 7,656 square miles (19,83 sq km,) is Costa Rica's smallest park, but one of its most famous, receiving around 150,000 tourists per year.  At only 82 miles from San Jose, it's also an easily accessible national park, and will become even more so since a major interstate highway has been recently built to connect San Jose with a popular nearby prostitution-themed funpark called Jaco.

At least I never had to worry about finding someone to take my picture at the scenic points.

This view requires an uphill climb on a series of large, man-made concrete slabs.  I suppose the concrete slabs are Costa Rica's way to avoid any permanent change to the natural environment, yet still make much of the park accessible when the constant rain turns many of the paths into fudge brownie rivers.  In addition to the constant joy of equatorial rainstorms, it's important to note when high and low tide as it makes certain areas of the park cease to exist for several hours.

Some kind of bird

Manuel Antonio has a extensive network of interesting trails well suited for travelers whose closets are primarily filled with color-coordinated, REI brand moisture-wicking gear and matching all-terrain Teva sandals.  For tourists who don't consider sweating profusely to be one of their primary vacation activities, there are the beaches.  Manuel Antonio, South Espadilla, Gemela and Puerto Escondio are the park's 4 locations where you can work on that perfect sunburn.

At this particular moment, isolated Gemela and Puerto Escondio were not technically beaches, due to the rising tide.  I resigned myself to resting on the park's big namesake beach.  Even with the grey threatening rain clouds, it was a madhouse.  I avoided colliding with several hyperactive kids, flying beach balls and banana-thonged Eurotourists while looking for a quiet place to nap that wouldn't be underwater in the next hour.

I found a spot near the treeline, and stupidly realized I had forgotten to bring alcohol.  I went with my second option, which is practicing mixed martial arts.  In Latin America this the only practical form of self-defense next to carrying a firearm.  I was flipping and kicking around when I noticed a class of extremely inexperienced yoga students pointing at me.

I've practiced MMA for 2 years in Costa Rica.  When I practice in public, I frequently meet hippie yoga students who confuse MMA training with some kind of new age, karma-inducing advanced yoga.  I quickly point out that my goal is to effectively beat the shit out of people, and not achieve inner peace.  They (peacefully) lecture me on my lack of karma, then meditate their way back to whatever environmentally friendly, granola-fed, self-righteously sustainable commune they're staying at.

Anyway, I figured this group would be good entertainment.  The perky, lithe yoga instructor, who was clearly born without basic anatomical features like bones, was demonstrating how easy it was to use her arms as a substitute for her legs.  The amateur, karma-seeking students would let out an enthusiastic "OHM" and put their arms on the ground while throwing their legs in the air.

Not the entrance or exit

Unfortunately, they were used to using arms for normal hippie things, such as eating hummus, and would fall on the ground, often with limbs protruding at unusual angles.  The instructor gave them encouraging pats on the back.  She preferred her left foot.

After some time the students' "OHMs" were sounding suspiciously like groans.  The yoga instructor eventually decided that, yes, feet are perfectly fine for walking.  She led the students in a round of applause, which was only hindered by the fact that some of the students could not actually find their hands.

My entertainment was gone, so I moved to South Espadilla on the other side of the peninsula.  The tide was stronger on this side so the beach was empty.  A lone parasailer sailed across the grey, cloudy sky.  I watched him hovering majestically in the air until I noticed that, sadly, there was no lightening.  I recognized the large rocky islands I had seen on all the websites and fulfilled my tourist duties by snapping 5 billion unforgettable pictures.  Surprisingly, Lonely Planet has not responded to my profanity-filled emails.  Perhaps I should apply a different Instagram filter.

  
There is a different exit near this beach.  The actual exit strangely enough lead to a small river that, due to the high tide, appeared impassable.  Several men sat with rowboats advertising passage across the river for 500 Colones.  Many of the tourists were taking these boats.  Wading across the river was possible, and many people were attempting it, however a big official sign stood next to the river:

"BEWARE: THERE ARE CROCODILES AND FECAL MATTER IN THE WATER."

Several questions come up: Why would Costa Rica's most famous national park exit to a dangerous, impassable, crocodile and shit-filled river?  Did this river harbor a particular species of crocodile that suffers from severe bowel issues?  Do the crocodiles only attack fat tourists?  Were the crocodiles attacking tourists with the fecal matter?  If so, could they attack the yoga students?

I naturally assume everything in this part of the world is a scam.  Two Costa Ricans guys stood next to me looking skeptical too.  We talked momentarily in Spanish; they had visited before and remembered an easier way.  To the far left, hidden among the palm trees, were some muddy steps that lead over a small hill that extended into the ocean.  On the other side was much shallower water, which appeared free of fecal-throwing crocodiles.

The three of us removed our shoes and gingerly waded across the river.  After a tense minute I reached the opposite shore.  I turned around and noticed the Costa Ricans had disappeared...

Just kidding.  We laughed at the silly scheming boatmen and celebrated with a more honest businessman who was selling homemade ice cream by the bus stop.  As expected, the rain started picking up while I waited for the bus with the other 4.26 million tourists.

The internet connection was good in the hostel, so I spent the rainy evening on my computer looking at pictures of titis.                  
                  

  

Hostel Ghettos Of Bocas Del Toro, Panama

When I searched "Bocas Del Toro," one particular phrase stuck in my mind: backpacker ghetto.  Backpacker ghettos are little towns or neighborhoods with a large amount of cheap hostels.  Many backpackers, usually of the dirty hippie variety, show up in these places and begin an ambitious campaign of never leaving.  They tell you they are hanging out to "find themselves," but it seems, suspiciously, that the only things they are finding are lots of cheap alcohol, easy drugs and hostel sex.  Their best friend is a sketchy local who speaks fluent, Reality TV Show English, has a blond, foreign girlfriend(s) and only apparent source of income is drug dealing.

This is an accurate description of Bocas Town, the principal town on Caracol Island where most of the budget lodging and population is located.  Bocas Town is small enough that the various expat owners of the hostels and bars in the area know each other.  They have more or less set a schedule of taking turns having parties and drink promos at their different establishments every night.  Naturally a small tourist town that parties every night attracts a lot of seedy backpacker elements, for example: me.

Fortunately Bocas Del Toro has a much more attractive side.  Although you are practically required to sleep in Bocas Town if you are on a backpacker budget, you can spend the entire day relaxing on the many quiet beaches located far away from the madness of the backpacker slums.  These majority of these beaches are on the far side of Bastimiento Island, which is a short boat ride from Caracol Island.

I didn't see the need to be seedy this time in Bocas Del Toro.  I was in the good company of my Spanish and Argentinian friends.  I felt comfortable knowing that by speaking Spanish with them I would be less likely to attract the attention of various drug dealers, hookers, touts and general assholes who prowl Latin American tourist towns preying on groups of gullible "Uhhh-Noo-haabloo-espanol" gringos.  Besides that they are just great fun to hang out with.

Mondo Taitu Reception

When we arrived in Bocas Town in the early afternoon, we were ready to collapse after our 8 hour trip all the way from San Jose, Costa Rica.  Mondo Taitu was the first hostel I thought of checking out.  It fits the backpacker ghetto mold: it's very cheap, a little dingy and rundown, has guests who never leave, and a bar with a staff that likes to party. This afternoon it looked pretty quiet and they had availability.  And at $11 a night with free breakfast, coffee and bikes included, how could we say no?

Mondo Taitu is a winner for price in Bocas Town.  There are plenty of other budget options on the main drag, Calle 3a, which is two blocks from the main docks where all the upscale hotels are.  It's easy enough to walk up and down the streets searching for availability; however, besides Mondo Taitu there are few other hostels located off the main drag which are worth checking out:

1. Casa Verde is a nice hostel at the southernmost end of the strip.  It's right on the water and is less of a party hostel since it's further away from downtown.  Had a good time here, but it may be different now since the management changed recently.

2.  Aqua Lounge is the dominant hostel/club in Bocas Town, which says a lot since it's not listed on HostelWorld.  It's essentially a big dock over the water on a small island across from Bocas Town.  It has the town's biggest parties, and they are fun as long as you aren't trying to sleep in the dorm room that shares a wall with their massive sound system.  Be aware that every time you go into Bocas Town, you have to take a water taxi.  Those four dollar boat round trips add up after a few days.
   

Not The Tourist Beaches

There were parties going on later that night.  We talked of going out, but were more excited about going to see the white beaches of Bastimiento Island in the morning.  Our immediate priority was rest, and we found it on a small beach near the hostel.  The beach matched Bocas Town: dumpy and in need of a cleanup.  A group of local kids laughed while playing volleyball on the dirty sand.  For the moment, it was fine for a quick late afternoon nap.



After napping on the beach, we gathered our strength for a stroll around the town.  The town was quiet expect for a small high school student protest that was going on in the streets.  The students were parading to get more support (read: money) for their English Language program.  This protest highlighted the extreme disparity typical in developing countries' tourist areas.  We were only a few blocks from the main strip, but all of the glamorous hotels and nice waterfront restaurants were nowhere to be seen.  Here the kids walked in streets lined with litter and lived in concrete block houses with no windows panes and a single bare light bulb to illuminate the interior.

"English: It's Like A Universal." Please, They Need Teachers

No worries.  Most tourists never walk past Calle 3a anyway.

We were starving and in need of some dinner.  No one had the motivation to cook that night.  We started checking the prices of restaurants to find something that fit our price range.  Many of the small, local "sodas" were already closed, so our search was restricted to most of the upscale restaurants right on the main docks.  They are all pretty much the same.  We settled on one place overlooking the water and ordered typical Central American/Panama meals: seafood/meat, rice, salad and fried plantain patacones.

Towards the end of dinner it started to drizzle.  In Central America a little drizzle is not to be taken lightly; it's often a prelude to a storm.  By the time we paid for dinner and walked the five blocks back to Mondo Taitu, the drizzle had turned into a torrential downpour.  We resolved to wait out the rain and go out later.  My Argentinian friend had brought a bottle of Italian Cinzano to sip on.  I played songs on my guitar to pass the time.

Two hours later we were still listening to the rain pound on the tin roof.  Mondo Taitu was empty that night expect for a drunk couple from New York who had ducked into the building to dry off from the downpour.  All the guests had either already gone out before the rain started or were asleep.  Our little Spanish, Argentinian and Gringo group decided to stay in so we could get up early to see the beaches of Bastimiento Island.  I continued to sing songs for my friends and the drunk New Yorkers as the rain pounded a beat outside.  
 

  

Absolute Hitchhiking Failure In Austria

I'm in central Austria at 2 in the morning and I drank my last Red Bull and no one wants to give me a ride and my bank account won't work until I get to Germany which means I have no money so fuck me.

As they say in Slovakia...Jebautopezdopice (Fuck a dog's vagina.)  I'm sleeping in the gas station tonight.   There's a small restaurant area inside so I stretch out on one of the padded booths and pass out.  It seems the employees don't care.  For the past 5 hours they've been amused with watching me absolutely fail to hitchhike from Austria to Germany.

After the Ruzinov Concert I spent a few happy days joking and playing in Bratislava with my Slovak and Polish friends from Krakow.  I completed my travel circle by passing through Vienna once again to visit and say goodbye to my Bulgarian artist friend, Kosta Tonev.  Once I left Vienna I was on my own again.  I had a few more days to catch my flight from Frankfort back to Costa Rica, so I arbitrarily picked a town half-way between Vienna and Frankfort to hitchhike to.  That town was Regensburg.  Regensburg was the best random choice I could have made, but the trip there proved to be my worst hitchhiking experience ever.
  

View Larger Map

It started fine.  In accordance with hitchwiki.org again, I had taken a bus to a gas station at the farthest possible Western point of metropolitan Vienna.  Within an hour a nice middle-aged lady took me to rest stop  on the highway south of Linz.  From there it got more difficult, and almost 2 1/2 hours passed before a young hippie, professional juggling couple picked me up.  They said they wanted to take me because I had a guitar, so I "must be an artist" like them.  Hippies.

"We are sorry, artist.  We must go south, but can take you to Wels where there is a highway to Passau border to Germany.  It is late."

They seemed very apologetic about having to leave me alone at sunset by the highway.  There wasn't much to look at: the gas station, a rundown hotel and a large parking lot full of trucks with license plates from all corners of Europe.  A typical highway rest stop.

I had a small sign with "Passau" written on it.  I brandished it like a sword at the automobiles as they stopped at the pumps to fill up.   It was far easier than standing on the side of a highway and I felt positive despite it being almost 8 o'clock at night.  Several people were already offering me rides.  Unfortunately no one was going all the way to Germany.  An hour passed in front of the station and the streetlights light up.  It was officially nighttime.

Time to ask truckers.  This idea quickly went south as practically all of them had turned off their lights and gone to sleep.  The cars that remained in the parking lot were full of sleeping families and various boxes.   Most of them bore license plates from Slavic countries, The Balkans and Turkey.  Austria sits at a crossroads between what many people refer to as prosperous Western Europe and poor Eastern Europe.  The parking lot was in the middle of Austria, but felt like one of the many eastern borders I had crossed on my journey.

It was a parking lot of tired transients with no fixed homes: truckers, immigrants and a lonely American hitchhiker.  It was cold and late, so I went inside to spend my last saved Euros on a cup of coffee at the all-night cafe.  The bartender and gas station staff were all Bosnian and Croatian.  The two sexy girls who sat down next to me were Romanians who were "just working" in Austria.  Where were all the Austrians?  Wels stood at the foot of a mass wave of immigrants working in France, Germany, Switzerland and Belgium while secretly waiting for their free days to return to their families and culture in Romania, Serbia, Ukraine and Turkey.  My quick little European joyride felt quite insignificant in comparison.


I slept fitfully for 3 hours in the booth.  In the early morning light I got a ride from a man who spoke neither German nor English.  I tried my Serbian-Slovak-Slavic mongrel language.  His eyes understood and he showed me his Croatian passport.  He was going all the way to Frankfort to work so, yes, he could drop me off in Regensburg.

I will miss "Eastern" Europe.

  

Welcome To Castle Tam Hostel, Costa Rica

Ok.  All the birthday party madness is over.  Now I can properly introduce myself and the hostel.  Since nobody actually reads anymore, I won't bore you with elaborate descriptions. I'll just go the 'Reality TV' way and show you a live video.  Welcome to 4 minutes of Castle Tam:

This is the early Sunday morning video where everyone is still recovering from the Saturday night festivities. Which means they're still in their dorms nursing a hangover.

You get the idea.  We have beds, kitchens, bathrooms, an outdoor courtyard and booze.  The main things to take note of: we're cleaner than your average roach-infested hostel in Costa Rica, we're renovating and you don't see a bunch of white, dreadlocked, save-Mother-Nature-Rainforest hippie types.  They are more than welcome to visit, but these tourists are already as common as the roaches here:

If you want to save Costa Rica, go back to your 1st world country, get a profitable job and invest the money in some foreign company that's in Costa Rica hiring locals.  Corporate exploitation? Globalization?? Blahblahblah.  Ask any local in a developing, high-unemployment country and they will tell you that even if you're employed as waiter, janitor or McDonalds burger-flipper, any job is better than no job.  Assuming they speak English (which would get them a better job.)

Due to the early Sunday morning hangover, this video required an extensive amount of coffee to film.  Thanks to the wonders of globalization, we have modern, fast imported coffee machines, and not these inefficient, traditional chorreadores.

Technology is great.  This contraption is only good for kindling and tourist money.