Gringo-proofing ATVs, La Virgen del Carmen, and the Monkey Mafia

There is plenty to do for the adventuresome tourist here in Sámara.  I've personally undertaken a couple such adventures in the two weeks I've been here thus far. The aforementioned queasy dolphin tour would have been even better had it not been for [the violent urge to vomit] the rough surf - we were supposed to go snorkeling in addition to testing our hand-eye coordination by snapping pictures of the porpoises. Yesterday I also enjoyed a sweltering 7k run east to Playa Carrillo with a buddy. One can explore Cantarana (Singing Frog) on horseback, as the gorgeous German girls did, with the mares' gamboling colts following close behind; one can take surfing lessons (a notion which appeals more and more the deeper Sámara draws me in); and there are also ATVs for rent - I've seen mostly French and German gentlemen partake in their use, though they are available to everyone.

No translation needed

What I find amusing is the proprietor's need to warn a certain demographic about the potentiality for lethal injury. The presence of this cynical but accurate appraisal of the judgement of certain tourists on the entire fleet of ATVs was more than worthy of a photo. I imagine the owner of this business may well have at least one entrant for consideration of a Darwin Award. I should go interview him/her.

Last Sunday, I attended my first baptism in a long while, that of the granddaughter of my host-mother. With the exception of my cousin's recent baptism, I'd not attended a full Catholic ritual since I'd lived in Portola Valley. La Virgen del Carmen gets her name from Mt. Carmel in Israel, also known as Hakkarmel in Hebrew, which translates to 'Place of the Garden.' [1]

The Altar of La Virgen de Carmen in La Iglesia de Sámara 

It is not lost on me that She is an invocation of the Virgin Mary; being literally named in association with the sowing/reaping of sustenance seems to be in keeping with Catholic dogma. La Virgen del Carmen also happens to be the matron for at least a half-dozen military organizations in Central and South America. Our guide on the recent dolphin tour mentioned that July 16th is Dia del Carmen in Costa Rica, in which captains coordinate a procession of their boats in Her honor along the Sámara coast.

At first I thought that the Monkey Mafia was a motorcycle club, but as it turns out, it's a surf organization based in Nicoya, with local branches in several of the outlying beach towns. They have a robust merchandizing operation, and are associated with what appears to be a much larger company offering surf tours, called Howling Monkey Adventures. 

I think their logo is pretty damned awesome, and I'm halfway tempted to buy a tee-shirt. However, having lived in La Jolla, California, as a teenager, I know first-hand about the territorial [read: terrorist] nature of some such organizations. I fortunately never had to deal personally with the likes of either the Windansea Surf Rats, or the douchebags of 2008, The Bird Rock Bandits. (What's funny is I recall members of the former used to carve the shorthand 'WSR' all over the walls and furniture of La Jolla High School, and the ignoramuses in the Administration assumed it meant 'White Supremacy Rules.') 

Unlike their Mexican cousins, who suffer from a well documented, centuries-long rape complex (See: Samuel Ramos, Octavio Paz, others), violence is not in the nature of Costa Ricans, at least not that I've been able to determine. I do have reason to believe that the Monkey Mafia are per se territorial, based on at least one photo posted to their Facebook page, but still, out of respect, as much as I really like their logo, I don't want to haphazardly buy their swag like a stupid fanboy, only to be rebuked for not being a surfer. (Fanboy doesn't translate into Spanish, that I know of.) Still, there's plenty of time for me to take that bull by the horns. I'll consult the oracle - his name is Spartácus, and he's the only septuagenarian I know who can pound out a hundred consecutive push-ups. (More on him later.)

Source: [1] https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virgen_del_Carmen

Avoiding Simian Bombardment, or My First Week in Sámara

Indeed, being aware of the trees is more of a necessity in Costa Rica, and for reasons more critical than whether or not they will provide ample shade for your car. (There aren’t that many of those here, and no parking lots - just the occasional unpaved bit to the side of a building.) The importance of three-dimensional awareness comes into play in this country, as humans can easily be put in a hospital by falling coconuts, or they can be informed in no uncertain terms of the opinions of their less-evolved cousins. The local monkeys have also apparently inspired a motorcycle club. 

Pandemonium

It was a treat being present for the zenith of Costa Rica’s performance in the 2014 World Cup, as it was also their best performance in the history of the sport: The Ticos embarrassed some very big names, and surprised many by inspiring the question, “Where’s Costa Rica?” Immediately following the difficult victory over Greece, Sámara erupted into a joyous romp. Flags adorned the hoods of the few vehicles that are here, and kids stacked themselves like cordwood into pickup trucks, all a-shout as they sped about the outskirts of town; the thoroughfare was occluded with the delerious celebrants of their nation’s rite of passage into soccer respectability. Unfortunately, the June 29th game was the high water mark for Costa Rica this go-round. Still, they have much to be proud of, and hopefully this summer’s success will see the current team stay together. I also hope it attracts the importation of both capital and talent into the Costa Rican soccer machine. The Chinese should invest in a couple stadiums. The U.S. sure as hell won’t.

Should I go to the beach? Oh wait... 

Yeah, I’m having a terrible time. Intercultura, my language school, is situated literally right on the beach. I walk through the front gate and I’m literally working sand into the nooks of my Chacos. I’m getting an interesting tan on my feet, sort of a cross-section basket-weave pattern, and I’m hearing ghastly things about something called Chikungunya. I’ll eventually need to blow the equivalent of a week’s lunch money to keep the repellent in stock. That’s a slam dunk business here for Ticos: selling sunscreen and mosquito spray - a testament to the general lack of preparedness of silly Americans. I'm all for exploiting consumer surplus. More on that topic later.

Habla más despacio por favor!

It’s not the Spanish, it’s the general disregard for pronunciation, and the tendency to take shortcuts that really throws me for a loop. My host mother, God bless her, is about sixty, and has purple hair. (I’m going to my first baptism this Sunday, that of her brand new Granddaughter.) ‘Mamá,’ as I call her, is an amazing cook, and speaks Spanish in a torrent of syllables, most of which fly right by me. I can catch the occasional prepositional phrase, vocabulary here and there - but I figure I’ll need to just listen better. Unless paid to do so, no Tico living in this country will speak Spanish slow enough, or with sufficient care, for Gringos learning the language to really be able to stay afloat. (This is not a complaint, just the way it is; and contrary to what it sometimes means in Mexico, ‘Gringo’ is never meant as an insult in Costa Rica.) Ticos of course will repeat themselves if you ask them nicely. I also learned from the customs agent that ‘Que?’ is not an appropriate way of asking someone to repeat something. For what it’s worth, I’m doing a lot better than I did last summer, and for the first time, I’m speaking Spanish more than I’m speaking English. My instructors kick ass, and I might actually have a shot at becoming more international by the end of this trip. ‘Sangre de Cristo!’, as my host mother says.

Note: If you bring Dramamine on a trip, be sure to fucking use it. The dolphins are great, but not at the expense of lunch, or pride.