Bocas Del Toro: Red Frog Beach...Has Red Frogs

"You foto? Money, Money, Money?!"

You think I would've learned by now.  Some cute kids show me a palm leaf full of little red frogs, on Red Frog Beach in Panama.  I take a picture.  They start yelling: "Money, Money, Money?!"

Whatever.  Take the damn money.  We're all rich white people anyway, tu sabes?  I'm more annoyed with all the gringos who have came here before me and encouraged this kind of soft scam business.  The kids are just too damn cute to get mad at, even though they are little scam artists.

This is the tourist industry outside of the Western world: from the big international agencies booking all-inclusive's down to the little street kids charging for pictures.  The backpacker community can avoid the international travel agencies (indeed it's a mark of their "independence") but when it comes to local businesses, anyone is fair game, from the senior citizens on their disposable income to the grungy, unwashed student on a gap year.

The amazing thing is how many independent Western backpackers still assume that local businesses in underdeveloped countries operate like they do in the first world.  They feel uncomfortable that there are rarely fixed prices for goods and services, and they complain about having to pay cash for everything.  Or even worse, they try to be an "in-the-know" savvy backpacker and start with a ridiculously low offer for a local service, and still don't get why the guy won't give their cracker-ass a better deal than a local.

Anyway, you should go to Red Frog Beach.

A Random Tour Boat Company

Our little Spanish, Argentinian and Gringo trio booked a boat to Bastimento Island with an "official" tour boat.  I hesitate to call it an official business because, being in Panama, they have a office and employees, but don't have travel insurance, safety waivers, emergency contacts and all that legal shit which we find so annoying in the United States.  As annoying as it is, if something does go wrong, most Americans are happy to have the paperwork to help their lawyer build a substantial lawsuit against the (incorporated) company.

The boat company quoted an initial price of seven dollars per person to take us to Bastimento Island.  We said that was fine, at which point they mentioned -oh, by the way- beautiful Red Frog and Wizard Beaches are on the opposite side of the island from the dock where we drop you off.  For an additional three dollars, there is a truck (conveniently) waiting at the dock to take you directly to the beach.

If you don't take it, the walk is a 1/2 hour through mosquito-infested, muddy jungle...

                                  It's rainy season, so you can expect rain starting around 3pm...

                                                                 The last boat leaves the island at 5:30pm...
                                                                                                     
                                                                Also the price covers the park entrance fee...

Ten dollars later we were on the boat, after a short reminder to wear our life jackets just in case, you know, something might, maybe, perhaps, come up.  Ojala!  Embrace spontaneity and change? Carpe diem?  Ironically, the travel bloggers who write that romantic shit all the time turn out to be incredibly boring, organized, anal people who actually research all their information ahead of time and have their entire travel schedule planned out already...complete with a post about it online in advance modestly bragging about how they love to "live in the moment."

Legoland Boat Dock 

The weather was overcast and the short trip had no surprises.  The most exciting part was the island's floating dock, made of interconnected, synthetic plastic cubes which decidedly clashed with the rest of the wooden, rustic-looking dock's ornaments.  I assume it was an economical alternative to building a fancy, all-wooden and thatch "authentic" structure.  It's fun to jump on.

A quick walk uphill brought us to the Red Frog Park/Resort entrance where the trucks wait for tourists.  The interior of the island is mosquito-infested and muddy, but the gravel trails are well-laid out and there are little pretty communities of exclusive luxury villas starting at around $95,000 for a "partial ownership" plot.  This is probably too much for the average backpacker to consider, but not to worry, there is Bocas Bound Hostel!!  According to most of the reviews, you will love staying at this affordable option, as long as you don't need running water or friendly service all the time.

Somewhere inside my cynical little heart I find the will to say this: Red Frog Beach is beautiful.  It is isolated and far away from the backpacker ghetto of Bocas Town, so the sand remains pristine and clean, and the extra effort required to get here keeps it from being overrun by tourists.  The clouds, strong wind and slight drizzle didn't stop us from enjoying the wild scenery.  In fact, the inclement weather added a certain drama to the waves crashing on the rocky outcropping that would have been absent on a perfectly still, sunny day.

The drizzle comes and goes intermittently while we lounge on the beach.  Take pictures.  We try laying down for a while; I am too wound up and do martial arts on the sand to amuse my friends.  Take pictures.  The drizzle increases so we amble up a strategically-constructed, scenic observation deck that's protected by the verdant jungle foliage.  Pictures.  More pictures.  Hey, we're alone here.  Smoke a little.  Laugh a lot.  Tomfoolery.  My Spanish friend has an easy smile. My Argentinian friend, she has the most wonderful laugh.  God, it is beautiful here.

Within an hour the drizzle has grown into the typical equatorial afternoon downpour.  We seek shelter at the nearby Palmar Tent Lodge bar & restaurant.  Not surprisingly, it's staffed and patronized by American surfer volunteers.  They procure us a round of Balboa beers.  Talk. "Where are you from?  Argentina?! Spain?!  United States.  Oh."  "You speak Spanish pretty well.  Why are you here?"  "I don't really know."  The usual backpacker talk.  More rain.  "Another round?"

Another hour passes.  Maybe more.  Maybe less.  The rain keeps time.

The rains clears up.  We walk around the Palmar Tent Lodge grounds.  The fancy tents and dorms set on the edge of the jungle go straight onto my "Someday, Somehow List."  It's a typical eco-friendly, self-sustainable "insert-hyphened-word" green community that's affordable by Western standards.  If you like to rough it in nature, but not really, really rough it, it's perfect.

The three of us wander further down the beach and unknowingly cross the invisible border between Red Frog Beach and Wizard Beach.  The only difference here is that all the other tourists are gone.  The sunbathers, swimmers and beach chairs are tiny dots in the distance.  After we walk around an outcropping of rocks and fallen driftwood, those final signs of civilization disappear from sight.  Most likely there are private, luxury villas hidden back in the jungle, but from the beach it appears we are alone.  Our conversation becomes less frequent as we let the sound of the wind and waves take over.

Eventually we stop to take a rest on some smooth driftwood.  Several pictures of the "Wish-You-Were-Here" variety are taken.  Look at this one.  Silence.  Laughing.  Silence again.  I'm not thinking about my home in San Jose, Costa Rica: the robberies, the crime, the scams, the gringo bullshit.  For once in Latin America - I can breath easy.  I am in good company.  Gracias, amigos.

We take the last boat at 5:30pm back to the madness of Bocas Town.

      

  

  




   

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.  
 

  

San Jose To Bocas Del Toro: Not All Who Cross The Costa Rica-Panama Border Are Equal

My Argentinian friend was visiting me in Costa Rica.  I took a few days off of work to travel with her to Bocas Del Toro, Panama.  With our limited time, Bocas looked like the best option for visiting a beach outside of Costa Rica.  My last visit there had been fucked by a credit card issue which had left me broke for 3 days and stuck in a hostel.  I was determined not to screw up this time, but disaster is a good friend of mine.

We arrived at the Caribe Station 45 minutes before the bus departed in order to buy a ticket to Sixaola, at the Costa Rica-Panama border.  Magic rumors exist that you can reserve advance tickets in your name for Costa Rican buses.  Perhaps this only applies to nationals.  Every time I call the bus companies they tell me "this is impossible."  My Costa Rica friends have told me that even though I speak Spanish, my gringo accent (and name) gives me away as a foreigner, and the buses won't reserve the tickets.  My Argentinian friend, with her obviously Argentinian accent, seemed to have the same problem.

It was lucky we arrived when we did.  By astounding coincidence, I ran into my Spanish friend, at the station, and he was on the same bus as us.  We became an odd team of three: a Spaniard, an Argentinian and an American.  This atypical tourist team would prove how conditional Latin border police can be with different nationalities.

San Jose to Sixoala is 6 hours by direct bus with one 20 minute stop.  It was a 6am bus, so we spent most of the trip sleeping.  Or rather we slept until we left the main highway at Limon.  After that the bus bounced up and down a dusty, rocky trail which followed the coastline to the border.  It was too humid, dusty and scenic to continue sleeping.

Another border town.  Ugh.  Walking from Sixoala's bus station to the border station requires forging a path through a puddle filled parking lot.  Once you clear the parking lot, there's a large ramp with stairs on the side leading up to an old railroad bridge crossing the River Sixaola.  The crossing isn't crowded, just don't step between the wooden boards.  It's a long fall into the river.

According to my Spanish friend, Sixaola is a better place to cross the Costa Rica-Panama border than Paso Canoas in the south.  He had to endure a nearly two hour wait there and mass bureaucratic confusion.  The border station at Sixoala had no more than a dozen people waiting in line.  The three of us got through customs and were taking pictures on the crumbling bridge in under 20 minutes.

Once we entered Panama, things got weird.

The border office is open from 8am until 5pm.  There's no need to worry about the hours, however; the line isn't very long.  In fact when we got there we didn't really see a line.  People were milling about in the hot sun in loose clusters outside of a long, low building with two offices: one for migration and one for customs.  The offices are at the top of a long ramp that goes down to the village of Guabito.  A few policeman halfheartedly kept the clusters in a semi-organized state of minor confusion.  It wasn't necessary.  The heat and humidity was too intense for people to do anything other than suffer quietly.

The three of us joined the masses to wait our turn.  On rare occasions people would step out of one of the two office doors in the building.  The police would indicate to whoever was closest to the door that they could enter.  I noticed one of the doors had more tourists (read: white people) gathered outside of it.  The "policemen" near this door had uniforms, but did not carry identification.  I smell Mafia.

Panama has a specific requirement for tourists entering the country, which I will hereafter refer to as a "scam."   When tourists enter Panama, they need to present proof that they are leaving the country again. This is theoretically to prevent foreigners from entering the country and then staying permanently.  In reality, this is a load of bullshit.  Panama border police know that most tourists are passing through briefly to visit spots like Bocas del Toro, Boquete, San Blas Islands, etc and returning to Costa Rica.  They don't have a specific return date so they only buy a one-way ticket.  Here is how the scam typically plays out.

Tourists enter the first office.  They present their passport and visa (if necessary.)  The migration official then asks:

"Are you returning to Costa Rica?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"Do you have proof.?"

"(Blank stare) ...What?  I'm going to Bocas del Toro for a few days then returning to Costa Rica."

"You need proof.  You can buy a return bus ticket to Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica outside the office."

"If I punch the police, you can grab his gun..."

Conveniently enough, there is a small stand at the bottom of the ramp that sells bus tickets back to Costa Rica.  When I say "tickets," I actually mean "one kind of ticket."  The ticket goes from Guabito to Hone Creek, Costa Rica (I believe) which is a completely useless village located 30 minutes by foot from Puerto Viejo.  It cost twenty-two dollars, but of course this price is subject to change.

Our traveling group had different contingency plans to avoid this scam:

1. The Spaniard had saved his purchased return ticket from his previous trip to Panama through Paso Canoas.

2. The Argentinian had her flight schedule which showed she was leaving Panama in order to get her flight out of San Jose, Costa Rica en route to Argentina the following week.

3. I had my Costa Rican Social Security card to prove I was a working employee who had to leave Panama in order to return to my job in Costa Rica. (Most Costa Rica nationals aren't asked to present proof of leaving Panama since the border police assumes they will be returning.)

These preparations don't mean anything.  Our entering the country was totally dependent on the whims of the border police.  Latin American border police hold power like the Wizard of OZ.  If the guy hadn't got laid last night, he could be grumpy and very well tell us all to fuck off and buy brand-new return tickets.

After some time sweating in the line/cluster, we were allowed to enter the first office to see if the Almighty Migration would let us enter Panama.  The Spaniard presented his Spanish passport to the serious official.  He looked at it for second then broke into a big smile:

"We have a champion here!"

Spain had just won soccer's EuroCup 2012 the day before.  The official called some of his coworkers over and they all began congratulating  for "his" victory.  His 3 month old return ticket was accepted and his passport was stamped, no questions asked.

This ridiculous ceremony had already happened with the police on the Costa Rican side.  He rolled his eyes.  He is a leftist who prefers to spend his time camping in the woods miles away from television and civilization.  To put it simply, he is a Spaniard who doesn't give a shit about soccer.  Regardless, shouts of, "We have a champion here!" would become a tired, running joke for him the duration of our trip.

Oddly enough, I am an American who was ready to chat about Andres Iniesta incredible contributions to the game.  I even visited one of the stadiums during my visit to Lviv, Ukraine the previous summer.  This doesn't mean shit to the border patrol; to them I am just another gringo on vacation.  I presented them with my passport and Costa Rica Social Security card, explaining that I am a resident, not a tourist.  They asked me where I worked, how long I had been in Costa Rica, where I was going and so on, por favor.  Somehow it worked...this time.

Now Argentina presented her passport and flight schedule papers.  The official didn't look satisfied:

"We need proof you are leaving Panama."

"Of course I'm leaving Panama.  My flight leaves San Jose, Costa Rica for Buenos Aires, Argentina.  How else can I take a flight from San Jose if I don't leave Panama??"

That sounds logical.  But international borders operate in a mysterious world where logic changes every 30 seconds.  Possibly the official felt like following protocol that particular day.  Possibly every third person had to be turned down that day.  Possibly he didn't like Argentinians.

She attempted to argue some more.  Our Spanish EuroCup "champion," tried to help her.  I kept my mouth shut.  None of it mattered.  The official sent us down the ramp to the small bus ticket stand.  She again tried to argue with the ticket vendor to no avail.  Chema and I offered to pay for part of the ticket if she would just buy it.  She was furious.  The fact that I had been through this before was the only thing keeping me from losing it too.

We returned to the migration line/cluster with a purchased bus ticket.  The contentious migration official stamped her this time.  We moved to customs, which was fairly easy except for the excessive checking of my guitar case for invisible drugs.  You are given useless yellow stamps in your passport which are supposed to cover local Guabito providence taxes.  There doesn't seem to be any order to how many you receive.  All that's certain is that you have to pay for each one, so the less the better.

Getting through migration and customs should be the worst part, but no one is that lucky.  Once you finish border formalities and descend the ramp, millions of hungry, screaming vultures swoop down on you.  These pirate taxis offer you a million great deals to take their car or truck shuttle to Almirante, the port to Bocas del Toro, for a "very good price (usually $20)."  You can choose to hang around and bargain with them and most likely get ripped-off.  Or you can ignore them and walk 100 meters past the ramp to a parking lot where a colorful local bus drives by about every 20 minutes.  For about a dollar this bus takes you to Chiangianola, where another cheap bus continues on to Almirante.

After years of crossing international borders, I've learned how to fight off the border vultures.  Fighting off patroling border police is a different matter.  Their guns don't worry me (taxi drivers have guns too.)  What worries me is their ability to throw you in jail over a nonexistent law violation that will only be refuted when a real American lawyer shows up.  By then it's too late.  Big Juan Pablo has already made you his new gringo bitch.

Scenic Changiablahblahblah

I am sure Panama's border police work in tandom with the taxi vultures.  We had cleared a path through the crowd of annoying taxi drivers and were almost to the bus parking lot when we heard a distinct shout.  One of the police was closing in on us and asked us if we had our return tickets out of Panama.  Despite the stamp in my passport, I did not actually have a return ticket.  I didn't expect my luck with the Social Security card to continue.


Fortunately, our Spanish champion did the talking.  After more Spanish soccer "We-have-a-champion-here" bullshit, the police let us go.  We jumped on a psychedelically-painted bus to Changiablahblahblah and paid the dollar and some change fare.

Taking two buses to Almirante that total less than three dollars is not only cheaper, it's slower.  I consider that an advantage, because the road has plenty of scenery that requires time to soak it all in.  Highway "" winds through a mountainous region that opens onto deep green valleys and occasional soaring views of the Caribbean Sea.  While we took pictures of the scenery, several of the taxi shuttles roared by our dumpy bus at a breakneck speed.  I doubt the tourists inside had time to snap photos, much less breath.

Changianola, a little town with a big name, was a brief break during our slow trip to Almirante.  There's no reason to hang out here unless you have a particular interest in Chiquita Banana, which is headquartered here.  One of the original Banana Republics.

The bus from Guabito dropped us off on a dirt driveway in front of the town's concrete block central market.  After getting off the bus, we walked straight inside the market.  On the other side is a large platform where the buses to Almirante stop.  There are also plenty of taxi vultures ready to offer more "very good deals" to Almirante as well.  Ignore them, buy a greasy Panamanian empanada and wait for the next bus, which stops in front of the empanada vendor.

Greasy Panama Empanadas

The scenery improves during the second half of the voyage.  Our odd trio of a Spaniard, an Argentinian and an American attracted considerable attention from the Panamanian passengers.  We chatted with them ("We have a champion here!) and received some advice about the Almirante stop.  There is no official stop; just tell the bus driver "Almirante/Bocas" and he will let you off.  More taxi vultures will be waiting to offer you a ride to the dock where boats depart for Bocas Del Toro (notice a theme here?)  They are scheming assholes because the docks are no more than 500 meters from the highway.  Additionally there are boat vultures that will bargain with you for a private ferry to Bocas Town.  The dock at the end of the road (go figure) has fixed schedules and prices at around seven dollars.  It also has an additional boat that departs late at 6:30pm.

We got off the bus at the appropriate random dusty area.  There were no signs, but a lone road snaked away from the highway towards the water.  The walk was short and was only delayed by random guys trying to sell us good deals on private ferries to Bocas Town.  After shaking them off, we arrived at the dock with official prices and departures every half hour.

The ferry company asks for name, identification and nationality.  We wrote this information down on an old notebook then waited for the next boat.  After 20 wet minutes on a big speedboat, we awkwardly docked in Bocas Town.  There were no taxi vultures waiting for us, finally.
.

Taking The Ferry By The Banana Republic

  

           

La Bodega De Chema: How To Make Costa Rica Craft Beer

I have pointed out before that the beer in Costa Rica sucks.  What are the solutions to this problem?

You can be a typical expat and complain about it.  You can switch to liquor or wine (always a good solution.)  You can pay expensive shipping fees and risk broken bottles in beer-soaked cartons.  Or you can make your own beer.

This Is Not Beer

If you are living in Costa Rica and want to make something new for your pint glass, La Bodega de Chema is the place to try your hand at homebrewing.  Chema is a brillant Costa Rican who studied engineering in Rochester, New York.  While living there he fell in love with American craft beer.  When he returned to Costa Rica, he realized he was stuck drinking the same old, boring Imperial and Pilsen again (boo!) and had to find a way to bring tasty craft beer home.

The result of his efforts is La Bodega De Chema.  It isn't a bar or a restaurant, but a beer education facility.  In this little room in a quiet part of San Jose, you can sample Costa Rican and foreign craft beer, buy homebrewing products and materials, and enroll in one-day homebrewing classes taught by Chema and his brewing team.  Experienced brewers will be excited to see this course is taught using the all-grain method, and not with malt extract (mainly because imported extract is really expensive in Costa Rica.)

I was too late to enroll in his inaugural brewing class in May of 2012, but I did get a place in the second class in the second week of June, 2012.  A 5 hour class costs 20,000 colones, or approximately 40 dollars.  This price not only includes the hands-on brewing class, but also a brewing instruction manual, several beer tastings, a discount on La Bodega's products and two bottles of your own beer when it is ready 2 weeks later.  You also get to study your Spanish for 5 straight hours (what, don't you speak Spanish??)

I was the only gringo in the course that day.  My Spanish is far from perfect, but making beer doesn't require much listening.  Just watch and learn.  I will break from my usual long ranting, sarcastic style and present this course in simple, step-by-step pictures and videos.

All you need to make beer are grains, hops, yeast and water.  Start by grinding the grains.  You can do this with a plastic bag and a rubber hammer, or use this convenient grist:

 Now you have malt.  You have to soak the malt in hot water to start fermentation, which produces the most important part of the beer, the alcohol!!  We did this in a cooler fitted with a complex, handmade plastic sieve at the bottom.  It helps to have technical skills (there's a reason many engineers are homebrewers.)

It takes around an hour for fermentation.  We used this time in the most productive way possible, by drinking beer!  We sampled Imperial, Costa Rica Craft Brewing's beer Libertas and Segua and Germany's Erdinger.

The result of the hot soaking malt is a boozy soup called wort.  You have to separate the liquid wort from the grains.  Chema sends the used grains to local farms for cow feed.  How pleasantly organic.

While we are separating the liquid wort from the grains, we have to constantly take samples.  We check the samples for alcoholic content with a little glass stick called a hydrometer.  If it's too strong, you will have to water it down.  As a typical alcoholic I don't mind a 10% alcohol beer, but for the mass market 4% is a little easier to handle.

This wort has alcohol and looks like beer, but it still doesn't smell like beer.  We have to boil the wort with hops to get that lovely beer smell.  What time, what type and how much hops you add all depend on the style of beer.  I'll save that part for the beer geeks to argue about.  Most Costa Ricans just aren't ready to drink Quintupletripledipple-Dry-Hopped, Barrel-Rolled, Sour Imperial Monarch Butterfly, Double-Ds IPAs...or whatever ridiculous, over-hyped shit they're making in the United States now.

While the wort is boiling, several other things are happening.  Chema's last class prepared some hopped wort which has been fermenting for the past few weeks.  We have to add sugar to this prepared wort and mix it.  This starts carbonation, which gives the beer that happy head we love so much.  We used natural sugar; Costa Rica still doesn't have a lot of those fancy brewing products yet.

We were also sanitizing bottles while the wort was boiling.  These sanitized bottles will now store the finished, carbonating product.  To properly ferment, the bottles need to be sealed airtight with caps.  Bottling the beer is probably the most physically strenuous process in homebrewing.  Don't expect it to burn off your beer belly though.

We have added all the hops and the wort is finished cooking.  Now comes the complicated part of cooling off the mix rapidly without infecting it.  This is another part where being an engineer helps.  It's usually enough to cool off the pot in a cold water bath, but Chema constructed a nifty copper tube device connected to a water hose.  It runs cold water through the beer to cool it off even quicker.  This is the part where my technical skills would fail...

Finally we have beer.  Well, not yet.  We still have to wait 2 more weeks for the bottled product to finish fermenting.  If you've been observant, you see we're actually drinking the beer made from the previous class.  Either way the end result is the same.  I have two new bottles of Cahuita Pale Ale to drink.  It's not Imperial or Pilsen, Gracias a Dios!

I am aware that this is not a complete course on brewing beer, so please beer geeks refrain from writing comments about details I've forgotten (e.g. temperatures, IBUs)  I am an alcoholic traveler, not a brewer.

Guayabo National Monument: Pretty Much The Only Ancient Ruin In Costa Rica

Costa Rica has plenty of outdoor activities to keep your average wannabe ecotourist happy forever.  Ziplining, trekking, climbing volcanoes and feeding monkeys are all the standard package trip to this tropical country.  But after living there for some time, I noticed something was missing.  I've drank on the San Andreas Mayan Pyramids in El Salvador, sunburned myself on the massive Teotihuacan Pyramid in Mexico and offended God in historical churches in Nicaragua.  And no hostel chat in Latin America is complete without some new-age douchebag mentioning the stunning Aztec city of Macchu Picchu in Peru...and how he tripped balls on ayahuasca there.

Where are all the ancient ruins in Costa Rica?

Ancient Guayabo Zipline Facility

I fretted over this for awhile, then got distracted for the next few months by my 50+ hour work week.  I forgot all about it until Barbara, a coworker of mine, announced she was leaving Costa Rica in 2 weeks and invited me to see Guayabo National Monument:

"What's a Guayabo? A fruit?"

"It's just some old stones in Turrialba.  I don't really know how great it's gonna be.  We can still go out in Turrialba that night or find time for kayaking on the river."

"Sounds good.  My roommate's from Turrialba.  She could show us around."

Some Rocks. It Gets Better.

Let's be brutally honest.  If you're a backpacker who's on a Latin America tour and you've already seen Macchu Picchu, Teotihuacan or Copan, then seeing Guayabo is as breathtaking as watching "The Hangover 3" after having just seen the first two.  Really, that's the best they could do?

Regardless, I never say no to a roadtrip.  Especially with Barbara, who is from Slovakia.  This is a country which most people can't locate on a map, but by wild coincidence I happened to live there for 2 years.  As with all Slovak women, she is tall and stunningly beautiful.  Although she was definitely in Costa Rica for 'exotic' Latin men, we still hung out since I knew how to curse in Slovak and "drink like a Slovak."  I looked up 'Guayabo National Monument' and discovered it really is the only ancient archaeological site in Costa Rica.  Well, I finally found some history.

One of Barbara's friends (also Slovak) came with us.  We caught a late bus on Saturday from San Jose to Turrialba.  It was a long 2 hours in drizzling rain through the rolling Cartagao mountains.  The Slovak girls rambled on in Slovak while drinking rum and ginger out of plastic bottles.  I eventually dozed off when I realized I had completely forgotten what little Slovak I had learned...

By good fortune, I had contacted a Couchsurfer, Tete, from Turrialba who agreed to help us with our trip to Guayabo National Monument.  She wasn't able to give us a place to stay that night, but she offered to drive us and be our guide at Guayabo.  When we arrived she took us in her car to various lodgings where we could stay.  We eventually settled on the Intercontinental; for a nice room with 3 beds in the city center it came out to less than 15 dollars per person.

Katka declared she was tired, leaving Barbara and I to experience the nightlife of small-town Turrialba.  My roommate was in town for the weekend, so I contacted her.  She was at a wedding party in Club Nazca, a short 15 minute walk from the Intercontinental.  This didn't seem like a problem until we started asking people about the location:

"Oh no no. That walk is too dangerous at night.  Take a taxi there."

Some Of The Local Men

Turrialba is town of less than 30,000 people.  The thought of this small town being 'dangerous' seemed absurd to me, an American, and Barbara, a European.  Unfortunately this is the reality of living in Latin America; even the smallest villages are still dangerous, especially for obviously 'gringo' tourists who draw attention.  Barbara, being a tall, white exotic European woman, was already getting annoyed with all the catcalls she was getting from the local men on the streets:

"Hey, you speaky English?" "I loves you!!!" "You are sooo beautiful."

It was a short night.

Tete picked us around 9am the next morning and we drove the half hour up a rocky, rutted trail to the park entrance.  Since I was a passenger, I wasn't observing our route, and Costa Rica directions are always tricky.   Based on the maps I've seen, both Route 415 and Route 230 from Turrialba will take you there.  There is a bus that leaves from Turrialba twice daily that goes to the entrance; take the morning one.  Expect rain, expect rain and...expect rain.  Also foreigners, expect to pay more than nationals.  Another reality of the 3rd world.  Tete and her Costa Rica friend paid 600c ($1.20) while us foreigners paid 3000c ($6.00.)

A price increase of 5 times is justified...because we know all English teachers are very wealthy.

No one can really explain the existence of Guayabo National Park.  This is perhaps because, out of the 217 hectares that constitute the park, just 20 hectares are designated as an archaeological site, and only a small portion of that has been excavated.  Delayed development of the park has also contributed to a lack of information.

The archaeological site was first discovered by accident in the mid-1800s by rich coffee barons looking for plots of land to grow their cash crop for export, and to continue feeding their caffeine addiction.  At this time, the coffee industry was the popular kid in Costa Rica and ran around poking all the other little industries with sticks until they cried.  When news of the archaeological site discovery broke, a few nerdy archaeologists got really excited and asked to excavate it.  The coffee barons poked them with sticks until they shut up: "Who cares about this land?  How the hell can you grow profitable coffee beans with all these stones in the ground?"

Remember, this was before the ecotourism industry existed.

Guayabo was pretty much ignored for the next 100 years.  Finally in 1968 one of the less nerdy archaeologists, Carlos Aguilar AKA "Carlos The Eagle," convinced the Costa Rican government to set up a permanent excavation program on the site:

"Trust me, please.  Archaeology is really cool.  Also the gringos will pay us big money to look at these old rocks.  Seriously."

In 1973, the government designated Guayabo as a national monument.  "The Eagle" and his fellow archaeologists finally got to play in the dirt without worrying about rich, over-caffeinated coffee barons poking them with sticks.  Here's what they discovered.  (Or rather what I translated from Spanish Wikipedia.)

Guayabo was a pre-Columbian society that was occupied from sometime between 1000 B.C. to 1400 A.D.  Much like today, it was governed by a quasi political-religious head known as a cacique, which is also the name for Costa Rica's national firewater.  There are many theories on why the society was abandoned including: disease, war and internal conflict.  Surprisingly enough, European Spain's religious, ass-kicking, kill-all-the-brown-people campaign had nothing to do with it, since the site was abandoned at least 100 years before invasion.  The site mainly consists of a series of connected aqueducts, aqueduct locks, large basins where the water was collected and several large streets which aided with water drainage.  In other words, you are paying 6 dollars to look at an ancient sewer system; septic tanks included.

A Cute Crocodile Petroglyph

 Guayabo has much more besides extensive historical plumbing.  There are several monoliths, tombs and stone petroglyphs carved with jaguars, birds and two-tailed crocodiles.  The Costa Rica Board of Tourism wanted to install additional petroglyphs in the park carved with cute, wide-eyed green tree frogs and smiling tree sloths, but the Archaeological Society told them, no, there's already enough fucking cute tree frogs and tree sloths in your current tourism campaign, carapiche mae.

All of these structures are centered around a group of large stone mounds.  They have weathered the years quite well.  I had hoped there was a more dramatic English translation of monticulo, such as "Fucking Stunning Pyramid" or "Giant Damn Epic Mausoleum," but no, they are just mounds.  The other translations (hump and hummock) are even worse.

Guayabo National Monument is certainly not the largest, most breathtaking ancient ruin in Latin America.  Not even in Central America.  It doesn't matter.  After seeing all of the mounds, aqueducts and stones, Barbara, Tete, I and the rest of our friends climbed to the top of the park's scenic overlook.  When we looked down at the site and realized we could see clear to Columbia, we knew we were viewing the most impressive sewer system ever.  Wow.

Costa Rica Before Ecotourism: Why Is Everyone So White Here?

This was supposed to be about Guayabo National Monument, but it turned into a highly subjective, poorly researched lesson on Costa Rican history.

A Primitive Diquis Lawn Ornament

Where are all the Mayan and Aztec ruins in Costa Rica?  Other than the occasional giant, stone Diquis sphere being used as an oversized lawn ornament, the indigenous presence is decidedly absent here.  Somewhere beyond all the zip-lining, scuba-diving, turtle-watching and other hyphenated, modern ecotourism (hyphenated?) activities, there has to be some ancient history in this gringo-manufactured paradise.

Modern Costa Rica has everything today because of what it didn't have before.  Tropical rainforests, pristine beaches, smoldering volcanoes, untouched wildlife: these exist in every Latin American country.  What set Costa Rica apart from the beginning was a lack of gold, silver and other precious minerals.  These formed the economic foundation of the giant Aztec, Maya and Olmec indigenous civilizations that developed elsewhere in the region.  Those guys stayed away from the poor, gold-deprived lands of present-day Costa Rica.

How did this affect modern Costa Rica?  As rapper Notorious B.I.G. once famously stated: "More money, More problems."  These precious minerals also attracted Spanish European colonists, AKA conquistadors.  They weren't very happy to see "uncivilized" heathen, brown people possessing precious gold and silver which should -according to their Catholic God- rightfully be theirs.

The Spaniards went on a divine campaign to kick some serious indigenous ass in order to get their hands on the Bling-Bling.  Hundreds of years of Spanish ass-kicking (along with the help of imported diseases) eventually resulted in a very hierarchical, military colonial system throughout most of Latin America.  Spanish Europeans were on top, mixed mestizos were in the middle and (as always) the brown people stayed on the bottom.  Not surprisingly, there was some resentment.

Costa Rica came out pretty lucky...historically speaking.

Costa Rica Had No Bling-Bling

Of course, pre-Costa Rica had some brown people, but what few remained were almost completely destroyed by Spanish military and diseases.  There weren't indigenous people left to form hierarchies.  Perhaps you've noticed Costa Ricans are pretty "white?"  This lack of gold, plus the challenging geography of the Central and Talamanca Mountain ranges, resulted in Spain giving the area low-priority status on its Bling-Bling treasure hunt.

A few of the more laidback, peaceful Spaniards found they enjoyed Costa Rica's fertile Central Valley and its quiet beaches.  They decided to take a little siesta while their gold-hungry, bloodthirsty kin continued indigenous ass-kicking annihilation throughout Latin America.  Fighting?  Military Campaigns?  Mae, that's so much work... These relaxed dudes set up small, family farms and pretty much stayed out of each others' business for the next couple hundred years.

Pura Vida.  This laidback, friendly farmer's attitude persists to this day in Costa Rica.  It explains why the country was quite happy to abolish its military in 1948 and continue chilling out on the beach.  Meanwhile other Latin American countries' histories of hierarchical, military colonial rule resulted in long festering resentment and a general, small child's "It's-Not-Fair-Wah-Wah" crybaby attitude.

Ironically, people attempted to solve this problem by continuing their Spanish oppressor's tradition of colonial-style, ass-kicking by means of a series of military juntas and coup d'etats that changed with the frequency of a woman's mood in the worst stages of PMS.  Costa Rica became attractive to American and European tourists since they didn't have to worry about their tranquil, all-inclusive beach resort being suddenly turned into a military base for another egotistical, black sunglasses-wearing dictator waving around a copy of "The Communist Manifesto."

I am simplifying this a little.  Research names like Braulio Carrillo and Jose Figueres Ferrer for more thorough information.

Anyway, Costa Rica's peaceful history has made it today's standard for ecotourism.  Ziplines, trekking, turtle-watching and other environmental-friendly, artificially created activities form the backbone of the tourist industry.  But its lack of minerals and the indigenous people that originally depended on it means it is one of the few Latin American countries that lack spectacular ancient ruins such as Teotihuacan, Copan and Macchu Picchu.

There is one ancient ruin in Costa Rica: Guayabo National Monument.  I was going to write about it here, but I have already gotten way too far off track.  In true Costa Rica "Pura Vida," fashion: it can wait until tomorrow.

Guayabo National Monument

          

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.