Dominical: The Big One That Let Me Get Away

Canadian Count: 18

I've decided to keep a running tally of Canadians I encounter down here, becasue they are many. Either that, or several Americans are pretending to be Canucks so as not to have to answer to our national politics. As it happens, one group of college-age hosers argued about whether the world is laughing at Canada after last year's election of a pro-Bush neo-con. "Don't worry," I told them, "Nobody thinks ill of Canada. Nobody thinks of canada at all." I'm popular.

Anyway, back to last week:

They gave us the wrong bus schedule in Manuel Antonio, so when the taxi dropped us at the Quepos bus station, we discovered a three hour wait still ahead, all time we could have bee relaxing on the sand. Instead, we crammed ourselves into a small table at the bus stop's soda (essentially a small Costa Rican diner), marvelling at the way dense jungle could grow right up to the edge of a compact urban depression. Quepos seems like a miniature version of Tijuana, or like a small section of the mexican border town transplanted into the middle of the rainforest.

The elderly lady who owned and operated the soda served us a breakfast of gallo pinto (local rice and bean dish) with eggs, topped off by a delicious pineapple juice. As it turns out, her daughter teaches spanish to gringos for a living, so she took great delight in practicing her hija's profession by teaching me a thing or two. For example, how to ask for un vaso con hielo (glass with ice). This trend would continue at another soda in Dominical, with a tico stand-up comic/waiter who would teach us words for kinfe (cuchillo), spoon (cuchara) and fork (tenedor). But this wouldn't be for a couple days yet.

First, we would have to arrive in Dominical following a 2-3 hour busride over incredibly bumpy roads. Word is, local residents, native and expat alike, campaign to keep these roads unpaved to the bulk of the tourism will stop at Manual Antonio. We chatted with some Canadians on the bus who carried surfboards but quickly retreated when the bus dropped us off at the beach, where heavy waves were breaking way out, roaring, crashing and for the most part closing out into massive, unrideable whitewater.

I was excited about surfing this beach, though, and there were two guys in the water, surviving, so we hastily checked in to our hotel and I made a bee-line for the beach. After an exhausting twenty minute paddle through rough waters that pushed me back and side to side, i finally made it outside into the relative calm of deepwater. What followed was one of the bigger waves I ever caught, over my head at about 8 or 9 feet, going left, which is analogous to switch-hitting in baseball. As I rode, the wave bropke heavy enough behond me that the water splashing onto my back was almost enough to knock me over. , and finally, when teh rest of the break clapped down on top of me, i did go down.

Not for long, though, because I had the surfer's stoke, and paddle with all my strength right back to the deep water. I almost made it, too. I had only to get through one more big wave before i could catch a moment's rest, and as I paddled towards it i could see it would be huge, even bigger than the one i'd ridden. I planted the nose of my board in the middle of it as it reared up high to break and plunged through the middle, duckdiving with everything i had. Well, everything turned out to be only half of my board. That crack finally succumbed to the force of nature. In retrospect, i should have quickly turned and tried to ride the wave, breaking the board properly and at least gaining a few inches back towards the sand. Instead, I detached my leash, and races the two halves of my little board back to the beach, a swim of some 100-150 yards or so.

Not a bad introduction to Dominical though. We spent the next couple days checking out different beaches and taking a canopy tour. As it turns out, this "tour" was really just an uphil hike to a series of ziplines you ride through the trees. We did see a sloth, lots of ants and almost step on a snake, but mostly we strapped ourselves into harnessed and careened through the treetops. Pretty fun.

A taxi delay made us late meeting a couple of new friends made in the hotel, a couple from North Carolina whe had a 4x4 and were driving to a decent surf beach a little ways south. I'd had it in my head I would sruf that day (and every day), so when that ride was lost, I decided to try the Dominical beach once again. This time there was only one guy out; though as I struggled against even heavier forces to get outside the breakwater, slowly running out of breath and feeling weaker by the minute, I spotted him catch an enormous wave and was encouraged to push harder. Finally, lungs heaving and heart racing, I was in deep water, way out once again, this time on my new, Brazilian made board, which promised to hold firm against the onslaught.

It only took me a few moments to get up my nerve, and a few more to study the approaching swells to see which ones might be rideable. Then i spotted one with my name on it. Rising like bread dough and coming right at me. i turned, paddled and popped to my feet. The wave face below me stretched on for what seemed like forever--I have definitely never attemped something so big. But here I was, riding it. Well, for a second, anyway. Somehow i was no longer riding my board down the water's surface, but just riding the force of gravity, through the air, my board... well, if it knows where it went, it's not telling. But I wasn't alone. The peak of the wave was just on my heels, less dropping than pounding itself with malicious intent back into thge ocean. It hammered me down with it, and between it and the gravity, i got pushed deep under, turned and thrashed about like a sock in a clothes dryer. The wave passed me by pretty quickly, and I could now feel the leash of my board pulling me at the ankle, telling me that I was upside down, head pointing to the ocean bottom. Below me (rather, above), seven feet of leash pulled taut against the buoyant board, itself about 6'5", fully submerged. two thoughts crossed my mind as I swam back to the surface: 1) There are lifegaurds on duty, and 2) I hope there not another wave crashing when I finally make it up to take a breath.

I'm trying to only do one stupid thing a day anymore, so I paddled back to shore, riding the breakwater on my belly. I made it back to the beach to discover the lifeguards had gone off duty, and that the twenty or so people on the beach who'd seen my fall while waiting for the sunset were relieved to see I wasn't a bloated corpse. I plopped down next to a couple of French Canadian girls and we waited for Roy to take some pictures before hitting the beachside bar for a couple rounds of beer. Some pretty good beer at that.

Interlude: Manuel Antonio

Jacó (pronounced Ha-COH!) having been just short of disastrous, Roy and I cut out after our first full day, grabbing a quick breakfast and catching a bus south to Quepos, with an eye towards escaping to nearby Manuel Antonio, home to a national park and a long stretch of beach that, although reputed to be beautiful, does not typically offer much in the way of surf, which is probably why I'd left it off our itinerary to begin with.

I should mention that at this point a situation was developing. Namely, during my last days in Puerto Viejo, my shortboard had developed a terminal crack, width-wise across the top. Such a tear across the middle of a board may technically be repaired, but the board will forevermore lack structural integrity and the perfectly contoured surface necessary to glide gracefully across the water, and when it comes to grace, I cannot afford any disadvantage. I'd not-so-secretly secretly hoped to snap this board in half my last day riding in the Caribbean, as it would have been easier to travel to the Pacific side with a lighter board bag. Alas, it held up, and I turned my attention to breaking it in Jacó.

See, Jacó is a lot of things, but it's not an expensive place to buy a board, and so while there I perused the many surf shops and tried my damnedest to break the old gal, to no avail. Rather than ditch the still-functional board, which had given so much and asked so little, I determined I would rather spend my money in a less reprehensible economy further down the coast, perhaps Dominical. Regardless, I was excited at the prospect at getting a new board, preferably something a little longer, narrower and faster. I had already written off my little South Coaster.

So, imagine my surprise when we arrived at Manual Antonio's Playa Espadilla and that little board gave me some quick action on waves that startled me with their speed and strength. The beach is a long stretch of soft sand set against dense, muddy forest growth and peppered with lodges and quasi-resorts, some built into the hillside; definitely a welcome change from the somewhat trashed, rocky coastline of Jaco. Normally, the waves are good for swimmers and beginnin surfers, but at the time we went out they were picking up what proved to be a strong several days' worth of soutern swell that slammed the Pacific coast, giving Roy many a reason to swear like a sailor. To Roy's credit, he didn't give up, and after a brief interlude resting on the beach, he came back out into the rough waters with me to attempt some more rides. Of course, I tried to convince him that this ocean was easy-going and not at all dangerous, so he would persevere and grow to love this hobby that has me so obsessed, but he saw through my ruse just in time to get out before a series of bruisers came rolling through. I knew I could survive the spin cycle, but thought for sure my little board was toast. But like me, scarred and with a crooked nose (some minor repair work in puerto viejo--too long a story to get into here), she held tight, and survived to ride again.

Roy and I, on the other hand, were plenty sore from several days of travel and surf, so when we strolled along the extraordinary beach to find a series of massage tables set up at 25 bucks a pop, we were glad to lie down and enjoy the sunset while strong French thumbs kneaded the knots away. Had we to do it over, we definitely would spend more than a day in the heaven known for reasons beyond me as Manuel Antonio. But renowned "surf ghetto" Dominical awaited to the south, and so with testimonials of "gnarly surf" and "laid back atmosphere" dancing around my brain, we got up early the next morning and set out for the bus terminal at Quepos, rejuvenated, in love again with the green idea of Costa Rica, and ready for adventure in what would prove successively more and more remote locales.

Bustle, Hustle, Jaco and Ping Pong

It's been awhile since I posted, due mostly to the fact that I have been going nonstop for the past ten days. After Puerto Viejo, I met old buddy Roy Dank at a San Jose bus station, where a taxi driver offered us a cheap two hour ride to Jaco. Rather than wait two hours for the next bus, we accepted. The driver turned out to be somewhat of a card, delivering impressions of all his central american neighbors. Of course, we were not aware that Nicaraguans talk *como este*, that Panamanians speak quickly >como este>, or that guatamalans generally mumble, but his enthusiasm was hilarious enough to make the ride short as well as scenic.

reaching the beach at jaco was cause for celebration, and our hotel offered some amazing amenities, like A/C and hot water. I hadn't been dry in a week and a half, and it almost felt like I was entering some grand unforeseen future getting settled into that tiny room. Think of the joy when we looked off the balcony to discover a ping pong table!

Well, things sort of declined from there. Although we got in many a game (all of which Roy won, which is usually how our games go), the beach was rocky, somewhat dirty and the waves mediocre on a bad day. mostly, though, it was the people we'll remember. For example, the young tica girls who hound you aggressively for a dance because they really want you to pay for something else. Or the trio of young ticos who deftly pinned me into the corner of the crowd as I tried to pass through to the bar and actually managed to get the velro pocket of my board shorts open before I realized my cash and hotel keys were in danger. I wasn't quick enough to catch the guy's hand in my pocket, but he didn't get anything, and as he quickly pretended to be in the middle of a conversation with the person next to him, I weighed the pros and cons of A) shouting, B) pushing, C) punching and D) simply glaring then walking away. I chose the latter, seeing as I had protected my stuff and I could not figure out how to call the guy names in a language he could understand. In retrospect, it was a good idea, as we soon learned.

We cut out of Jaco early, deciding to make an unplanned stop in Manuel Antonio. It was actually a couple of days later we heard word of a dead American tourist in Jaco, victim of a stab wound while drinking in a crowded bar. If you ever make it to Costa Rica, skip this jewel of the pacific coast. Jaco's not even worth stopping for a bus transfer, and table tennis may be found easily elsewhere. Beleive it or not, though, this was not the scariest thing that happened that week. Stay tuned....

A Glass-Free Society

It took me a while to realize, but it's true; I haven't been in a fully enclosed room for ten days, and the last glass I peered through was the window of a bus. My bedroom features two windows, both of a screen over wood-latticework variety. The patio doubles as a kitchenette, and triples as a hallway, with a door leading to my bathroom, which offers some of the same latticework only without the screen and set up about head high so that I might gaze out while I shower or pee. I might, except there's no jungle view; just a walkway commonly used by the lodging's proprietors, housekeeping staff and construction crew, which is building new cabinas a few feet from mine. To their credit, they never ruin the moment by saying hello when they walk past.

Anyway, some of the privacy issues aside, the lack of glass is not isolated to this rental property. Most of this town's establishments, from restaurants and nightclubs to coffeeshops and liquor stores (I might need healthier habits), have at least one wall open to the air, to the humidity, to the ocean breezes, to the sounds of nature, to a view of ripe foliage that thrives everywhere. Can you install glass windows? Of course. The bank has them. The grocery store does... in its frozen foods section. A few of the modest homes seem to have at least one actual window, as I grew up knowing them. But it's clearly an indulgence; probably an impress-the-neighbors type thing.

I can't accurately depict this place without describing the walk I've taken, multiple times daily, from where I stay into town. Situated along a hill a few blocks in from the ocean, the property covers a fiar bit of ground, most of which is tropical rainforest. A road of sorts descends from the main gate, but it's quite steep and rocky, so when I'm on foot I opt for the jungle path, which is more accurately 200 yards of cinderblock staircase staggered between the trees. It is here I've done the bulk of my nature walking, and have spotted many lizards, tree frogs, butterlfies and one snake dangling from the branch of a tree.

When I reach the bottom I pass through a gate, rejoining the craggy road in time to cross a mostly-loose wood plank bridge that spans about 15 feet over a creek. At this point I am only about three city blocks from the main street (not Main Street--most of these roads don't have names); however, given the scale of the place it's given to radical compression of geographic regions. So, as i cross the creek I enter rural Puerto Viejo, as evidenced by the domesticated animal life I encounter. Dogs lying in the middle of the road, roasting their bellies in the sun. A rooster that likes to race my bicycle when i ride by. Horses that look embarassed that I might have happened upoin them rifling through some trash bins. Pigs that founder happily in the muddy creek banks. Well, most of the pigs. The little one seems to have a thing for me, and whenever I pass gets incredibly aggitated, snorfling and hobbling at my foot, which I think it means to bite, or maybe drool upon. Regardless, I am apparently not the first victim of this mottled porcine obsessor, as it's the only animal in ther bunch that's tied up by a length of rope.

Now past the livestock (actually, quicker than it took you to read that last paragraph), I enter the suburbs, beginning on one side with a tiny elementary school, on the other with a heavily-used soccer field. This gives way into several square blocks' worth of small homes, built on a grid, some elevated on stubby stilts, most with corregated metal rooftops. most times of day there are people entering or leaving doorways, sitting on corners talking to their neighbor, who sits in his livingroom twenty feet away, across the street. Oh, and there are children, lots of children, toddling, running and biking around, shouting, chasing, and dleightfully unaware how blissful their exixtence is.

I might take different routes through this grid, depending where I'm going or whether I need to steer around the potholes and softball-size rocks that pitt some roads more than others. One way or another, I am bound to enter the urban center, which is eerily quiet on wednesday nights, but in all other waking hours bustles it's way right onto the Caribbean sand. Here I find an unfathomable mix of nationalities and personal styles, always somebody trying to sell ganja, and usually happy faces. granted, some of the faces are preternaturally happy, given that marijuana's not the only thing these hustlers are peddling, and this inevitably leads to the same faces unhappy later or earlier in the day, when the missing teeth elicit sympathy again, rather than add charm to the smiling localisms tossed out in bouncing island patter.

And that's how I know it, ten days' worth. That people I've met here have asked after seeing me here this long if I'm moving, or in fact have moved here, I credit to their friendliness and the source of it: when a place is so small that everybody knows everybody and all their business, the intrusion of tourism keeps things lively, but the adding of new characters keeps it fresh. Which is important when everybody's sharing the same open air. Off to Jaco tomorrow. Pictures maybe someday.

Ode to My Mosquito Net

As I planned this trip, all I heard about costa rica suggested I would like it: cheap eats, good surf, socialist government, warm weather, clean ocean, pretty girls and copious live music. One thing gave me dread: the thought of large, exotic, emboldened jungle insects. And arachnids. Spider dreams would sporadically wake me up in a sweat, embodying all the anxiety I tried to suppress in the months leading up to my trip (damn, I'm slow).

however, when I got here something entirely unexpected happened: I found the bugs interesting. I have no yet seen a spider, nor a millipede over two inches long, so we'll see how I cope in the future. But I have stepped barefoot on a large shiny beetle (twice--it didn't die), and rather than flinch or jump disgustedly, as i would have if I'd clod upon a domestic cockroach, I quickly stooped to examin it in all its wierd glory. Is this the creature making that beeping sound in the jungle, which I first took to be someone's microwave being endlessly programmed in the night?

It's not all glamorous, but I feel as though I've handled myself well, like when I found some small, gray, wormlike thing squirming on my arm, I casually flicked it away. Or when that two-inch millipede scuttles across the floor, I watch to see if the gecko will eat it. I've also taken joy in studying the impossibly green tree frogs and crystalline-yellow sand crabs. What can i say, the little naturalist inside has finally found its way out, and I might even (this will shock some of you) take a hike through a nearby forest reserve.

problem is, there's one common insect that neither delights nor intirgues me. that's right, the mosquito. i woke up yesterday with an accumulated fifty bites between my knees and ankles, probably received while reading in the hammock on my porch. I try to be diligent with the repellent, but they can smell my fresh blood. i will, on the recommendation of a good friend (as well as douglas adams), begin drinking gin and tonic to ward against further atttacks (and malaria). I have scrapped a plan to look for Jupiter, Mars and Mercury in the dawn sky tomorrow, because twilight's feeding time. i am hesitant to take that jungle hike because i doubt my deet-free repellant will save me.

The only thing that gives me a sense of security is that mosquito net over my bed. Safely inside its gossamer tent, I find sancturay as i sleep; nothing will feast on me this night.

Speaking of dread (first paragraph, second sentence), I have been greatly enjoying the live music down here. If i didn't already mention it, Puerto Viejo used to be called old Old Harbor (it was apparently never new), founded by Jamaican turtle fisherman in the nineteenth century, so the reggaton vibe rings loud and strong here. Every night I've been able to find at least one band playing around town, and failing that I've gone to a club where locals and tourists groove to dancehall music that spills out onto the beach thrity feet away, the moon casting palm-shaped silhouettes over the ocean. Several half-toothless, dreadlocked rastafari have offered to be my "ganja master," and the first night out i was thus solicited about 6 or 7 times. Fortunately, it's a small place, and you see the same people all but every day, so as they begin to recognize me, they're beginning to let me pass with a polite hello and "how's the surf?"

Other locals are off-and-on friendly with me, ranging from late-teenaged surfers (aka groms) to guys closer to my age. (As I said, it's a small place, so there aren't many people of any particular age, and the socializing crosses a lot more boundaries than I'm used to in the states). cafe owners, waitstaff, surfers, bike riders and general gadabouts offer engaging conversation, but then become mindful of my impermanence and withdraw a bit. I think I do this a bit myself. If i eventually decide to live here I guess I will have a good head start, and will at least know where to find the erudite people in town.

I could probably keep these shorter, or at least provide more pictures. ah, well, soon enough. time now for a late caribbean meal.

I'm in the Jungle, Baby!

What are the odds that the best cheeseburger I've ever had in my life would be found at a thai restaurant/shack in a small latin-caribbean beach town on the east side of costa rica? Pretty low, actually, and it turned out to be terrible. But it felt like it was going to be great, coming on the heels of my first central american surf session. And what a session it was, just at the outer limits of my skill level, leaving me more exhausted, thirsty and famished than I'd been when I finally arrived here only an hour before.

The day began where I'd finally crashed the previous night (naturally): the tiny Liberia, home to little more than a burger king, a subway and a shop with the sole purpose of renting out back-hoes (no kidding).

I hate to use the word 'crash,' given the journey i was about to undertake: to wit, my first ever experience in a propeller plane (see pic). Good old Elwin picked me up at 6am to hustle me to the airport, where I had reserved a spot on the local domestic carrier, Sansa Air. The guy behind the counter seemed surprised that I'd booked in advance, and moreso when he saw that I meant to travel with my coffin-like 7'8" surf bag. "It might fit," he told me, with the look of someone trying to understand a rubik's cube, "but I don't think so."

Fast forward to the airstrip, where he, another airline clerk, the pilot, copilot and I stroke our chins to solve the riddle of how to fit the bag (in my defense, the Sansa web side claims they can handle up to 9 feet of surfboard). The answer turned out to be this: pull both painstakingly-packed boards out of their stable, cushioned existence and squeeze them one by one into cramped metal luggage compartments under the plane. I winced as a saw them go in, nose first, fins up, but the alternative was a 5-1/2 hour busride, followed by the 4-1/2 hour bus ride I'd already anticipated. Plus, no refunds other than the twenty dollar excess baggage fee.

Of course, I made it, and moments later I got my first, arial view of this country I've come here to admire. Mossy grass flowing over hills and mountains into dense tree cover, waterfalls shooting out of spots where there seemed to be no river, as if the leaves had simple sucked the heavy moisture out of the air and funneled it into a torrent that spits out of the mountainside. pretty sweet. In minutes I caught my first glimpse of the ocean I'd come to surf (eventually--this was the pacific).

The plane picked up more passengers in coastal mainstay Tamarindo, presumably the last stop on my circuitous oddyssey. I've included a picture of this landing strip to give you an idea just how terrifying it was coming in, the threadbare landing gear finally bouncing us onto safe ground. Then, off we went again, over more rain forest, more mountains, clouds and rough going. Even as the character in the novel I was reading (The Kite Runner- fantastic if you haven't read it yet) suffered motion sickness, my stomach lurched and groaned and I wryly noted that this cramped seat was the first I'd even occupied on a plane that didn't come equipped with barf bags. However, the cute one-year-old in the seat next to me refused to vomit, and I wasn't about to let her show me up. Finally, after nearly an hour, we settled in for another bumpy landing in San Jose.

My stay in this capital city would not be long; just enough to taxi over to a bus terminal and board my new ride. This journey was relatively comfortable, with even more lush mountain landscapes, steam rising from the canopy like thick smoke to join clouds that cling to the tree-coated ridges. Fellow travelers were friendly and chatty, marvelling at my solar-powered backpack and sharing tales of other parts of this country, and latin america on the whole. In seemingly no time we arrived in Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, my home for the next week and a half.

I checked in to a wi-fi equipped room and had just enough time to unpack before my hosts' 16-yr-old son stepped by to ask if I wanted to go surfing. He moved here as a pale gringo from rural new mexico four years ago, and has grown into a lithe, tanned, sunblonde shredder (aka good surfer), possessing a thick local accent thsat falls somewhere between jamaican patois and tico spanish.

With the youngster leading the way (I don't htink he's realized yet I'm twice his age), we pedaled a mile or so south to a beach break that was uncharacteristically going off. Nine foot faces coming in at breakneck speeds, one after the other, and curling into tight barrels. Admittedly, the two days of travel didn't do me well, and I caught four rides on the afternoon. However, I was stoked to be in the mix, and happy to be serving the purpose of my time here at last, a mere thirty hours after I disembarked from my parents' driveway. From now until the middle of the month, if you'd like to imagine where I am, just picture me riding a bike down a muddy, potholed road, dense jungle on both sides, a surfboard tucked under my arm and a satisfied smile on my face. Pura vida, baby.

Donde Estoy?

This is where I start to butcher the espanol, because despite five years of study and half a lifestime spent living within spitting distance of mexico I freeze up when I enter into a real live bilingual conversation. Elwin, my tutor/taxi driver is convinced that I'll be in the swing of it by this Feliz Navidad, and he makes a pretty persuasive argument that it's muy facil. Nevertheless, passing through immigration might have been problematic if the official hadn't been able to tell me in plain English, "Please do not step onto my side of this counter, sir." But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The day began, bleary-eyed and anxious over a cup of coffee with my mom, who was up a little earlier than usual, not only to drive me to the airport, but also to help lift my surfboard bag onto the roofrack of her car (thanks mom!).

What she might not have realized is that i was getting by on two hours sleep, and still only just barely managed to get everything packed in time. Did I say everything? Turns out I couldn't fit a couple things I'd thought to bring. Looks like i won't be violating the tranquility of las playas with my music, as my portable iPod speaker left no room in my backpack for more essential items like toothpaste and deodorant. I also could not efficiently attach my sleeping bag to my pack, which means I won't likely be camping, which is just as well because I need someplace to stach my stuff while I surf anyway.

I did somehow manage to get my two boards packed tightly and protectively into the board travel bag, which I wheeled into the airport at a quarter of eight. I knew Continental would charge me around a hundred bucks to take this oversized luggage; what i didn't realize is that once it exceeds 70 pounds they tack on another hundred. One of the ticketing agents helped me stack it on the scale and we watched as it spun out a very suspenseful, Vegas-like sequence of numbers: 72.1. 68.3, 70.8, 65.9, 73.4. I started to inch towards it, my big toe prepareed to nudge the bag ever so surreptitiously upward, when the scale finalyy settle upon an agreeable weight: 69.7. Whew. As they tagged my luggage and charged me, a second agent apologized for the fee, declaring it his personal mission to convince the airline to drop the profitable practice. He then took me aside and told me about a secret surf spot on the northwest pacific coast of CR that can only be found by sweet-talking local boatsmen. Pura vida. The boards were checked and I was on my way.

I'm here now in a small hotel in Liberia, late enough in the day and far enough from the coast to be disinteresting. The lovely hostess, Marianna, was kind enough to offer me a beer, though, and my new friend Elwin, proudly born and bred in this town I just unsancrimoniously scoffed, has offered to return early in the morning to help me catch my next flight.

I've already encountered an interesting fellow tourist who is here for vastly different reasons, having only decided to come to latin america on saturday, and still managing to beat me to it by six hours. however, I haven't yet decided whether his story is uplifting or depressing, so for now I'll just say I'm excited and feeling very fortunate to be here, so close to the jungle, one with the lizards and insects.