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2004-11-16 IMPORTANT NOTES FROM JUSTIN: Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica Puerto Viejo. It's a sleepy town. Only maybe sleepier. A cup of Costa Ricans, a cup of Caribbean Island transplants, a cup of threadbare tourists with dreadlocks. Season heavily with coconut trees, warm sea water and more than a few sprinkles of rain. Drink slowly, since nothing is happening fast here—except for maybe the fickleness of the weather, a constant oscillation between rain and not. We arrived early in the day yesterday. I think it was about ten. Nothing was open and the streets were empty. Which meant you couldn't eat from any of the restaurants with the brightly colored hand painted signs or buy board shorts from the stores with brightly colored hand painted signs or buy a knick knack from an artisan who had the skill to make and hang their very own brightly colored hand painted sign. They're really into the signage here. We didn't walk far before we were offered drugs numerous times by some dreadlocked locals. Then again, we couldn't have walked far. There's nowhere to walk. The town is barely a town. It's more of a tiny village, hidden away in the far southeast corner of the country. But, some symbiosis must occur here. Surf, sand, coconuts, beauty. Surfers, hippies, vagabonds, fuckos. There seems to be a balance in this place—a completion of the circle. The sluggish pace seems natural and the simple hand–to–mouth industries feel so right. Feeding people allows a married couple to feed themselves; an older man rents freshly–erected, humble cabanas on land near his house; a surfer sells coconuts he plucks from a nearby tree.
I'm not sure how compatible my natural frequency is with this place—I like things fast, furious, and nonstop. But, I like new things, so I'm ready to dive into life in the slow lane and give it a shot. As long as I don't have to sleep in a hammock. PREVIOUS ENTRY - NEXT ENTRY |