Stars Swimming Among Us

Just as the whale sharks had predicted in their feeding habits, a tropical storm hit Utila that left us stranded for a couple of days – well, stranded isn't really the right word, for although no one was diving, and the ferries weren't running due to the sea being so rough, rainy and windy - that didn't stop the party in paradise. The grills of Utila's finest restaurants were still pumping out addictive plates, and “the bar was open.” After our dash through the convenient store, the island was short a couple of bottles of rum and the hot chocolate was completely out. Along with Tommy Gunn and the Virginia Tech girls, I had met Sammy and Amy, a New Zealand – Aussie couple that fit right in with the “good times, good people” theme that our eclectic crew had going at Alton's. If we weren't bracing ourselves in rain jackets and ponchos at the snack shack bar, we were hovered around the dining table, holed up in the kitchen of the dive shop, getting our Texas Hold'em on, poker faces full on. And I must admit, I came away as the reigning champ with enough money left over to buy some rounds at the Tree House bar when it finally did clear up. Owned by a bunch of artists, the bar sits literally in the trees, a way's up Pumpkin Hill, the highest point of the island you – which if you keep walking, leads to an airstrip, not not known to be used by drug traffickers on their way up to the promise land and some epic views of the island.The owners of the bar are always expanding, adding creative features to whatever doesn't have it yet, using whatever recyclable materials and paint they can get their hands on. The place is truly beautiful, a work of art that you can drink on and walk through on the way to the head – passing patio mosaics and stumbling across swinging bridges. And it was then that I spotted them, about the same time they spotted me – my old roomies from Parrots, in classic form – sketchy and eyeing the crowd from the corners. Leaving them that first morning, I had assured the two that I would see them out later that week – but I was also sure that they wouldn't be sticking around that long. I sputtered a “what's up fellas,” reluctantly, and felt like a dweeb who just got his lunch money stolen on the playground when the convict asked for a sip of my beer, taking it from my hand before I could answer and downing the majority of it. Punk'd, but saved because now I had to head back to the bar to get myself another. I saw it as a gift for not stealing all my lunch money the first night.

On the walk back from the bar, I, with out a doubt had to make a stop at the late night road-side baliada stand, where I ordered 2 more before I could even finish my first one they were so good. I got the low down on the Mel Zelaya and political view of the island from a British dive masters at Alton's who had been living on the island for just over a year. The island, home to some of the wealthier Hondurans and 2nd homes of foreigners alike opposed Zelaya as she tried to explain. He had tried to change the constitution, couldn't follow a budget and was bad for business – which was true to a degree, and obviously shades him as a poor president if you you just leave it at that with those broad and general statements, but when I dug further into the reasons behind some of her statements based on what I had read – her one rebuttle was “well, the guy is a wacko too, he has blocked all the windows of the Brazilian Embassy (where he was bunkered in at the time) with tin-foil. Supposedly he believed this would shield himself and staff from the ultra-violet radiation (or some kind of brain washing waves – I can't remember her exact words) the U.S. and Honduran Governments were attempting to send into the building? When she didn't get my joke about if she read that on Fox News, I decided to end the conversation. I guess we'll see what happens...

But before I reluctantly headed out of paradise for good, I completed my advanced open water license with a night dive on my final evening. It was a tear-drop sunset, that didn't even make a ripple in the glassy water as we watched from the bow of the boat. And as the stars came out, we jumped in, diving into galaxies of photo-plankton that highlighted and outlining your every movement with their countless, fluorescent titanium white lights. A perfect reflection of what we had just seen above – now swimming among us. But yeah, that was about it – maybe a lobster and some small fish sleeping vertically in some seaweed – with our flashlights spotlighting this way and that to no avail, we felt about as successful as the Watergate burglars.

Swimming With Whalesharks

I was the first to arrive in the bus station terminal at 5:30 AM for my 6 AM bus to La Ceiba. Which makes sense, I was probably the only one in the entire country who wasn't out celebrating Honduras making it into the World Cup in South Africa 2010. I caught the game at the same Wendy's I had mentioned previously as I was soaking up some Wifi. The restaurant was at full capacity, every booth jammed and everyone's eyes glued to the T.V., “oooooooshing” at every half-chance Honduras had on goal against El Salvador, echoing the roar in the stadium, you could hear on T.V., not to mention the rumble throughout the entire country. Occasionally, someone would jump up and change it back and forth to U.S. vs. Costa Rica qualifier going on at the same time back in the States. Honduras needed a win, and at least a tie from the U.S., in order to qualify, and for the majority of the game, I could feel eyes glaring and head shaking behind my back, as everyone was full aware of the one, long-haired, hippie-American-gringo, tapping away on his computer, as his country was down 2-0. Honduras finally scored, and the place went wild. The U.S. scored and the place erupted, now inches away from pulling it off. And then, in the final minutes of the U.S. vs. Costa Rica game, we put a second goal away, ending in the game in a tie, and qualifying Honduras for the World Cup. You couldn't even hear yourself think, just feel the vibration of an entire country, jumping, screaming, and going nuts – their country now on the world map for 2010. I didn't know if people or pushing me, punching me, or patting me on the back, but after taking in what had just happened, I felt like I needed to be carried out of the fast food joint, Rudy style, as people were now looking to me like a savior. When I finally did reach the streets (unfortunately by my own two feet) the atmosphere was just as electric. You could hear the whole country roaring from where you stood. Cars had horns blaring and lights flashing, driving through the streets with people packed in. Their heads hanging out the windows or punched up through the sunroof, screaming and waving Honduran flags and colors. There wasn't a single person I passed that didn't have a Honduras jersey on and a smile on their face, in between cheers – most stopping to high five, cheer and thank me for the U.S.'s comeback, and some even crying, overwhelmed about the history in the making. I had never felt such a sense of united national pride electrifying a country – ever. The only thing that comes close to it for me personally, was listening to Obama's acceptance speech, when the U.S. wrote the name of it's first black president in the history books – but although, it was an overwhelming sense of national pride, unfortunately it wasn't united. But for Honduras, and all of its people, it was a great day to be alive, apart of history. When I finally made it back to the place I was staying, Hotel Iberia, I ended up chatting with the owner for a while about the game. He said that the night was going to be a wild one, tilting back his hang-ten, thumb and pinky up, in the motion of an endless beer being drunk. And if that didn't do it for me, the car horns blaring, firecrackers popping, and wheels screeching that sounded more like a drive-by than a celebration going on outside confirmed and foreshadowed the night ahead. Although tempting, considering I would have probably gotten the red carpet treatment because of my country's contribution, I opted not to go out with the rest of the country. I was by myself, long cab rides away from the hoppin' bars and when the hotel owner told me it was going to be crazy night, he had implied more than just fun, and happy celebrations – we were in Honduras here – it was going to be a crazy night – plus I had a 6 AM bus to catch.

After grabbing my ticket from the counter, I sat down with my banana to and watch the highlights from the game, which seemed to be on repeat. Every other passenger that came in the door had a paper in hand with Honduras' victory plastered all over the front, and sunglasses on trying to hide the fun they had had the night before. And last but not least, the bus driver showed up, almost in same stature as everyone else. You could almost see it in his face – he had been hoping the “national holiday” was an extended one. Nevertheless, we loaded the bus – it was going to be a long 8 hour ride, and for some, it was going to feel even longer.

But even after the 8 hours, I still had an hour and half ferry ride to get to the Bay Islands. This is where I was thankful I wasn't hung over like the rest of the bus, as the ferry, although fast, didn't yield to any of the waves, but more or less attempted to get air of each one. Thank God no one from my bus was on the ferry ride with me – there were no windows or ways around getting sea sick right in the middle of the rest of the passengers.

Getting off the ferry in Utila, I, and the rest of the passengers were more or less attacked by the token pledge, dive masters from every single dive shop on the island. Passing out fliers, rattling off their perks, and even cutting in or jumping over other dive shop representatives claiming they had the best and cheapest diving and had just spotted whale sharks earlier that day – so come dive with us! It was overwhelming to say the least - I had flashbacks to Monteverde instantly. I guess the economic situation abroad and the politically situation in house had taken quite a toll on the business around the Bay Islands the past few months. And with business low, that means people get desperate. But with the 2 other Yankees I had met on the ferry ride over, together we decided on Parrot's Dive Shop for no apparent reason over any other shop. It had been a long day, and I was just looking for a place to get settled for the night before I could even think about diving. But that didn't stop the dive masters from going ahead and giving me the run down on the PADI Advanced Open Water course before I could even set my bag down – with a discount and a free place to stay – it almost seemed too good to be true. Although, in hindsight I see why. It was a better selling point than actually showing us the room we would be staying in for free. Although right on the water with an epic view of the sun settling behind an array of fishing and sailboats lining the island's royal blue water, the room was miserable; cramped, broken screens in the windows that only seem to encourage the mosquitoes and a ceiling fan that I had to duck under to even reach my top bunk. I was skeptical from the start, but later found out that the room was only the least of my worries. My roommates were the one I had to watch out for. The 3 of us, after getting “settled,” decided to grab some food, and found Evelyn's BBQ. An awesome, rasta-vibed restaurant with more Bob Marley tapestry than a college dorm hall, and a special of fresh mahi-mahi and fixings that was out of this world and under 5 dollars – 100 lempira. It was only the beginning of my eating like a king on the island. The food at dinner - incredible, but the company was...interesting, to say they least. What I had come to learn about my fellow roomies, was that they were best friends, and on a vacation to celebrate the bigger and scarier one ending his 4 years prison sentence at the state penitentiary. What was it for – oh, only assault battery and attempted murder of a minor, but hey, it was in Virginia, so we at least made that connection! It wasn't hist first time in prison, and after hearing the two of them “catch up,” telling stories about the good 'ol days, before prison, it probably wasn't going to be his last. And they way they told these absurd, delusional and explicit stories, you didn't know if they were that crude or just fucking with you. But don't even think about getting skeptical as their crazy eyes, overemphasized laugh, and on-edge demeanor almost begged for you to question their sanity. Although I have to say I was a little intrigued to learn about what goes on inside the pen, and he didn't hold anything back on telling me or showing me with his collection of scars on arms, ribs and back. That is another world, and one you never want to be a part of – the second hand accounts I heard were almost too much. I don't even want to imagine experiencing it first hand. But out of all the stories I heard and things I learned at dinner, the most pertinent information I learned was my game plan - brave one night at Parrot's, so “not to offend anyone,” find another dive shop in the morning, and get the hell out of there.

And I executed the game plan beautifully. I was exhausted and sure as hell wasn't going out to “celebrate,” with them that night. So I strapped up my mosquito net, and bunkered down in the top bunk for the night, trying not to pay attention to the 3 bottles of Flor De Cana rum they downed in about an hour and half. And after one rude awakening at 3:30 in the morning, one wrestling match, and one broken door later, they finally passed out, the prisoner, with his CD player with anti-shock and Otto the Bus Driver headphones in blasting 50 Cent. Yeah, I guess he hadn't known about MP3 players and Ipods in the State Penn for 5 years. Not even having to worry about opening the door the next morning, I grabbed my bag and headed down the street to find another place. It wasn't going to be difficult. The main drive of Utila consists of one large sidewalk that splits two rows of buildings and goes for not more than a couple miles. And the I say sidewalk and not road because it's made of cement, not asphalt, there's no line markers on it, and most people using it are walking or riding bikes. You will get mopeds and tuktuks cruising through, and maybe an occasional truck, which is the only one you have to move out of the way for, as everyone else will just weave around you.

After stopping from some delicious baliadas for brunch at the Seven Seas, I found I Alton's Dive Shop about two more doors down. It's a British run place, right on the water, which isn't saying much, a. because it's British, and b. because half of the other building on the island are right on the water. But! The place was sweet; really just one big dock, fully equipped with dorms rooms to the right, a snack shack and bar to the left, and 2 massive diving boats docked beside a hammock-filled, 2 story, cabana at the end, jetting into the water. You literally did not have to leave the place. Roll out of bed, over to boats for a couple of morning dives, lunch at the snack shack, back to the boat for some afternoon dives, then to the bar at night, and crawl back to your bed – life is good. I felt like the only thing missing was Jimmy Buffett – so it threw me when I heard CCR blasting all the time – but now I know why – it made me forget how much I liked some CCR, and listening to it in a tropical paradise? Even better. But besides the Utopian set up, what made the place was the people there. While traveling, you never really know what kind of crowd you are going to get at the place you stay, obviously! It doesn't happen very often when you come upon a place and the entire crowd staying there is a solid crew and good people, but when it does, it makes for an epic time. I don't know, maybe it was the fact that we were in paradise, that is the Bay Islands of Honduras, scuba diving every day at the 2nd largest reef in the world, and that finishing each day with a sunset beer before going and stuffing our face with the most incredible seafood I have had since Charleston, South Carolina (but for a fifth of the price :), but everyone just seemed to have a good vibe there that radiated to everyone that came. Who knows, maybe paradise attracts good people or just turns everyone into good people, but when you have good people and good vibes, good things happen.It was my third day there. I had obviously signed up for the PADI Advanced Open Water certificate and and was scheduled for the afternoon dive along with my classmates from Virginia Tech. We were meeting with Phil, our instructor, over brunch, who was briefing us on our dives that afternoon. And you could hear them before they even pulled up to the dock – the morning divers were coming back, and it was almost obvious what had gone down. It was almost like getting off the ferry all over again, bombarded by people, each grabbing for your attention, but this time we were the ones on the dock. Every diver climbing off, talking in tandem to whoever would listen, was ecstatic, not about the morning's dives, but about what took place between the dives; whale sharks. Tommy Gunn, my boy from Arkansas, and dive mate in room 8, couldn't barely explain it to me, he was so stoked. A pod of them, all feeding off the schools of fish boiling off the northern side of the island, and they got to swim with all of them. It was the season for them, and considering there was a storm on the way, the pods of whale sharks were surfacing to get their grub on before it hit. Divers from all over the world come to the Bay Islands, especially Utila, during October and November for a chance to see and swim with the whale sharks that make their way down the coast, headed for warmer waters during the winter months. Some had been living on the island for the past 6 months for their chance, and some were unfortunately on the dock with us, scheduled for the afternoon dive when the morning crew struck gold. But, that means they were out there, and I had a feeling, with the way things had been going on week that we weren't down for the count quite yet. We were headed to the North side that afternoon, and everyone on the boat, although stoked about their experience, had their fingers crossed for us – wanting to share the love. And with such a positive vibe, I was almost positive we would see some as well.

That afternoon there was only one thing on everyone's mind. Gearing up for our first dive, everyone was quiet, pre-occupied, knowing that if we were going to see whale sharks, it wasn't going during a dive with a tank on, but in between dives, on the way to the next dive site. It was as if we just wanted to go ahead and get our first dive over with – even seeing a 4 meter nurse shark lounging under a ledge of a boulder didn't phase anyone as the biggest fish anyone had ever seen – it still wasn't THE biggest fish in the world. And then it was time. Time to head to the north side of the island for our second dive, but more importantly, it was time to start praying for whale sharks on the way. Everyone got into position – sitting in two rows of 6 aimed at the stern of the boat, with fins and masks on. Everyone, almost straddling the person in front to get as close to the water as possible. You could feel the anticipation in the air. The captain spotted the fish “boiling,” in the distance, announcing it to everyone. Heads would pop up sporadically to see what was going on like the arcade game, waiting to be hit back down with the padded bopper. The engines cut off, and the captain hopped up to the roof of the boat, peering out into the water – everyone waiting for the signal. After a long silence, the signal sounds - “Whehlshahk! Goh Goh!Goh!” And then it was like some sort of combat mission, everyone filing out of the back into the water in tandem like some sort of Green Beret Special Forces group dropping out of the plane with a parachute strapped to their back. Of course you didn't even heed to the “try to get into the water with as little splash as possible,” directions, you were pretty much pushed in from the person behind and you and then splash! - there it was. Right under you as if you were saddling up to ride it - a school bus of a fish, gorgeous blue with white speckles, swaying graciously through the water. You catch a glimpse of its undersized mouth full of 3000 non-functioning teeth and its bow-legged eye as it turns and heads away from the boat, obviously scared by the amount of splashing. After getting over the initial shock of the size of the animal, you're reaction is just to follow it. Fins motoring, the only thing pumping faster than your legs might be the adrenaline going through your body, as you chase after. The only thing in your sights is this beautiful animal, gliding effortlessly through the deep blue, all you can hear is the sound of your snorkel gasping for air as you try and keep up.It slowly starts to pull away to pull away, until you can only see the outline of the tail, side to siding. And then it disappears, fading into the blue nothing, as if somehow over the millenniums of evolution, the sparkles and patterns on its back know exactly how to blend into the color royal dark blue. You squint and strain to see it with out any luck. And after you are certain its gone, that's when you pop your head above the surface and come to the realization that you have just been swimming in the middle of the ocean for the last 10 minutes with only a mask a fins – a sobering thought. But everyone else is right there, blinded from you mask the whole time until that moment, and ecstatic, smiling and amazed. But only for a split second – the captain is screaming at you to get back on the boat, he has spotted a the pod again - “Herry up, we gahtagit goan!” We ended up swimming with 3 different whale sharks that day, including a pup (baby) about 20 feet in length. Each one just as thrilling and adrenaline pumping as the others. To be honest, I don't even remember the 2nd dive that day, but I do remember, coming back to Alton's at sunset, elated that I had just swam with the biggest fish in the world, something only few people get to do, and something that had never even had crossed my mind when I decided I wanted to travel through Central America.Pulling up to the dock, the crew that swam with them that morning, and stayed behind with their fingers crossed, were just as stoked as we were. We now all had a reason to celebrate that night – starting off with the typical “Alton's Sunset Booze Cruise,” around the harbor with dancing, drinks in hand, and the typical yet redundant reggaeton blasting; this was followed by an incredible meal – barracuda steak and pork chops at RJ's – right across the street from Alton's; then a round of “slap the bag” - rum and pineapple – throw in a few games of “hook the ring” at the bar and fall asleep in one on of the hammocks at the end of the dock, with just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes away – perfect end to a perfect day. Life is good, but when you get a once in a life time chance to swim with whale sharks – life is real good.

The Rant: Part Deux

It's funny – I remember when I learned the word Ironic. It was '97 or so and Alanis Morrisette's song entitled “Ironic,” just hit the radio waves across the nation. I was in the car with my mom and the song was on when I asked her and was enlightened with its meaning. And for the next couple of weeks following that I heard the word everywhere. I heard the song at least once a day - in the things I read, what I saw on TV, people using it when speaking etc., but this obviously comes with an expanded consciousness. The saying goes, if you have a golf ball size consciousness, when you read a book you will have a golf ball size understanding of that book; but if you have a basketball size consciousness, than you will have a basketball size understanding of the book. Because my consciousness expanded to encompass the word ironic, I thus, became more aware of it in my surroundings. Or as the Bible says: “You find what ye seek.” Well it's happening again, but this time with Chomsky's whole idea of “manufacturing consent,” - the medias roll in how it shapes public opinion, defines history, and in turn, points us towards our national and global future. I heard about the Noam Chomky's Z communications, and it wasn't but a few days later that I, synchronistically, had his documentary, “Manufacturing Consent,” put onto my computer by a fellow traveler. I ran across a Jim Morrison quote by 'chance,' “Whoever controls the media, controls the mind,” and I randomly heard the Rage Against Machines song “Testify,” which points to the same idea with the lyrics “Who controls the present now, controls the past, who controls the past now controls the future.” All the same idea – and all now I have become keenly aware of. But shockingly, it has even popped up in one of my favorite movies of all time, Good Will Hunting, which I have seen over a dozen times, and never aware of its relevance until now. In the movie, Will Hunting (Matt Damon) meets with Shawn Mcquire (Robbin Williams) for the first time, and they begin discussing the books Shawn has in his office, the first book, being The United States of America: Complete History Volume I, I think is no coincidence. Pay attention to 1:48 into it video.


And just because we are on the topic, and I love the movie so much:



The light has now been shed.

But of course I ran into Chomsky's idea again in Tegucigalpa. After I grabbed my “El Libertador,” newspaper from the stand in the Central Plaza, and I sat down to read it with my Dunkin' donut and coffee, I began reading through the most recent article on the political situation, trying to decipher through the Spanish and make out what I could. The paper explained the situation at hand between the popularly supported Mel Zelaya and some of his opposing politicians and then honed in on the importance of a peaceful negotiation and solution to the situation, especially with elections coming up in November. But, later it began talking about some of the actions the new government and president had taken since taking over office. It explained, which was conscious expanding news to me, that they immediately banned 3 very influential and liberal media sources circulating through the country! Talking about manufacturing consent! If anything, that is blatant evidence that the Honduran government is well aware of the power the media has in shaping the thoughts of public opinion. El Libertador then took it to the streets and asked “passerbyes” what the thought about the situation in general. The first quote I came to, and I quote: “Sin la presencia de la Radio Globo, la Catracha y Canal 36, la mayor parte de la poblacion se encuentra desinformada.” - [Without the presence of Global Radio, La Catracha, and Channel 36 [news] the majority of the population will be misinformed.” There it is again, without the presence of these important and “unbiased” news sources, the public would be misinformed by the biased media looking to manufacture and sway the public opinion in favor of the president replacing Mel Zelaya. Now, coincidentally, or should I say ironically, I am now extremely aware of who these "passerbyes" are – they are no more random than the United States effort to push for “peace,” in the Middle East of all places. These individuals have obviously been selected for print based on their response to the question posed; to portray and “manufacture,” the biased opinion behind “El Libertador,” much like CNN's left bias and Fox New's right bias. And frustratingly, I can even say that my blog, as a source of “news,” is very biased. My translation of the facts I write about, based on what I am aware of or what I believe is important enough to put into my blog is biased and quasi-looking to manufacture your opinion on the situation as well. I know I have mentioned this in a previous blog as well. So here I am discrediting the biased opinion of the national, mass media, where the argument can be made that I, too, am looking to portray and sway opinions to what I believe is truth. So what is the truth? Who is right? What conclusion I have come to based on all of this is that there is no truth. Hold on – it might sound depressing but its not. The only truth is personal truth – what you believe is right.

With the birth of the internet (and this is where Manufacturing Consent becomes a little outdated for us here in the United States, but still holds true in Honduras and a lot of 3rd world countries), we now have the opportunity, option, and responsibility, to seek alternative news sources, contrasting opinions and a variety of sources, to compare, contrast and define our own truths about the current events in the World. Because in doing so, we are defining our own history. How many hits a website gets, how many people view an article, how many times that article is emailed, or how many people “like this,” is a reflection of truth within that article. The more hits, the more credibility. The more people that check a website as a source of news gives that website more credibility as a news source. If, like I did, you check through your RSS feeds and find a lot of your previous sources of news outdated, you drop those and find new ones, you are changing the course that defines your and our story of daily events. Maybe only subtly, but nevertheless, you are re-shaping what you seek as news, which ultimately, is truth, and in hindsight, history.

But what if you don't have access to the internet? In Honduras, I can't find WiFi to save my life, but there is the occasional internet shop full of old school PC's jammed in tiny little cubbies. See Picture of the “new” computers being unloaded for a start-up internet shop in Tegucigalpa. That means the majority of news that Hondurans get is what is on the news stand at the time and what evening news is reporting on, not to mention the excessive messages about “Viva La Revalucion, and Mel graffitied everywhere. That is why it is such a big deal that these 3 news sources got banned throughout the country. In the United States, you wouldn't be banned, you would just take it to the net. But what about the poverty stricken people in 3rd world countries that don't have access to the internet, or even worse can't read or write. Thus they are not informed. How informed is Africa right now about current events – there are parts of the continent, whose only idea of the United States is Michael Jordan, Nike, McDonald's and the occasional white person that inters their village. And what does that mean for the falling literacy rates in the United States? It is our responsibility to be informed. And now with the internet, social networking and blogging we can not only become more informed, but create our own news. We can define our own history, rather than read about it in a book. With the birth of the internet, we are creating our own story.

Isn't it Ironic, Don't ya think?

The Rant

The border crossing was really non-existent. There is an agreement between Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala that allows people traveling access to all 4 countries for 4 months with one passport stamp at whichever one you visit first. It's an awesome idea and makes for much easier mobility, but of course that means I didn't get the stamp at the Honduras border because I already had the Nicaragua stamp – bummer. Tegucigalpa is almost like a stadium, nestled in a valley with most of its residents living in the hills overlooking the vast metropolis. Unfortunately, most people in the nosebleed section are the city's and country's poorest, living in shacks literally stacked on top of one another. This is the first thing you see coming over the hills before rolling down into the valley - all with flags and signs supporting Mel Zelaya, the ousted, ex-president of Honduras – adding fuel to fire and tension to the military coup that had just taken place. And this only added to my excitement to get to Tegucigalpa and get a first hand experience of the aftermath of these questionable political events, taking place only a few months earlier.

My interest in the political situation had been building for a while. It all started when I left Punta Mona. Internet deprived I was ready to dive back into what was going on in the world. After checking my Google Reader, it seemed that all of my RSS feeds were a little out of date or out of style. They didn't seem as relevant to where I was, after being on the road for 5 months. Sources like CNN and MSNBC just seemed redundant, only lightly touching on the events and issues that I felt were important for an unemployed backpacker traveling in Central America. No source was casting much light on the current events of Latin America that could potentially affect my travels; only briefly mentioning the political mess that was going on in Honduras at the time. I had heard from fellow travelers a little bit about the coup, mostly advising to steer clear of country, as it was “dangerous.” Some were even denied entry when attempting to cross the Honduran border. But, with a little help from some fellow travelers, I came across Zcommunications – a website dedicated to, like all media, informing the public of what they need to know. But it was a little unique in the sense that, instead of periodicals and articles lightly touching on the current events, it was more geared towards essays and columns of opinions/debates from a broad range of intellectuals – Phds and professionals – not professional journalists – and across the global spectrum. You wanted to learn about events going on in the Middle East – you could find a series essays written by professionals from that area, closer to the issues, and thus having a better grasp on what that issue was, how it is affecting the country and how it was being reflected throughout the World. This is where I began to really be informed about the political coup and revolution that is taking place in Honduras. After honing in on Latin America, I read read some great informative essays by people studying specifically in that area with a background in Political Science and Latin American Studies. There were also some Youtube videos showing what exactly was happening in the capital, Tegucigalpa during the protests. I was beginning to have a general idea of the importance of the issue, obviously more so to Honduras and Latin America, than to other parts of the world. Mind you, the only things that had been reported on in the States were the events taking place – the military coup that ousted democratically elected President Mel Zelaya and blockaded his return, and the most recently, his sneaking back into the country, now bunkered in the Brazilian Embassy where he waits to negotiate and retake the thrown. That was about it. I couldn't really find the detailed facts about why exactly Zelaya was being ousted. Those were glazed over at best.

But what details the U.S. Media left out, I gathered mostly through the essays at Zcomm. From what I read Mel Zelaya was the son of a wealthy lumber company owner in Honduras and became politically active starting with a right-center party. However, after being elected as the President of Honduras, he began to lean the other way, representing the poor and thus majority of Honduras. He instated a minimum wage increase that the national budget could not afford, but he didn't seem to mind (or pay for). Of course, he got a lot of heat for this from the right, casting him as wreckless, and thus a bad president. (Had he never heard of debt, what the U.S. Government does when its not within budget?) With these bold and decisive measures to support the majority of the people in Honduras, he obviously gained in popularity even more so, (Obama, have you ever heard of Pres. Zelaya in Honduras?). He then made another decision; to put on the November ballot, which also ended his term as President, a national vote to change the part of the constitution stating no president could serve more than one term. From some of the sources I read, he wanted to change the constitution, not so he could run consecutively, but in hopes that the poll would sway the next president to change the constitution, and thus, possibly he could run again in the future. But this attempt of a national poll was “unconstitutional,” as it is written in the constitution that no president could run for a second term? Sounds like a circular argument – and should I mention that Costa Rica's President Daniel Ortega has even stated publicly that Honduras' consitution is the worst in the region and “begs for a military overthrow.” When Zelaya attempted this national poll, he was ousted by military coup, and replaced by a token, military backed government for the remainder of his term. And where it stands now, he has snuck back in the country in the trunk of a car, bunkered in the Brazilian Embassy and still supported by the people. So needless to say I was excited to get to Tegucigalpa, and get a first hand experience of the aftermath of the whole political ordeal.

The brain and symbolism behind Z communications is Noam Chomsky – the linguist, professor at MIT and the controversial intellectual due to his political views; yet as some say, he is the most important intellectual of our time. I didn't even make the connection until I came across one of the movies I had swiped from a fellow Punta Monian – the documentary on Noam Chomsky and his political views – Manufacturing Consent. Made in the late 80's and early 90's, I assume, based on quality of the video editing and tacky hairstyles, the documentary and Chomsky's conclusion is that the consent of the larger portion of the American public is manufactured based what an elite group of individuals – ie. “the corportocracy” want to portray. They do this by 'manipulating and slighting' the information that passes through the U.S. Media, which consists largely of, conglomerates and monoplies that are owned by the same individuals. Now it sounds conspiracy theory, which its not, as its based on the evidence and examples put forth. And it sounds anarchists (which it is, and why Chomsky's views have become so controversial) but I think there is some truth to it.

Everyone knows that death tolls and “progress,” of the Vietnam War were manufactured by the military and media for the continued “support,” of the American public. And we are now becoming aware that there was definitely some hidden petroleum agendas to why Bush wanted to, but never did, find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq – and chasing the infamous and mysterious Osama Bin Laden into Afghanistan, where we are now – and where is Osama Bin Laden? Hasn't stuck his head out in our “media” for some time now.

Another point that reinforces the national's media attempt to manufacture consent, that has hit close to home to me here, traveling through Central America, is the United State's antagonizing stance towards Hugo Chavez in Venezuela. The story in Latin America is totally different – he is seen as a revolutionary, much like Che Guevera who's face is everywhere down here. Fighting for the Venezuelan people – he like Che and Castro in Cuba, formed a military coup to take the presidency and was arrested. When given the chance to speak publically on why he was doing it – he expressed and believed that the stream of money coming in from Venezuela's exportation of its largest natural resource, oil, should benefit the people of Venezuela and not the elite few “owners,” of the resource. He felt the job the government of Venezuela was doing managing the exportation of oil was horrendous and criminal towards the people of his country. Winning over the people of Venezuela, he soon became president. Of course, there was a retaliation military coup, backed by the United States to dethrone him (I wonder why?) The CIA was actually involved in staging riots against Chavez,” in the capital city, slighting camera angles with reporters intensely ducking for cover to portray the “danger with Chavez as president,” and implying this was happening throughout the country. With success, Chavez was ousted and a puppet, U.S. Backed president was put into place that had the support and same agenda as a lot of global corporations and governments. No less than a week later, Chavez was back at the podium with Venezuela behind him. But because Chavez is not interested in giving oil to the United States at U.S. Favored prices, he is consistently portrayed as a threat in the U.S. Media.

And this isn't the only “coup,” the CIA has been involved with in Latin America. Panama's President Omar Torrijos, who was largely in favor of utlizing the Panama Canal for the benefit of the Panamanian people, mysteriously died in a plane crash that questionably was sponsored by CIA jackals. In fact, the “brief history” of every country in the Lonely Planet Guide of Central America mentions U.S. Involvement its political agendas in the last century, and not talking about “spreading democracy.” But you wouldn't hear about it in the U.S.'s manufactured media. And obviously, the most pertinent example of the U.S. Media's “manufacturing consent,” is the details left out of the Zelaya situation. Now, obviously, Honduras' troubles are not as relevant to Americans as other issues – but nevertheless, it sill paints a polarized picture of the situation, keeping the American population in the dark about the deliberate trampling of democracy – as it has for most of Central America's history – and isn't the survival of and “spread,” of democracy worth our attention?

I got the lowdown of a local's perspective from the cab driver that took me from the bus station to Hotel Iberia in the center of town. He explained and confirmed some of what I had been reading. Most of the people in Tegucigalpa were upset with the situation, staging protests and support around the Brazilian Embassy, but as of now, there was not much they could do - pretty much a stalemate. The cabby then asked me where I stood on the issue, and where I stood politically – which, as I fumbled through my Spanish with words I don't know or usually use, I said I wanted to learn more about it, but I was a supporter of Obama. As we pulled up to the Hotel, he explained that he liked Obama too, but still hoping for this Change he is supposed to bring.

The next morning, first thing I headed to the Central Plaza to see what I could find. I had to walk through a pedestrian shopping street to get there. Among the clothing stores and internet cafes I passed a Wendy's, McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Popeye's Chicken, Pizza Hut, Dunkin' Donuts – ha welcome to HondurUSA. I should also mention I saw “the original DK'Ds” donuts and coffee shop with pink and orange branding – I guess the copyright laws here are just as strong as their constitution. But what caught my eye even more, was the amount of graffiti tagged on every building, wall, and even the cathedral in the Central Plaza. All supporting Zelaya, with sayings such as “Viva MEL,” (Long Live Mel [Zelaya]), “Insurreccion o Muerte,” (Revolution or Die) and “Chavez, Honduras Te Necesita” (Chavez, Honduras needs you), to name only a few. At the Central Plaza, I grabbed a newspaper and headed straight back to the Dunkin' Donuts to read up on what was going on now. Considering I hadn't had any Americanized food in a good while, I had to – and I was definitely hitting up a #2 at Wendy's for dinner that night!

On the Right Path

The next morning I was no quicker getting on the minibus at 6 AM, than I was getting off at a “bus station,” on the side of the road in the outskirts of Managua about 45 minutes later. I figured the earlier I got there the better – get in and get out and be done with it. And with this mentality, I settled for the first cab driver to approach me, suggesting correctly that I was headed to Ocotal, a border town to Honduras. Almost too easy, I threw my gear in the back and sat shotgun as we were headed across town to the next bus station. That's when I realized that due to my urgency, I totally forgot to confirm the price of the cab headed to my stop. Turning down the Daddy Yankee blasting on his suped-up supra stationwagon, I gestured how much it would cost to get there – with a response: “Doscientos.” 200 Cordobas?! I mean I knew I was a gringo, but that was absurd, almost 10 bucks – I was thinking more like $2. I began to barter with the guy, asking how long it would take, and throwing out even a high counter offer of 100 Cordobas. The guy wasn't budging, arguing that the bus station was on the other side of town. My next move was to start asking the other cabs that were scattered throughout the traffic-jammed lanes and intersections that we were weaving through. I poked my head out of the window trying to get their attention, but as we would pull up to a stop light, the chique bastard would stop a good 5 meters short of the car in front, as so we wouldn't not alongside other cabs – as the light turned green, he then would gun it passed, squashing any chance I had to get a second offer. That was it. At the next light, I jumped out, grabbing my bag and headed to the side of the road. He got out as well, cursing about gringos, and snatching the 20 Cordobas I threw at him for the 10 minute ride to the side of the highway. I didn't know where I was, but I was glad to be out of that cab. As I stood there, trying to figure out what my next move would be, I thought about it. When he initially offered me the ride as I stepped out of the mini bus, my gut reaction told me it was a little easy, which made it sketcy. And I shouldn't have been so eager to jump on the first offer presented. Another cab sidled up beside me. The driver was an older guy with a Rosario hanging around his rear-view. “Cuanto cuesta por la estacion de autobus a Ocotal?” 50 cordobas! That was more like it. I hopped in, and immediately we U-turned, heading the complete opposite direction from where I was headed in the first cab – which confirmed it – my gut reaction was correct, and my first choice was the short straw.

20 minutes later, we arrived at the bus station. After paying and graciously thanking the cab driver for the ride and not robbing me, I headed to find my bus. The first word(s) I heard, was “OcotalOcotalOcotal!” being shouted by the token auctioneer at the bus station – which meant that bus was leaving, now. It's funny, each bus station has one – dressed in street clothes, and ranging from 10 years to 50 years of age, there is always a guy who will bellow out the names and places of the buses that are leaving soon, like he's leading an auction – loud, repetitive, and in rhythm. They always keep you guessing on who it will be too, as it will change every so often. But I have to say, I enjoy a little more than the computerized, “These doors are closing, and WILL NOT re-open. Please wait for the next train.” Throwing my bag underneath, I hopped on and was off to the border with out even having to wait – the kind of smooth transition in Managua I was talking about! On the bus, safe, and cruising through the dry and rugged terrain of Nicaragua, I tried to put the events of the crazy morning in order, aware of how lucky I was. What a strange coincidence of perfect timing that ended up being. Deciding to change cabs, and literally, directions, put me exactly where I needed to be, time and place, to catch my bus. You know, the shamans of Central and South America have an anecdote that explains: when you are on the right path, synchronicities or coincidental signs will confirm it to you. And that auctioneer at the bus station confirmed it to me – I was headed North, to Ocotal, bound for Tegucigalpa, and on the right path.

Sacred for a While

Our final day in Ometepe was spent scaling Volcan Maderas. At the crack of dawn, Carly, Kat and I took just about as much energy rolling out of bed, through the noseeums, and up to the trailhead above Finca Magdalena, as it did to hike the entire volcano. The previous night we had joined a group of Peace Corps trainees (of course, small world, one had attended the College of Charleston) at El Zopilote – an ecological farm and brick fire pizzeria owned by a family of Italians that have been living on the island for the past 8 years. Bringing their specialty craft right over from the Boot, they can make a mean pizza, not to mention moonshine liqeur fermented with any kind of tropical fruit you can think of. But I have to say, you get a little buzzed after sampling only 3 of the 30 kinds they had on the shelf. So, though it was slowing us down in the morning, it was also giving us something to look forward to as we had the left over slices and a loaf of bread from the place packed for a nice afternoon snack at the top. It was a tough climb, and not much to it, especially in the morning with the cloud cover – just keep following the rocky path past the cacao farm, and on up through the coffee farm, until you reach the 6 km of dense and rainy cloud forest. Dugo, a street dog that Finca Bonafide now claims as its own, also accompanied us on the hike. He had decided to follow us that morning not realizing it was to the top of a volcano – but that didn't matter – he was happy as a dog should be the whole way up. It amazed me he could do it with such ease. He would sprint ahead, agile on every rock, as he bounded up. And if he and I got to far ahead of Carly and Kat, he would turn and bound down to find them, playing pickle between us. Like I said, he didn't care where we were headed, he was just along for the ride - chasing his tail.

As strenuous as it was, we did feel a little ripped off when we reached the top. When you reach, what you think would be the top, the trail begins to head down, into the crater of the volcano for another good 20 minutes or so. Inside is a small lake made from the rain water from the constant cloud cover over head. Only seldom would the eerie mist clear out so you could see the other side, exposing the exaggerated lake for what it really was – more like a small pond, the birds could bath in. And don't try swimming in it, because what lies underneath is what you might find in a bird bath, mud, and before you know it your up to your thighs in it. But Dugo, of course, loved the lake, bounding around in it, like this was why he was here in the first place. After throwing him his share of the loaf of bread we had, we scaled back down stopping at a look out that had been covered by cloud on the way up. But the vista gave us more than we bargained for. Although beautiful, you could not enjoy it without the deep throating howler monkey groaling in the background. And then you would turn around only to see his silver package swinging back and forth as he shook the tree. Dugo didn't help either, as he barked and growled back, egging him on. After taking as many pictures of him as I did of the vista, we kept moving. I have to say, my favorite part of the hike was the petroglyphs that dotted the trail and surrounding area around Finca Magdelana. Nothing as detailed as the Mayan Ruins I would be seeing later in the trip, but still, tracing the spirals and hieroglyphic shapes gave me the same eerie chills as the cloud forest mist surrounding the crater – like this place has been sacred for a lot longer than you can imagine.

Binge Breathing and Ninja Noseeums

The next day we had to catch the mini bus that would take us basically from one side of the island, Moyogalpa, all the way to the other side of the other volcano in a figure 8 fashion. We were headed to Balgue, the closest town to Finca BonaFide. The pick up was in the center of town, right beside the Atlantic City Casino, that, though only had slot machines, still had some patrons at 9 AM in the morning – their bikes were valeted right outside, lying on the ground. Around the island, bikes are actually the main form of transportation if you're not walking. It's not uncommon to see 2, 3 or even 4 people on bike catching a ride from a buddy, or kids hanging off the back and sticking out the side as the family cruises through town. Motorcycles and mopeds are next, and then horses – and no age restriction either – I saw some kids riding riding horses that barely had their legs passed the saddle/blanket, let alone dangling off the sides. I still don't know how they managed to get up there. As we traveled around the figure 8 of the island, we passed several people on horse, and about half of those were herding cattle down the middle of the road (kids included). We could only slide passed when the Caballero was good and ready to crack the whip and herd them over to the side – but no one minded, just a quick honk and a wave in reply and we cruised on by. Ahh the island life – it doesn't matter if your surrounded by the blue ocean or in the middle of a volcano created lake, it still evolves into a slow pace and relaxed vibe. Everybody else we saw were in crowds, surrounding the Sunday afternoon baseball games that were going on sporadically throughout the island. The players were all decked out in some professional uniforms, and you could tell there was as much money riding on the game as there were guys riding the first baseline, kicking dirt and throwing down hats after the ump ruled it a ground rule double when the center fielder couldn't find the ball. He had chased it back beyond the field and into the weeds. It's interesting – like Panama, the preferred sport in Nicaragua is el Beisbol, not soccer. But, nevertheless, soccer fields are still everywhere – so they might prefer beisbol, but soccer as in every Latin American country, is a given!

We arrived at Balgue in the early afternoon – a dirt, rocky road with not much more than a couple of pulperias and houses along the stretch, surrounded by farm land – pretty much consistent with the whole island. We took the only right there was, and headed up a steep hill towards Finca Magdalena – a gorgeous coffee and cacao farm sitting at the base of Volcan Maderas, the smaller of the two volcanoes. With views of Volcan Concepcion in the distance and what looked like an ocean spread across the horizon, you can easily find yourself still on the porch of the old farm house and restaurant, 4 hours and 6 Tonas later. We arrived about lunch time but my lungs caught up with us about an hour after that. Soaked in sweat, I sat there binge breathing trying to recover from the nice 30 minute stroll up the hill with my huge backpack strapped to my back – I felt like a donkey carrying cargo, and like a moron for ever thinking it was possible to day hike with that thing, let alone the short trip up the hill. Kat was actually out hiking that day as well, (I'm sure nowhere near as strenuous as my short little work out for the day) and considering we didn't know where the farm was, we found ourselves on that porch, 4 hours and 6 Tonas later, soaking in the views and eating the Nicaraguan version of patacones – fried plantains and fried cheese with a tooth pick stuck down the middle. Add squirt of hot sauce and ketchup and you are golden. Oh, and don't be surprised that every plate varies in size, whether you order the grande or the pequeno - just be aware that prices of everything you order there will also vary, but more towards the "pricier," side than the cheap.

Kat finally found us after her hike. And after catching up, learning the ends and outs of the Peace Corps and where to go to in West Africa, she took us down to the farm and showed us around. It was a Deja-Vu experience reflecting and comparing Punta Mona to Finca Bonafide. There was no surprise that there would be similarities, with each based off the same philosophies and methods of Permaculture, its inevitable. But each farm, and every farm, is unique with its own personality, and different ways of doing things – it kind of reminds me of religion. Obviously the climate, the lay out of the farm, and the people running it all of an influence on how the environment of the place manifests. There were little casitas dotted all over the farm for farm, with tarp roofs and raised wooden huts that mimicked the Claremont Dojo I had back at Punta Mona; same saw-dust composted style toilets and same overall vibe in the garden, focusing on chili peppers, tomatoes, squash, and the same legumes that we had in Costa Rica. But where we had muddy chinampas, they had silos, conserving the rain that was a much scarcer resource here than in a rain forest. You also constantly heard the whirring of the small remote control helicopter size wind turbine they had as an additional and very cool source of energy that we lacked at Punta Mona. You could definitely tell this was young farm by the juvenile fruit trees freshly planted and the less worn trails throughout the farm. Of course, their view was a little bit different – high on a volcano, with views of a lake and volcano in the distance, and given their climate, they had a large portion of their farm geared towards coffee plants, which grow well in the higher regions that tend to get more shade than the coastal lowlands. As she showed us around, it was very cool, not only to reflect on my previous experiences, but also to cross pollinate those experiences and other ideas with Kat and the volunteers at Finca Bonafide to improve our collective understanding – what a community – yet another principle of Permaculture. And speaking of which, the very next day Carly and I helped crew at Finca Bonafide design and build a DIG project at the community center located on the same hill I had to scale huffing and puffing on the way up to Finca Magdalena. But I thought our farming at Punta Mona was tough. What was supposed to be a half-day project extended far beyond that. Due to the volcano, the soil throughout Ometepe is more rock than dirt. So trying to dig a whole is about as successful as a fly redundantly banging against a window trying to find an exit – he finally does after a while, but not without a mean head ache.

At least we had paradise to go back to. Kat was getting to stay at the owner of Finca Bonafide's brand new, one room, dome shaped crib while he was back in the States – and we were lucky enough to get to crash to tag along. It had a porch that jetted out over the hill side with the same views of Volcan Concepcion and Lago de Nicaragua, the only difference was, I got to wake up to that view every morning I was there. The first night was a full moon, and I just felt so inclined to sleep out there under the moon, watching the clouds glow golden red as they passed underneath. I drifted right on to sleep with them. Unfortunately, what was such a peaceful way to fall asleep was negated at day break to the sand flea noseeums gnawing on me like dog with a bone. The most frustrating part was, like no other noseeum I have ever seen, you literally could not see 'um. I would study my arm for a good 30 seconds, without blinking! and still was left only to feel the annoying little bite, give a scratch and then a itchy welt would rise for about 10 minutes. I counted over 50 bites – I'm talking stealth, NINJA noseeums. But they didn't kick me off the porch – just popped my tent right underneath the stars in the same spot – problem solved.

And We're Off - Again

Leaving Punta Mona was hard, but somebody had to do it. Russell got an offer he couldn't resist - the on-site manager for the farm, and considering his ambitions to get involved with sustainable development I don't think you can blame him for jumping on it. What an awesome opportunity to learn about and pursuit something you had always envisioned. So with Russell staying, this left me and Sadler to a very early and hung over, morning hike after a night's festivities in celebration of our last night and the end to an epic two months at Punta Mona! Russell – nothing but love brotha – keep that place running smooth. Although hungover, the last hike out was probably our fastest – one, because we overslept a little bit and had hurry to catch a 7AM bus to San Jose from Manzanillo, but also because we now knew the trail, the tricks, and how to avoid the muddy traps like the back of our hand. But as we scurried off, quietly avoiding to make a big deal out of it, “Guhd-bai my frenz!” rang out from Miguel's casita and struck a chord with each of us that still resonates – a friendship I will cherish for the rest of my days. We came to that place clean, pampered, and baby - faced rookies and now look at us. As we hopped on the bus bound for San Jose, with shoulder length hair, beards, and mud still clinging on for dear life from the hike in, people looked at us a little different. We would like to think it was “Damn, look at those bad asses, I bet they have been traveling for years,” but I think most looks were more along the lines of, “I hope he's not sitting beside me, and what is that awful smell” as they reached to open a window. But it wasn't long until our veteran traveler appearance was confirmed. As soon as we got off the bus in San Jose, a group of Germans came up to us asking for directions, advice, and words of wisdom as if the length of our beards and hair was a sign of our Enlightened Traveler Knowledge. “Yeah man, Monteverde is cool you should definitely check it out. Now go forth young grasshoppah!” But our arrival in San Jose meant the end of the road for Sadler. He was headed back to the States the following day, out of money and time. But where he lacked on those, he made up for with priceless and unforgettable memories - not to mention a “new look” for his first trip to the Grove this season. Sadler, all the best on the job hunt – I'll see you on the next journey my friend! I, on the other hand, would be traveling on, North, to hopefully add to what has already been an epic journey. I think the saying goes something like:

“This has all been wonderful, but now I'm on my way.”
-Phish

After saying our goodbyes, I had a day of relaxing in San Jose as I waited to catch up with Carly (the previous manager of Punta Mona) who was arriving the next day and heading to Nicaragua with me for a week before she too had to head back Stateside. I spent my time at the Central Plaza in San Jose about 4 blocks from Hostel Pangea. I have to say that it is by far my favorite spot in San Jose. A great place to relax and people watch as street performers, musicians, and everything in between grab your attention, not to mention a few colones. And speaking of which, I did have to do some shopping. I had to grab some new kicks as my first pair were long gone to the vast unknown and buy a new watch. The $250 watch that I got on One Deal at a Time.com for $25 was not very water resistant like it claimed, and obviously a little too good to be true – thanks, but no thanks ODAT, your watch has nothing on my new, old school, calculator watch. You can't beat it, and neither can the conversion rates any more!

Once Carly came, we were up, at 'em and out early the next morning. We had to make it all the way to La Isla de Ometepe, Nicaragua, which entailed not only a 7 hour bus ride, but also an hour ferry ride across the Lago de Nicaragua to the twin-volcano constructed island. We were planning on meeting up with a Kat, a good Peace Corps friend of Carly's that she had met in West Africa. She was offering us a free place to stay on the farm she was running, Finca Bonafide – another sustainable and organic farm. Sleeping most of the way, I woke up just in time to cross the boarder into Nicaragua. And once I stepped across the line, I could immediately tell I was in another, foreign country – completely different than Costa Rica. Bombarded with street hustlers working the exchange rates, and flapping brick sized stacks of bills that looked like bribe money. Each had their own style of flipping through, counting and distributing the cambio that made bank tellers look like rookies. After these guys came the beggars. And it's sad to say, but each had their story written in their appearance of why they were begging for money. Missing limbs, physical disabilities and mental disabilities were the most common and hardest to say no to. Then it was the venders, selling, literally, a bag of fried chicken, cabbage salad, platanitos and drink for 20 Cordobas – about a dollar. It was beginning to settle in that we were in the poorest country in Central America. After grabbing the bag'o'grub and finally giving in to some of the beggars, we were on the bus again, now fully aware of what to expect. Or did we? Out of nowhere, and caught completely off guard, there was a field full of gigantic white wind turbines, each spinning at different speed as if to imply their individuality. Before we could even ask, a voice from the row behind us interjected, “I did the the engineering for that whole field your lookin' at,” with an accent that was dead give away he was from Texas. Remaining nameless for a reason I'll get to in a minute, he had explained that, he and an outfit out of Houston did the entire engineering and construction as a joint venture with the Nicaraguan Government to develop that area. Each cost a cool $1.5 million but there was enough wind gusting through the gap of the twin volcanoes on Isla Ometepe - Volcan Concepcion and Volcan Maderas – that the field could easily make their money back in 10 years, and if utilized to its full potential, could generate enough power to supply Nicaragua's entire electrical grid – liberating them from any foreign suppliers. That was his idea and goal anyways, now acting as an independent contractor. Supposedly the outfit in Houston he was working with consisted of some Enron big wigs that slid off the radar before the scandal was exposed and just in time, as they should be in jail as well. “And now their ripping off the Nicaraguan government big time. That's why I'm an independent contractor now – I want to help these people.” He plans on writing a book about it in a couple of years – more power to him.

We arrived at Rivas, a town boarding Lago de Nicaragua, just in time to catch the Che Guevera Ferry bound for Moyagalpa, the port town on Isla Ometepe. By the time we made it, it was too late to head any further, and we had to find a place to stay for the night. We checked the prices at a couple of different hostels, and settled with the one run by a cool family from Canada. However, what sealed the deal was the pet deer they had in the back yard by the banana trees. It was grey, came up to about your waist, and if you stood still long enough, you could pet him while his tongue wrapped around your leg, or hand, or arm, sandpapering the salty sweat out of your skin. After a good licking, we threw our bags down and hurried back to the dock to watch the sun sink over the hill side, illuminating the tranquilo town and casting silhouettes of young kids jumping off the dock into the lake. I breathed in deep, and let out sigh sipping on my Tona – the cerveza of Nicaragua. The scene of the town was such a lazy and relaxed vibe – I wanted to conclude with “Pura Vida,” - but they don't say that around here.

Pay It Forward

Our return to Punta Mona, was a sigh of relief – not only because we all but got lost detouring through the jungle the night we got back, but also because it was the closest thing to “returning home” that we had known in past 3+ months. The ocean waves crashing in the back ground and the crickets chirping in waves of decibels was a peaceful and soothing silence compared to busy, chaotic, horns blaring, and people buzzing San Jose. Obviously it showed we had gotten used to living on the fringe – the edge of society. Which, if Permaculture has anything to say about, isn't a bad thing. Nature shows that the fringe is the place most abundant with life and the pioneer of evolution and change – not a bad place to be. The best example of this is top soil (the first 12 inches of soil – literally where the edge of the Earth meets the edge of the atmosphere. You get some 100,000 organisms in a square inch of top soil – and no other place on Earth comes close to that. The same goes for the micro-climates throughout the farm. There are 4 or 5 micro-climates on Punta Mona which are pretty obvious to distinguish by the ambiance, gradually shifting as you walk through the trails - and probably a lot more depending on definition and how aware you are of the environment. But Padi's bush medicine methodology and Permaculture's philosophy, both of which are reinforced by observation of nature – portray that the healthiest and most fruitful crops, whether they be the vegetables and legumes growing in the garden or the fruit trees throughout the rest of the farm, are the ones that are growing close to the edges of a micro-climate. This is due to the diversity of the area. Each micro-climate brings with it an abundance of life which thrives in each. And where the edges meet, the life of both co-exist simultaneously and evolution inevitably heeds to the most adaptable and healthiest species. The more “wild” an area is, the more niche micro-climates are formed which means the health of all plants increases. This is one reason why the majority of Punta Mona remains a food forest - literally a wild forest geared towards producing edible plants – and organic edible plants at that. It's been in practice across Asia for thousands of years, but never given credit by any Western anthropologist until recently. With such a narrow definition of farming and crops in the Western hemisphere, no scientist could fathom that these people were “growing a forest,” intentionally building and using micro climates to their advantage by keeping these forests untamed. The small twist is that a guiding hand pushes Mother Nature towards producing plants the people can benefit from. In turn, this keeps top soil extremely fertile and the diversity of species high and thus more resilient to infection and disease. This is a drastic difference to the cash crops we are used to seeing in our farms which are usually from the same variety and thus very vulnerable to disease, that if spread could wipe out an entire farm(s). This has actually happened on more than one occasion on some of United Fruit Company's banana plantations throughout Central America – karma's a bitch right? Disease might spread to a couple of our banana trees at Punta Mona, but its a slim chance it would wipe out all 200 species we have growing here. Furthermore, crop rotation is the only attempt to hinder soil depletion which is weak at best, and thus over the years the nutritional value of all of the United States cash crops has decreased as a consequence – our corn's nutritional value is almost zero these days. Oh and do you want to compare labor to produce ratios? Don't even bother. Really the only labor that a food forest entails is walking through the jungle and harvesting whatever you spy. Spread some Johnny Apple seeds on the way back as you snack on whatever you carry in your satchel and call it a day. That's one reason why the majority of my working portion of September was spent in the forest or should I say jungle. Sadler, Rich and I would set out, bags slung on our backs and fruit picker balanced on a shoulder like a pole vault. Whatever you can't reach with that, you simply climb the tree and try again. Of course the down side is on some of the precious fruit trees you are left only with what the howler monkeys picked over. And you also might come away with more than you bargained for because ants love climbing on fruit trees as well. A couple of times Sadler came down from the bediba tree looking like he got caught in the middle of fire ant drive-by. But its all worth it when you tear open the spikey yellow soft-ball and slurp down the gooey, heavenly, pie-filling. Just another day in the jungle. But food foresting is also about investing – long term – and I'm not talking about only for your kids' future or grand kids' future, but great grand kids' future. Or really, whoever is living on that area of land 50 to a 100 years down the road. For to create and sustain these micro-climates, you have to have staple, keystone trees that will be there for generations to come. These trees are the catalyst for creating a climate, that once constructed, could potentially be there for generations to come. Talking about a whole new concept of “investing in the future.” And as food security becomes more of an issue in our generation and the next, we might find ourselves investing our time and energy more into producing food forests rather than throwing money at this menopausal stock market of ours. I mean, I'm just saying - there's something to be said about the importance of food security when the first buildings the United States military destroyed when it invaded Iraq were their seed banks – how can a people and an economy survive if they can't grow anything to eat? Who knows what the future will bring? And of course, after that sank in to our thoughts we also wanted to pay it forward to the future generations that come through Punta Mona – leaving our mark in two of the front garden beds; A DIG (Development In Gardening) Project in one led by Carly, with a number of chayote (squash) and pepino (cucumber) as well as some basil – we were plugging the seeds in deep, aware of how precious they are. Carly had just spent the last year in the Dominican Republic teaching the locals the importance of urban gardening and creating a number of these, and we were lucky to have her teach us as well. In the other we planted a pile of chile and tomato plants that had sprouted in the green house and shaded them with huge palm leaves so they could get their feet under them and out of the piercing sun. Standing there, content with our days work, I thought about it. Just like our parents, our grandparents, and every generation that came before us, we each have to do what we think is best so that our future generations can have life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness – you know, pay it forward.

Saprissa Stadium - Round 2

But aside from the serpents in the Garden, September was eventful – and the first major event wasn't even on the farm, but at Saprissa Stadium in San Jose - the Costa Rica vs. Mexico World Cup Qualifier – ding, round 2. It started out as an idea to hike into Manzanillo on the Saturday the game was played watch it at Maxis, the local bar, with the rest of the town; maybe camp on the beach, and grab a pick up game with some of the locals. With the addition of some new interns - Josh, a Wolverine from Ann Arbor who played growing up, and and a Tico from San Jose, Jose, who joined Punta Mona as the Spanish teacher, we now had a crew of 5 guys that could put up a fight against any of the locals. Although it sounded like a great weekend away from the farm for a change, after the question was posed, “Why don't we just go to the game in San Jose,” the only response that could be mustered by anyone was the usual response to any proposal or idea thrown at Punta Mona - “Porque No?” - Why Not? Let's do it. It trumped the original idea with no contest, and plus, San Jose was only a half day's travel away. We shook our heads that we hadn't considered that as the first option after thinking about it – but when you are living in the middle of the jungle and completely off the grid you assume that an epic event like a World Cup Qualifier is happening in a major city (which it was) but no where close to where you live. It evolved into an epic weekend. We stayed with Jose's family in San Jose, who showed us hospitality that can only be compared to staying in our own homes. Jose's dad, Walter, knowing the business himself as a lottery ticket seller in San Jose, even hustled our tickets for us from the scalpers so we didn't have to eat the Gringo Price that was bulls-eyed on our foreheads. And I think the gringo price comes with a radius – kind of like the hotter/colder game, as Walter went as far away from us as possible to look for tickets – I could just hear it as he walked, cheaper – cheaper, cheaaapperrr. In the mean time, we were getting prepared for the game. Some six pack tall-boys of Pilsens, first and most importantly, and then all the Tico Memorabilia we could find - jerseys and t-shirts, head bands, flags worn as capes, and even masks that looked like something worn in a 1980's WWF match – and that was all we needed – where there once was gringos, now only stood some raging Tico fans. The atmosphere of the game was electric, especially experiencing it first hand, and first row among the drunken sea of red and blue that we camouflaged into right behind the goal. Any Mexican fan that passed by was accompanied by security guards wearing bright yellow and billy clubs. Cheers, rants, hisses, papas fritas and cups showered from above as the groups would run for cover to the other side of the stadium. But of course this was all justified – given the bitter rivalry between the two sides and even more bitter PK shoot-out loss Costa Rica endured in the Gold Cup against the Mexicans a month or so earlier - they were out for revenge. But revenge to no avail. We didn't even get to see the whole game – after Mexico scored the 3rd, nail in the coffin shut out goal in the 2nd half, no respectable Tico fan was seen staying around to finish the game out. The 2nd time in 2 months my team had gotten embarrassed in Saprissa Stadium! Fortunately, we had an after party to go to– some buddies of Jose's had rented out a resort (for lack of a better word) nested in the hills outside of San Jose. From the balcony of the dance floor you stood overlooking the pool and courtyard with jaw-dropping vistas of the city – a glitter of pulsing lights - in the distance. The game was all but forgotten by the time the sun rise peaked through illuminating the pulsing lights into a city defined of buildings and color. But the night? Ha, well that's another, epic and unforgettable, story!

El Mez de Los Serpientes

Ahh, the month of September - El Mez de Los Serpientes (the month of the snakes) as it is known throughout the Caribbean of Costa Rica. It was an eventful month on the finca to say the least – and as you might of guessed a lot of interactions with snakes – some by choice and others by chance – some unlucky to get involved with, but lucky to escape alive. I would say all and all we came across 10 snakes – of all shapes, sizes, colors and across the entire poisonous spectrum; from harmless, let's get Steve Irwin style with him to don't even get near the severed head, for one prick from a fang and you probably won't make it out of the jungle alive – start eating dirt! The most eventful snake we came across was the infamous Tercio Pelo, one of the deadliest snakes of Costa Rica. The name actually means “Third Hair” and it gets it from the faint line that weaves down the the middle of the diamond shaped pattern on its back – think rattlesnake. Ironically, we found it in the chicken coupe, which was surprising considering the bitter rivalry between venomous snakes and chickens. Supposedly chickens can get pretty vicious if provoked by any serpent coming after their eggs or baby chicks – and we all know how strong some motherly love is. It was hiding under neath the water trough, and spotted by Emma, one of the new interns for the month of September, as she reached down to re-fill it with fresh water - a pretty sobering thought for any of us that looked after the old ladies – and I think Emma was counting more blessings than eggs that day. Rich applied the same bush medicine antics to this guy as he did the other two striped, arrow-headed serpents we found sliding through the garden earlier – a machete. I had never considered severing the head of a venomous snake to be “bush medicine.” In my mind, bush medicine referred to the use of medicinal plants and herbs to heal sickness and infection, but according to Padi, the God Father of the farm – that's exactly what it is. After making sure we buried the head and body of the snake together in a deep whole underneath a palm tree, he gave us his anecdote of bush medicine. He explained, that if you want to live by the bush, and not have to depend on Babylon (Western Medicine) than you don't let a serpent go or “relocate it in the jungle away from the farm” as some people had mentioned as an alternative to killing the animal. Any snake you find and chase back into the jungle, will now know that you are weak and he will let his “bruddhas” know. And they will come back “feryoo.” The bush medicine says, if you find a (venomous) serpent in your garden than you chop off his head and bury the body and head in a deep hole. That way his “bruddhas” will know to stay away, and you won't have to depend on “de anivenum,” to live, because you won't ever be bitten. Bush medicine is more than the knowledge of medicinal herbs and how to use them, its a way to live, aware of the dangers around you and how to deal with them. But it makes sense – preventative medicine is just as important as medicine used to heal you after the fact – maybe health insurance wouldn't be costing so much money these days if we focused a little bit more on the preventative, well-being, leading a healthy active life, and not relying so much on quadruple bi-passes surgery and liposuction as medicine “after the fact.” Then we wouldn't have to be depending so much on our own “Babylon.” Then Padi went on into a tangential rant about the Bible saying that Eve was actually the Serpent in the Garden of Eden, and that all women are actually serpents – evil and luring men into the Garden to the Tree of Knowledge before striking them dead! “You 'gat to be veeeery keeerful a'dem women bruddha!” I couldn't understand some of it due to his dialect, but I think the whole lesson was a little lost in translation – but then again, I could relate just the same.

Top 50 Reasons to Stay at Punta Mona (a 2nd Month)

1. A late night ride home from the bar consists of a hour minute walk back to Punta Mona from Gandoka on the beach, and under the stars that are the only lights for miles in all directions.
2. Curing Black Pepper Kernals to be used in our home-made hot sauces and spicing up our grub
3. Working in the Chinampas – an intricate water system that not only feeds the fruit orchid and any other plants that grow back there like steroids, but will potentially be a breeding and feeding ground for tilapia or any other fish you want to grow there.
4. Planting Pineapple
5. The Ayahuasca Vine
6. Making Bread
7. My original star fruit, ginger vinaigrette
8. Star fruit, Mango and Hot Pepper Chutney
9. Building Lobster Traps
10. Hearing the ocean louder than the rain falling asleep in hammock
11. Our weekly homemade hot sauce – usually with all ingredients picked within 30 minutes and 30 meters away from the kitchen.
12. Breadfruit – why don't we have this in the States?
13. Waiting for the Dr. Seuss-esque koosh ball Momochinos to turn from green to yellow to red so you can twist one open and enjoy – one of my top 3 favorite fruits of all time.
14. Pichouli leaves – It's a cleansing microbial with the stereotypical incense flavor – hippies have bathing with it fore years.
15. Our ride into the big city of Puerto Viejo consists of a hike beginning at 5 AM and ending at 12 noon.
16. Daily beach soccer with coconut goals and no boundaries.
17. Spanish Lessons, especially for the Mexico vs. Costa Rica World Cup Qualifier in San Jose
18. The street cred we picked up wearing our knee high rubber farm boots into Puerto Viejo
19. Hitchhiking back to Mazanillo on the back of a Trits Ice Cream Truck.
20. Trits Ice Cream Sandwiches and Chikis
    
21. Fresh Beets and Carrots
22. Upgrading to the Claremont Suite on the Third Floor above the Kitchen (cheers Russell)
23. Watching the geckos steal the dead bugs from the ants as they attempt to carry them from my corridors to theirs.
24. Making Granola
25. Making candles with fresh citronella scored from the garden.
26. Learning how to give and get hot stone massages.
27. Finding chicken eggs on the paths throughout the farm to be used for breakfast.
28. The snakes that live here
    
29. My rat roommate that lives inside my mattress and wakes me up before the rooster crows when he gets home from a late night.
30. Getting woken up at 6 AM and thinking I over slept.
31. Catching a canopy breeze reading in a hammock in the Claremont Suite
32. Making Dirt
33. Super Mario Cart Size Bananas
34. Que Lavara?
35. Catching Escaped Chickens
36. Beach Soccer Tennis
37. Running Barefoot to Gandoka
38. Turning the Bar Sign from Cerrado to Abierto and jamming the only disc in the cd player – Michael Jackson
39. Forrest Farming
40. Cooking over a Wood Fire
41. Watching Marcel Fire Dance to a drum beat and guitar riff
42. Seeing the Ocean Glow Blue on a Sunny Day
43. Fresh Coconuts
44. Bon fires at the newly Bon Fire Pit we created
45. Swimming free with phosphorescence gleaming in the water on a full moon.
46. Yogi Breathing
47. Not needing to wear contacts for another month
48. Blue Morpho Butterflies
49. "If you can spend a perfectly useless afternoon in a perfectly useless manner, you have learned how to live."
    
50. And saving the best for last – like Dave says – “It's not where you are but who you're with that matters” – the crew at Punta Mona – everyone here makes this experience what it is!

The Proudest Monkey

First off, I want to say thanks for all the comments and messages I have received about the blog and through Facebook – I hope I have inspired you as you have inspired me. Let me try and catch you up on what all has been going on. It's been a little difficult to upload photos and blog posts when the closest working internet is a 3 hour hike into Puerto Viejo. But I'll tell you it's been even more difficult trying to wrap my brain around all the information and knowledge that has been passed onto me in this incredible internship experience, and then attempting to process, translate and regurgitate that with keyboard on word document. When the farm is your playground and the World is your Oyster to be used for your own learning and enjoyment, you never really know where to begin, where to end, and when to stop – so....we have decided to stick around for another month to see if we can dig deeper, absorb more, and continue to evolve and adapt to the organic and sustainable habitat we have grown to call our home for the last month. And that is exactly what we have done – adapt. Going against the grain of what we are used to. Our bodies and minds have adapted. They have been organically purified – cut off from the wires and wireless of consumerism and materialism. And they have most humbly welcomed the challenge of a sustainable lifestyle – responding with rigor, energy, tranquilo and Pura Vida.

It makes me think of Darwin's On the Origin of Species, for our experience is a perfect reflection of this. In order for us, our body and our minds, to survive here in the jungle, we have had to learn and adapt – learn how to “fit” in. However, contrary to what you might assume, it has involved no competition whatsoever. When most of us think of Darwin's theory of evolution and the concept of “survival of the fittest”, we are immediately drawn to our socially ingrained concept of competition. Scientifically speaking, the sole purpose of our genes is to survive, and thus we, our bodies, are solely a means to an end; the vehicles used to carry DNA and genes to beat on in future generations. Our “natural instinct” is the conscious and subconscious actions of our minds and bodies to make sure this genetic process unfolds – continually striving to survive, individually. But is it individually? Does survival imply competition? You ask most people and they will sum it up with “yes, survival of the fittest.” But this is where our social programming leads us astray – because we all assume “fittest,” pointing to “strongest”, the most game-fit, “ready for battle” fit. And though Darwin points to competition within Nature, it is we assume it to encompasses all of our natural instinct and survival. His process of natural selection explains that yes, the most 'fit' species will survive, but this does not mean last man standing in a dog eat dog world; it means 'fittest' in terms of adaptability – the species that are most able to adapt and puzzle-piece themselves within a community of an ecosystem will survive the longest.

This obviously includes lucky genetic mutations and being in the right place at the right time. For example, a genetic mutation in the immune system of one species that resists disease and illness is a good mutation, where the giraffe with the mutated, stunted neck is not so fortunate – both are examples of how these species fit, or do not fit within the ecosystem in which they call their habitat. Of course, there is also Lamarckism, which is getting re-visited and more credible today, as we culturally evolve. He explains that rather than genetic mutations, intention leads to evolving traits, – where giraffes have long necks, not because the shorter necked giraffes couldn't reach the leaves in the tall trees, but because giraffes as a species intentionally and consistently reached for the taller branches. Given the environmental conditions, their genes responded, producing longer necks – but that is a whole nother can of worms. And that's all beside the point. The point is, is that “fit” within an ecosystem is more sustainable through cooperation than through competition. Contrary to what we have been taught, or what we are aware of, there are actually many more examples of plants, animals and ecosystems cooperating, living communally in order to survive. Each adapting, taking only what the need yet providing to the delicate cycle of life. In fact, 80% of plant species could not survive without a fungal counterpart which have a “I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine” kind of relationship. I have to paraphrase a great example of Nature's cooperation provided by Stephen Buhner in his book The Lost Language of Plants, describing the ironwood tree of the Sonoran Desert:

Smaller plants begin to appear. Continually shaded from the desert sun, cooled by transpired water, and watered daily by hydraulic lift, some 65 species of plants will come to grow under ironwood...Thirty-one of these will grow nowhere else. This emerging plant community connects to the mycelial network and plant chemistries flow throughout the network. Wherever plant roots touch, they can share their chemistries directly. All the plants exude volatile aromatics. Some aromatics call in pollinators, other fall in a continual rain over the plant community and to the Earth below. The soil takes them up; the companion plants under the ironwood breathe them in. The smaller community plants cover the ground, keeping the soil moisture high. They all release their own unique mixtures of phytochemicals that blend together with ironwood's in maintaining the microclimate and soil community under the tree.

As leaves, bark, and limbs age, they fall to the Earth, forming a layer of decaying matter. Over the centuries, the tree and its community build up a mound of detritus around its trunk and under its canopy, in effect becoming an island or archipleago of life and richness amid the desert – a facilitative nucleaus of life. Scores of insects, birds, and animals come to the archipelago. They pollinate, spread seeds, build nests from archipelago plants, dig burrows, mate, aerate the soil, use plant chemistries in their growth, as their medicine, as their food, and contribute, over the years, tons of their own “night soil.” Ironwood increases the abundance of life by 88 percent and species richness by 64 percent in any area in which it grows. Plants such as the endangered saguaro cactus can rarely germinate outside the kind of zone that trees such as ironwood create. Ironwood, and similar trees, literally create the ecosystems in which they and other beings live.

And like I said before - living here is a great reflection of evolutionary cooperation – paralleling the ironwood tree. We are not fighting for the scraps as “survival of the fittest” might imply, but working and living together – all of us species here in the jungle. But if you think about Gaia, the World as an Organism, you will see that if there is any future for our vehicles to carry our genes to future generations we need to coexist and live communally with all species, before the competition among us, and rat race GDP growth destroys the very ecosystem that we Depend on.

Our adaptations here, are most obviously recognized by our appearance. The crop failure of our beards are finally filling out, our hair is long and nappy, and the only time we are not sporting our dirt and sand stained bare feet is when we are wearing our knee high rubber farm boots – add about a thousand mosquito bites and subtract a handful of showers a week and now you're talking – jungle hippie. You wouldn't believe the amount of street cred we get when we head into Puerto Viejo. We now get local prices from the locals and travelers tend to avoid us, either because we look a little too hardcore for their taste or driven off by the body odor that we have personally become immune to. Ironically, some of the pungent, nauseating smells of deoderant and perfume of a freshly showered traveler that I can pick up from 10 feet away now push me away just the same – and makes me question why we as a culture are so obsessed with covering our natural smell up with $5 sticks of deodorant and $50 bottles of Toilette Water in the first place.
But my appearance and sense of smell are only two of the adaptations I have picked up living in the jungle. My taste buds have adapted just the same. I have noticed is how much better and wholesome these carrots, tomatoes, squash, yucca, cabbage and beets taste. I don't think it is because it is organically grown straight from the farm, but more because my diet has cut out processed foods and any potential of sensory overload by artificial flavors that my taste buds now are becoming aware of the subtle hints of sweetness that come through. Even as a kid, I questioned why none of the healthy foods tasted as good as treats. Why did ice cream, cookies, fried and greasy foods, and tons of sauce glopped on top always beat fruits and veggies hands down. And now I realize its because of ingrained sensory overload – the same way television's 10 second commercials, scene changes and camera angles have bred a generation prone to short attention spans, ADD, ritalin and adderall. When you overwhelm the taste buds with high fructose corn syrup, sugar, and artificial flavors – than the subtle and sweet simple sugars of fresh fruits and vegetables don't stand a chance. But when you change you diet, your life style, anything, you body and mind learn to adapt. In terms of the sense of feeling, barefeet has become 2nd nature to me. Now I can run on the beach and through the trails to Gandoka for a happy hour beer no problem. This has also been inspired by the book of Josh's I happened to pick up, Born to Run, by Chris McDougall – who pretty much proves that humans evolved to run – and run barefoot at that. It also points to the positive correlation between price of running shoes and number of injuries sustained. The higher end of the spectrum being runners who think that a $150 pair of running will make you run better (I'm guilty as charged). The lower end of the spectrum being the Kenyans and the Tuhamara Indians of the Sierra Madre mountains of Mexico, wearing no shoes, running 50 plus miles a day (and race is considered 3 days long – 72 hours straight) and receiving the least amount of injuries. This points to – materialism: not only unsustainable, but unnecessary. Nevertheless, it inspired me to test my own grip on the Earth, considering I had been living barefoot for the last month anyways – one with nature, not only in mind, but in body – physically. I can hike the 2 hours from Manzanillo to Punta Mona in barefeet no problem now – in fact, after the hike, I was not only physically more exhausted, sore muscles (that I didn't even know existed) in my stomach, sides, and arms from the light, balancing, surefooted steps – but also mentally exhausted from how focused and aware I had to be of every step – making sure to avoid jagged rocks, splintered logs and espinas jetting out from the ground. And, when you are more aware of your step, you become more aware of your surroundings – more aware of the scorpion scurrying by your foot and under you casita as you hop down after a restful nights sleep, or the poisonous vine snake curled and ready to strike sitting by the compost pile on the beach. You scan the trees in the foreground as you walk, checking to make sure there are no spines on the trunks or branches that could stab you when using the tree for grip or could be chilling on the ground – one wrong step or grip on the wrong tree makes you learn makes you learn pretty quick.

I have not worn my contacts for the entire month; 1. to give my eyes a break from having a piece of silicon suction cupped to them for the last 10 years, and 2. because I don't need them – if there is something 20 feet away from me that I can't read, I walk up closer to it. Furthermore, there aren't too many words that you need to be reading in the jungle other than the daily selection of Spanish lessons, Permaculture text, or the book you are currently reading while lazily swinging in a hammock. Rather than reading words, what you begin to read is the terrain. You begin to pick up on the patterns of leafs, shades of green, size and personalities, and almost auras, of these plants that now stand out to you which before, were just another green, leafy plant among a jungle of green leafy plants. And once your train of thought evolves to this – you are enlightened to a new way of seeing the jungle, and new way of explaining it. Where did you see that Coral Snake? Oh, you know the Madero Negros in the Chinampas – the ones towards the back next to the Yucca? Yeah, he was scurrying through all that peanut grass as I was chopping. It's amazing how different I see the garden, the farm, and the jungle than the first day I arrived. As I walk through garden, I can immediately point out 90% of the plants that are growing in the area – whether they be one of the varieties of ornamental and shade-giving plants that are used for ground cover or just sprouting through or the countless edible plants that you can graze off of as you walk through your own backyard. We have just found out as well that September, the beginning of the dry(er) season on the Caribbean side is prime for fruiting – now is the perfect time to monkey some bright red and yellow, Dr. Seuss koosh ball momochinos down from the tree – hands down one of my favorite fruits of all time. And when you're not grazing fruit snacks out of the trees, you're harvesting, grabbing some fresh maringa, cranberry habiscus and katook for a quick garden salad for lunch, or some fresh cilantro and some ripe red chili peppers to spice up the mango chutney you made to accompany the lobsters being brought in from the reef on the kayak –

all while some Bob Marley is jammin' in the kitchen 20 yards away. It's a good feeling when you can say your meal consisted of fruits and vegetables picked right off the vine that day right out side your door - and again, door is only used here as a figure of speech – because the only thing separating you from outside is a mosquito net when you sleep at night. Fall asleep to the crickets, waves and occasionally howler monkeys singing opera with laryngitis in the background; and then wake up to the rooster crow and do it all again. Life is Good.

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First Principle - An Enlightening Observation

The first principle of Permaculture says, “to observe and interact – by taking the time to engage with nature we can design solutions that suit our particular situation.” Thus, you must first understand the nature of a particular area, as a cycle, as a whole, in order to know how to act effectively and efficiently – harnessing the most from the area with the least manipulation. Hence, working with rather than against nature. In fact, when you buy land and are planning to start a farm, it first suggests to sit with the land for an entire year. See the land in one full revolution of the Earth and all four seasons to see the personality and behavior of the area. So much for the time is money thing. Another way of looking at this is from the evolutionary, “survival of the fittest” standpoint. As a farmer, observe where you can “fit” into the cycle, lending a guiding hand to ecosystem and sharing in the fruits of the circle of life – becoming a part of the process.

Of course some of the best examples of Permaculture's first principle around the farm are the flagrant mistakes you have to deal with. Building a compost shelter in an area that floods is probably not the best idea, and this is where the protracted and thoughtless labor comes in – you have to work against the flow of nature, pointlessly, to sustain the compost pile, which ultimately leads to building a new compost pile on higher ground. Our chicken coupe also needs some work – it looks like a rookie mistake compared to Padi's chicken coupe right next door. He has integrated his chicken coupe to cover his entire fruit orchid, in a very intelligent and symbiotic fashion. The chickens use the fruit trees as their nesting areas, and spend their days eating the seedy shrubs that cover the ground and the insects that possibly threat the health of the trees. They also eat all of the rotten fruit that fall and picked over for harvesting. In turn, they shit everywhere, fertilizing the entire orchid – all in a synergistic fashion – even the egg shells that don't get plucked for breakfast, but hatch chicks end up on the ground fertilizing the soil. The fruit trees are healthy and producing loads of fruit (Padi's fruit orchid yields almost twice our farms), the chickens are living the high life, and everything pretty much takes care and cleans itself – the epitome of observing nature and lending a guiding hand for nature to do its part.

But this concept spans more than just the design and engineering of the farm – it also goes with housing – where do you place your glass house to get the most energy from the land? For heat in the winter, you can build it against a dwelling. And for keeping it cool in the summer time, angling the house to catch an ocean breeze (Of course, everyone knows that a Charleston Porch catches the best Palmetto breeze :) and growing large-leafed, shade-providing trees around the house. After becoming aware of these ideas, it makes you think twice about the planning that goes into the cookie cutter suburban homes that shoot up over night.

In order to drive Permaculture's first principle home even further Jenny had us sit and observe nature for an hour as a workshop in the afternoon. Yeah, and go hug a tree while you're at it; but it did immediately remind me of the American Indian tradition of watching a flower bloom –

And of course this brought some interesting cultural observations to my attention, let alone the complex communication and the hustle bustle of jungle life. As soon as I found my spot to relax and observe the jungle, every bee, wasp, fly or horsefly had to come check me out. I mean all of them. The last one used my knee as a landing pad. I thought it was a black wasp, at first, maybe from the nest in the area Rich had warned me. Maybe the same black wasp that had stung Richard the day before. After one sting, he was sent into heart palpitations and fevering hallucinations for the rest of the afternoon. We later found out from Chuck, Miguel, Norris that a sting can easily send you into a heart attack – the jungle remedy: pouring water over the head while trying to calm the person and their heart beat down, a special herb can help. A quick smack and jump, I thankfully found out that the predator wasn't a wasp, but Mozzilla, the biggest mosquito I have ever seen in my life(see picture) Anyways, after the bugs it was the howler monkeys that signaled to the crew that their was a gringo in their area. And if a giant mosquito didn't scare me enough. After I half-jokingly imagined the monkeys “getting territorial” on me, Sadler, seeing my position, stealthily creeped up to me. As soon as the howlers started up again, he began imitating the raging sasquatch I had imagined – sending me out of my seat and my heart to my stomach.

When the commotion subsided, I noticed that I had picked a spot right by the watusa trap that Rich and Mike D had set earlier that day, as both were in dyer need of meat, tired of living the “damn hippies don't eat meat, diet.” These things are like over grown, husky, tailess, beavers with a splash of warthog thrown in for good measure. Weighing at least 30 pounds, this thing had dieseled right through their wire snare and twig fixings, so I took about 10 minutes to repair it. (But don't you worry, we might not have eaten watusa that day, but we did barbecue something scaly with our own special marinade blend of ginger, chile picantes, orange limes, sauteed garlic, culantro, curry, and Lizard King hot sauce!)

The hour observation most impacted me when I began to think of it as a culture. As my intentions in traveling are to learn about language and culture, I never would have guessed that the culture and language I am learning about now, is not of a specific group of people, but of a particular area of jungle, with its own personality, and filled with all kinds of communication among its residents. I began to aline my perception with that of an indigenous person, or better yet an animal. I was sitting in a clearing, close to one of our paths, but this was only one of a number clearings around the farm, and speckled among the larger growth rainforests that cover most of the area. Each clearing has its own characteristics of trees and plants growing there, when ombined, potentially could act as the grocery store and pharmacy to someone with the proper knowledge. And this is exactly what it is for the animals. The animals that live within these quadrants of jungle, all hang out in their own regions, and call it home – it is their city – and they know it forwards and backwards just like we know ours. They know where the best fruit giving trees are, (for trees can get sick and old, leading to poor or no fruiting – we have a couple here). They know all the short cuts and routes through jungle and exits to the beach either through the air, trees or on the ground depending on their mode of transportation. I don't doubt, that they are more aware of every other animal and thing that goes on in the area than we realize. It's amazing how alive the place is, grabbing your attention once you stop fidgeting and become aware of it. And to a certain extent, living at Punta Mona, you begin to know the area like it was your own back yard – reflecting on the indigenous' perspective, or the identity of early man, who did not claim “I am” but claimed “Jungle.” When you are hungry, you don't know a good restaurant to go to per se, but you know a fruit tree that would satisfy an afternoon snack. Russell's ear infection sent us on a journey through the city, stopping at various spots to pick up the ingredients to make a potent, chicken greased ear ointment, a mushroom cleansing tea, and we already had some immune boosting, rancid blue cheese tasting noni, fermenting in the kitchen from the week before. And to have the knowledge to harvest these gifts from nature, free of charge, and with the healing intention of well being is a very liberating experience. So my conclusion reached at the end of the observation might not have been how to utilize the area for a symbiotic chicken coupe, but it was a enlightening reflection to say the least.

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Something to Ponder

One thing I have found pretty interesting is the breadth of knowledge that I have learned here in such a short amount of time – and I still have a ways to go. Even Justin has said, he has learned more about plants, plant species, uses and process of planting and cultivation through his experience at Punta Mona than he ever could from a book, and more than he ever did from a $1500 Permaculture class he took by book and classroom back in the states – here our classroom is outside, hands-on. There are no tests, letter grades, or diplomas (or dress codes for that matter) that certify you to the rest of the world that “I have passed Permaculture 101.” But ironically, that hasn't stopped each of us from diving in, getting our hands dirty and learning immensely through our inspiration. As Bob Marley always said: “Inspiration, not education, if I was educated I would be a damn fool.” And the inspiration extends far beyond the Permaculture and sustainable living that we are here for. An afternoon conversation with Melissa, our yoga instructor can give you more insight into the intentions of the flow within Yoga. Cooking with Eliana and Adrean can teach you the recipes of a gourmet chef while learning Spanish at the same time. Same with Miguel or Javier. Some of my favorite conversations I have had thus far at Punta Mona have been in a leisurely afternoon with Javier or Miguel – both of whom speak little to no English.

I learned that Javier began growing his dreadlocks at the age of 15, signaling his conversion to Rastafarianism and provoking his strict Catholic parents to kick him out of the house at the tender age. Although he still loves his parents and his two Marine brothers that still live at home, his ideals and beliefs in the principles of Rastafarianism were too strong to change for their sake and the security of “home.” As he, and Bob puts it - “My home is in my head.” He has been traveling for 10 years now, making and selling jewelry, and living with like-minded people he finds along the way. Ironically though, he said, after calling his Mom for her birthday earlier that day, he now has more respect from his family, living on his own and “being the change he wants to see in the world,” than he would have if he had stayed.

It's a little more difficult to understand Miguel as he is from Nicaragua, and the accompanying dialect is more challenging to decipher – but every conversation I can understand him better than the one before. But basically, he has taught me how to be a bad ass. Seriously – Chuck Norris has nothing on Miguel. Still smoking grass at the age of 62, he has been farming for well over 30 years at different farms around Nicaragua and Costa Rica – and this obviously comes with plenty of stories to tell. My favorite being after I asked him about the dangers of working in the jungle. He replied that the most tangible danger for us as we work on the farm are the venomous snakes. But don't worry, he as a remedy for that like he does for every jungle ailment you bring to him. One day, he was bitten by a Tercer Pelo, (one of the most dangerous in Costa Rica) on his wrist as he reached down to move some branches on the ground. He said he could feel the excruciating pain of the venom slowly creeping up his forearm as he quickly reached down to grab the remedy for his dilemma - a handful of dirt. “But make sure the dirt is clean. You want to remove any 'dirty' particles from the soil before you down it, (the exact word he used was 'tierra limpia' translating to 'clean earth,' and you didn't want it to be 'sucia' – dirty. Think about that. The English language's go to word for 'tierra' is not earth, but dirt; we call anything associated with the floor of the outdoors, dirt, which, inevitably, cannot escape the adjective 'dirty.' So linguistically speaking, 'clean dirt' would be an oxymoron, and everything associated with the outdoors, and the earth is dirty? Marinate on what that implies for a minute). The venom continued to creep up his bicep and into his right shoulder and chest. And this is where it gets dangerous, he said, because if it reaches your heart, you're done for. So he reached down and grabbed another mound of earth, not even caring if it was clean this time, and downed it. Not knowing what to expect, he began to get tired, and ended up taking a nap in a hammock that was close by. It was only a couple of hours later that he woke up - with 8 lives left. He said his arm was black, blue and swollen for the next week or so, but he was fine. The idea and intention of eating earth is that it cleanses your system including the veins carrying the venom, blocking it from entering your heart, supposedly. – yeah, like I said, bad ass. And his favorite song to dance to growing up – Chubby Checker's “The Twist,” - definitely going on the playlist.

Those are 2 Spanish lessons that I would never have gotten in a classroom.

The idea of learning more through inspiration has made me, and all of us here, converse and ponder about learning in general and what are the intentions and goals of education are. Do you know where the ambiguous length of 4 years of college came from? During the 15th century in Europe, before there was any “formal education,” wealthy families would send their children to travel through Europe and the parts of the known World for four years, give or take. When they returned, they were considered “educated.” And all of us here can relate. I have only been traveling for 3 months, and the education I have gotten through direct experience has been almost overwhelming. It is one thing to learn about the World in a book, it's a complete and separate other to learn about it hands on (see Nate's comment on "Generation Y"). And today, it is now required for every European to have a valid passport on their person, more important than any driver's license. And the U.S.? Less than 10% of U.S. citizens have a valid passport....again, something to ponder.

Living Off The Grid

Where to begin with the life of a jungle farmer living in the rainforests of Costa Rica? How does one live off the grid, away from civilization, society, or Babylon as the Rasta, Javier puts it. Well I guess you can start with a typical day of what it is that we do here at Punta Mona. The Conch Shell is blown at 5:45 in the morning. Located at the front house hanging by the kitchen, this is done usually by Melissa, as she sleeps closest to it, and she is the one trying to stir everyone for her yoga class that begins at 6 AM – or 6:15, depending on a few things; 1. How many people actually heard the Conch blow and are coming to yoga. Sometimes its difficult to hear, given the trumpet player's pucker for that day. If he/she wants to sound a Miles Davis solo, every one usually is stirring, but the sound of a dying elephant usually doesn't carry that far. 2. Weather permitting – who wants to trudge through the muddy paths barefoot first thing on a rainy morning. And 3. Pura Vida – being on time really isn't much of an issue here, unless you are talking about planting during the lunar cycle. I would say half of us show up on any given day. And during the Shavasana is when the Conch sounds again for breakfast, as Adrean and whichever interns are on kitchen duty that day are preparing the meal while everyone else is aligning their chakras. Breakfast is always some fresh fruit, eggs or maybe some freshly roasted oats with vanilla and coconut milk to go along with some fresh ground coffee – straight from the source, fresh. Then comes chores - feeding the chickens, composting last night's scraps, or sweeping. You are always sweeping - not like sweeping stale dust that builds up living room furniture – you are always sweeping the endless sand and mud of the floor that gets tracked in by bare feet.

Come 9 o'clock, it's time to work on the farm; hands on – learning the sustainable philosophy of Permaculture. And the most fascinating thing about Permaculture is how logical and head shakingly “Why haven't we been doing this all along,” simple it is. The key is all in the initial mindset – becoming more aware of the processes of nature and re-defining what you consider “waste.” For example – the first day's work consisted of dragging huge fallen and washed up trees and branches off the beach to be used to line the gardens, distinguishing the paths and separating the beds. Over time, as we all know, these logs break down and begin to disintegrate back into the Earth. But where we would say “it's time to throw that old rotten log out and replace it,” Permaculture gives an alternative purpose in the life cycle of the log. It now serves another function – fertilizer. You chop the old log up into a woody mulch to spread on the bed it just lined, becoming a nutrient to keep your soil fertile and healthy. Find a new log on the beach that the ocean constantly provides and now you have a permanent cycle utilizing the wood on a number of levels, rather than a linear path ending in the last step: “to be thrown away.”

After lunch, it's basically our time to do what we want. Like I said, you get what you give in the Punta Mona experience, like all experiences, and all of life for that matter. So depending on how you are feeling, what you are in the mood for dictates what you get into it – or really it's whatever captures your attention the fastest because it is unbelievable how much there is to do, learn, and experience here – the World is literally your oyster. Our second day, Sam was showing us around the farm and a little deeper into the raw jungle when we came across some sugar cane stalks. “Yeah, these are ripe, you can make awesome juice concoctions with this stuff.” Before Sam could finish the sentence, we were slicing down the stalks – Samurai machete in full force. After an afternoon of sliding the stalks through the hand-operated stalk press/juice extractor, not to mention chewing on the stalks as we went, we had a gallon of raw sugar cane juice that served as an awesome juice mixed with oranges and limes from the fruit orchid. What was left we let it sit over a couple of nights and to have a fritzy fermented beverage that can get you buzzed if you have the stomach and sugar tolerance to drink enough of it.

A little insight on Permaculture:

Permaculture was developed Bill Mollison (actually a co-founder) in Australia in 1974 as a response to his shared view of failed planning in communities by a conservative government and a failing response by the Hippie Revolution of the 1960's which he was a part of. More specifically, he saw a failure in the centralized food production industry. The most obvious example of this is the fact that we have enough food to feed everyone, curing world hunger, but we can not disperse it efficiently. Mollison saw this as a problem that can only be addressed through and solved by the local communities in small steps. Central to Permaculture are three basic ethics: care for the Earth, care for the people, and fair share – epitome of a tree hugger. But, as Mollison saw it, these ethics are essential to survival. You have to have morals and ethics in order to survive, for you and everyone has the power to destroy the very foundation of survival, the Earth... Following these ethics is the basic philosophy of Permaculture: to work with, rather than against nature, protracted and thoughtful observation rather than protracted and thoughtless labour, allowing the systems to demonstrate their own evolutions. Because this is how nature reaches it's maximum energy producing potential – and thus benefiting the whole system. Studies have shown across the globe, including the American prairies, the African savannahs, and Australian bush, that crops and animals alike have yielded more in their natural state then in an agricultural setting, where the land was cleared, fenced and plowed. In Australia, it is more common than you think to find a lone grazer, barely supporting himself off the land, that once supported 200 to 300 Aborigines. And this is why a lot of the philosophy and methods of Permaculture stem from the Aborigines. But the Aborigines aren't the only ones. Permaculture's ideas and methods have been taken from a number of ancient civilizations from around the world which implemented durable and sustainable farming practices that led to their extensive reign.

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And that is only the beginning....

There are six interns total. The four of us, Mollie from Philly in her summer between high school and college, and Arielle from Seattle, an international studies major at Washington University. Since they had gotten there earlier in the day, they had already staked out a shared room in “Back House,” the house devoted for interns and workstay living. The workstay crew – (you work for your stay) living at Punta Monta consists of: Sam from Colorado, beginning his fourth month at Punta Mona, Elisa a graduate student from Vermont, and Adrean, a college graduate from West Virginia , about 2 hours from Roanoke – small world of course. Sadler and Mike D ended up claiming a bunk bed in the room downstairs but Russell and I decided to jump on the 2 casitas down the “street” from the Back House. “Casita” basically means small house – but that's really an overstatement I guess you could say, because these things are smaller than a room, let alone a house. Here's an analogy: Take 3 playing cards; lay one down, and lean the other two against each other on top of the first; Turn the leaners into a grass roof, and the bottom into a platform of wooden planks spaced an inch a part and elevate that 2 feet of the ground and you have a casity. No front. No back. You can see straight through, and so can the bats that swoop through eating the mosquitoes floating outside your tent (because you definitely don't just sleep straight on the jagged planks). Yeah, bats and spiders are always welcome inside my casita, (although “inside” is only used here as figure of speech because there is no separate inside and outside). Bats and mosquitoes are just another line of defense in the ongoing battle between you and the mosquitoes. There's enough room for my tent, my bag, clothes strung along my clothes line and my hammock slung up between two posts. Light a candle and a mosquito coil and you are set for a night in the Claremont Dojo. And if things aren't popping there, you can always walk down street to my neighbor, Russell's place, where he can show you how to stay high and dry in his waterlogged spot, Dojo Risen, where dry is loosely defined, and mosquitoes breed.

Yeah, just as there is an ongoing battle with the mosquitoes, there is an ongoing battle with, straight up, moisture in the rain forest. That is why you always hang your clothes from you clothes line; leave 3 clean freshly folded shirts together inside your bag and in 3 days the middle one will have a fungus, mold, or mildew partying all over it. Same goes for you skin, get it dry at least once a day or you will have jungle rot with a smell just as bad. Here, chafing is a walk in the park.

But the thing you have to watch out for the most, is not the mosquitoes, not the sand fleas, the spiders, or scorpions that have been known to try and stay dry in your shoe, but the ants. Fact: In mass, there are more ants in the world than there are humans. Wrap your brain around that for a minute. But the ants...the worst kind stealthily creep onto you and release a pheromone into the air to signal a simultaneous attack – Sam, carrying a log from the beach one day, didn't notice the army marching onto his shoulder as he walked with the wood slung behind his back. When they gave the attack signal, the bastards “electrocuted his arm right off of his shoulder. Dropping the log, he barely made it to the ocean to wash them off.” (Sam's own words).

The other casita on the opposite side of the Back House is where Miguel stays. Originally from Nicaragua, he is one of the Punta Mona veterans, here since the beginning. In his 70's he still works on the farm every day, and you can feel the wise knowledge from his soft spoken presence – reminding me a lot of my own grandfather – who is also still farming every day in his later 70's – which should tell you something. He carries the same, “he is the master you are the grasshopper” presence, and just as he can tell you the name of every kind of tree growing on his farm, Miguel will do the same although you will only understand the names that resemble their English names because he speaks zero English.

Also in the Punta Mona crew, we have Eliana, who I mentioned previously – Miguel's daughter; Justin and Jenny, from Miami, but have been living and working on the farm for the past year, they are the heart beat of the education portion of the farm, scheduling our daily routines around the farm and spearheading the workshops in the afternoon geared towards anything from the history of Permaculture, how to prune herbs and harvest fruits and vegetables, to chile sauce fermentation and organic chocolate making. Melissa is our yoga instructor, waking us up every morning at 5:45 AM with the blow from the Conch Shell for yoga at 6 AM. She came with her 2 year old daughter, Irie, and yes that is Rastafarian for “Total Peace.” And they both reflect it beautifully. Oh and you know that escaped Rasta from Panama we saw on the trail, on the hike in? That's Javier, a true Rastafarian, and our Spanish teacher – no escaped convict here. And last but not least, there is Ramon, the lazy tomcat, El Gato Bravo, who, you can tell just from his expressions and demeanor thinks he runs the place. And that is the crew of Punta Mona. And that is only the beginning....

Punta Mona Preface

Preface: Unfortunately we had to drop off Meiners and Gunn passing through San Jose to round out the trip – they were headed back to the Mothership. (epic three weeks fellas, couldn't have done it without you). But for the remaining four, we had some places to be. Beginning August 1st, Russell, Sadler, Mike D and I had enrolled to become interns at Punta Mona, a sustainable community, geared towards educating people on permaculture and how to live sustainably. The place sits on 85 hectacres of raw jungle off the Caribbean coast, with the farm taking up only about a quarter of this, and the nearest town being a 2 and half hour hike, away. The internship program is a month long, hands on, learn through experience, and try to make it out alive kind of education on what it takes to live sustainably. It's time to put our money where are mouth is – Being Green taken to a whole new level.

Ah, Punta Mona, where to begin. Let's start with our way in. To make sure that this month long stay in the jungle was worth the money we were investing into it, we decided to day hike the 2 and half hour excursion into the jungle and along the rocky, splashing and spraying beach line to the community. After catching the 6:45 AM bust from Puerto Viejo to Manzanillo, we found our way onto to uh trail? It was heading North into the jungle, which was the direction to Punta Mona so we decided to follow it. Yeah, there are no intersections, exits, or traffic signals you need to know about in order to find Punta Mona. Instead, you need only need some determination for this muddy trail and some can(s) of bug spray. Needless to say, we were pretty much sold on it before we got there. Hiking through a raw jungle, with the only signs of human existence being the footsteps on the muddy trail is pretty rad. With glimpses of jagged cliffs jetting into the blue coast lines and enough wildlife to make you feel like a minor species, it was definitely something we could get used to for the month of August. After about two hours we came across something out of the ordinary – ironically, another person walking our way; a dreadlocked Rastafarin. “Hola! Vienes de Punta Mona (Are you coming from Punta Mona)?” Before he answered in a whisper, he took a look over his shoulder, “Nah, Panama,” and hurried on. No questions were asked, considering the board was definitely close by and the “official” boarder, well, was not. Then we, again, ran into some humans. This time our intern organizer, Carly. She was coming from Punta Mona, leading the July interns out to Manzanilllo on their last day. Carly was stoked to meet us, but the rest of the crew was a little down, enviously telling us to enjoy our month long stay. Thirty minutes, a Punta Mona sign and knee deep mud later, we arrived at a roof. Just a roof. It was large and about head height, with a gutter coming down the structure and then under a hill leading to 3 dunk booth sized blue tubs – just one of the many rain water catches that Punta Mona uses on a daily basis for water. Past the compost, chicken coupe, and through some driftwood lines gardens, you arrive at the, “central” Punta Mona, consisting of 2 two story buildings – the only buildings on the farm that have electricity, but of course, all run by solar power. A place for guests to stay with large pick-nick tables lining the front of the rooms, and a ping pong table, all off two double decker porches. Across the “street,” a large open air kitchen, full of pots, pans, and usually some fresh cut herbs laying on the counter ready to use for the upcoming meal. Above the kitchen, a lone office and hammocks lining a sky view of the kitchen. After getting a tour of the general vicinity of the 85 hectare farm by some of the crew we would be living with for the next month, we were treated to lunch, cooked by Eliana, a day time chef from Gandoka. Rice, beans, a fresh salad picked about 10 yards away from the kitchen, and some right of the vine plantains – something we could also get used to. Decision made, we decided to head back early. We had a ways back to hike, and had to re-up on supplies before the return trip by boat the next day.

At noon we grabbed the bus from Puerto Viejo to Manzanillo. Just a 30 minute ride along a bumpy road that cars have to turn almost perpendicular at spots to avoid bottoming out. The road dead ends into the town, which consists of basically: a bar, restaurant, a couple of convenience stores and the Punta Mona office - beach and beach soccer field out front. We met Carly there, sitting on the outskirts of the Domino table, where Baco, our boat captain was playing Dominoes with 3 dreadlocked, Afro-Carribean vibed rastas. The other 2 interns were already at Punta Mona, hiking in earlier that day, so it was just us, Carly, and some others wanting to check out the farm for the day who were catching the boat. About 20 minutes into the trip we came upon an islito (tiny island) about 50 meters off the coast. Legend has it that the islito was the peninsula point that Punta Mona got its name from - “Monkey Point” in English. The point peninsula used to be a hang out for some of the howler monkeys that live in the area. But over time, rising tide, and global warming later, the land connecting to the peninsula was washed out, leaving the once point into a newly defined islito with a lone monkey that got stuck there when it was all said and done. And it became his point - Monkey Point. Anyways, where there was once land, there now is a wicked gap with large waves chasing each other in between. This is also the short cut to Punta Mona, and of course the way Baco chose. I have never ridden a wave by boat before, until Baco pretty much hung ten with ours – thankfully. You either had to catch one of the 6 foot waves to pass through the rocky gap or man over board, Perfect Storm style. If you make it through, you end up in a shallow reef that curves around the coast line. And as you inch around the bend, you will see, sticking out like a sore thumb, a beach that seems to be a nice spot to lounge at, with signs of human existence. And as you come up closer, you will see 2 houses plopped right down in the middle of the jungle. One of those being Padi's house – the tribe elder, the Chief. Welcome to Punta Mona from the coastal side.

www.puntamona.org

wash, rinse (in the ocean) and repeat

Leaving La Fortuna, we still didn't really know what we were going to do. We had initially planned to scale Volcan Chirripo, Costa Rica's largest summit. But, considering no one had the proper equipment to spend the night in a below freezing temperature, plus the tourist traffic to the volcano has consequently produced a waiting line requiring you to book your reservation in advance in order to secure a spot, let alone six – so we decided against it and instead, headed bahk to da beeech mon. This time to Manuel Antonio, a little further south on the Pacific side. After a couple of times switching buses, we found ourselves in Punta Arenas, the town we past through on the way to Montezuma. Upon arriving, we were hit with the unfortunate news that we had missed the last bus of the day to Manuel Antonio, so it looked like we were in for the night. Some of the guys found a mom and pop run hostel down the street from the bus station and we decided to crash there. There didn't seem to be many options to choose from, and plus everyone was tired, hungry and ready to drop their bags and their head on a pillow, but after some grub, obviously, as no one had eaten all day. In fact, Russell and I hadn't eaten for the past 24 hours. For some odd reason, other than the fact that we were saving a ton of money, we decided to fast for 2 days beginning on our last day in La Fortuna. So when it was time to grab the casado con pollo, I stayed behind to catch the first half of the semi-final of the Gold Cup, Costa Rica vs. Mexico while Russell tagged along to torture himself. Later, we heard the entire town explode into a frenzy when Costa Rica scored the Golasso equalizer in the 92^nd minute to put the game into overtime, and then simultaneously turn off the TV when Mexico won in a PK shoot out.

Fasting is an interesting test of will power. Considering a human can survive for forty days without food, but I have never gone a single day in my life without eating something - it made me wonder how it would feel, physically and mentally. I usually eat 2-3 meals a day and then some, because, thankfully, I can. So to deny that privilege for 2 days after a life long habit of 3 meals a day, is tough test to say the least. But as the philosophy goes, “You don't re-fill your car up when it hits ¾, every time. Sometimes you need to take your own tank down to zero, get rid of all the stale energy, and replenish it with the new. ” And furthermore, to know how it feels to have an empty tank, can turn your idea of world hunger from a statistic into more of a compassionate feeling. It was tough, but after you get over the initial hunger, stomach grumbling and past the weak lightheaded phases throughout the day, you realize you're fine, still breathing, and humbled by the roll food plays in your life.

We found a cheap cabina to crash at in Manuel Antonio right next to the beach. Although there were some other travelers staying there, the majority of the people at the place were Tica families there on vacation, either packed in a cabina like we were, or camping, but we fit right in, enjoying the beach during the day and the coastal breezes at night. From the front door of our cabina, you follow the sound of the waves straight down a path towards the ocean, but before you get there, you arrive at a restaurant, literally on the beach, under the mangrove and palm trees doubling as your shade and the roof of the place. I don't know if there was a name, if it had a name, or if it needed a name, I have never seen anything like it. The tables and benches was cement patio furniture so high tide would not wash you way when you were eating. I don't know even know if the tables and chairs were apart of the ambiguous restaurant or not; people would post up at one of the tables, using it as their plot for the day. But really I think restaurant was too busy enjoying the beach to notice. Because of this, you had indicate your interest in eating or grabbing some drinks by what tables you sat at – the closer to the restaurant showed a higher desire to be served. Russell and I grabbed the closest table we could get when it was time to break our fast – almost eating the sugar packets and napkins before being noticed. It probably wasn't the healthiest way to do it, but you can't beat a 2 for 1 margarita special on a Costa Rican beach. My body had a sugar high buzz from the first sip of the margarita and I was drunk and full 3 bites into the casado con pollo because my stomach was so small and so empty. Although it didn't stop me from inhaling the rest within minutes – one of the best meals I have ever had, and my stomach will agree.

The crew ate every single meal at that restaurant, breakfast lunch and dinner. I mean it could not be beat. Throw on your board shorts, head down to eat breakfast, chill out under the shade and when you're ready, find some ticos to play beach soccer with or go body surfing until it was time to eat lunch. Dominoes and an afternoon nap, and then at the beach until happy hour, and dinner. At night we would drink Pilsens, smoke cigars and play dominoes until we were tired enough not to notice how muggy and sticky our room was. Wake up, peel yourself off your mattress – wash, rinse (in the ocean) and repeat. Puuuda Veeeda!

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Who wants to see the Manuel Antonio Detonator Champ?

(Viewing only for people ages 21 and above, and with a college mindset)

Is it:

Player 1?

Player 2?

Player 3?

Red Disc In the Sky

Well there's not much more to say about La Fortuna, at least from my part. We had moved to a new hostel set up, Gringo Pete's II, run by Mr. Lava Lava, a tour operator who guaranteed you would see lava on his excursion up the Volcano at night, and really any other tour you could think of (for a pretty penny). He lived at the hostel with his family, and it was usually his daughter that we dealt with in terms of paying etc. while he was out running his tours or errands. The only bad thing about the homestay feel was that the lounge/kitchen area was closed at 9pm because it was also apart of the LavaLava's corridors. But he made up for it with his personality – rocking a Boston Redsox hat with a purposely cut off bill, Mr. Lava Lava always had a wise crack to make and a joke to make you smile. He took a lot of pride in his business and hostel, for he was not only the owner, but the manager, security guard, and handy man of the place – commenting on our broken door, which he fixed with knife, screw, and lady's bra strap – “in America, you break it and hire a Mexican to fix it, here, you are the Mexican that fixes it!”

The crew decided to hit up Baldi's Hot Springs, a Vegas style spa and resort that has spring water right from the bubbling river heated by Volcan Arenal – but I decided to stay behind at Gringo Pete's and hang out with Mr. Lava Lava himself. Although the word was that I missed out on some good times and good eats, the eco-tourism in Costa Rica has gotten a little too rich for my blood, I was ready for a little Boston Tea Party action on the Gringo taxes – oh yeah, you know that JeepBoatJeep $20 deal we got coming here? For $18, improved to $15 we could get the JeepBoatJeep to Monteverde – yeah exactly my point.

So after another night of lounging out, playing Spades and watching the red disc in the sky light that is the crater of the Volcan Arenal light up every once an while with an explosion of hot gases, we decided it was time to head back to the coast and round out the trip in Manuel Antonio.