The American Dream, Craft Beer, and Rumors of Eco-Terrorism

It was tremendously good for the soul to find myself back in Puerto Viejo, after two years. I was witness to strange omens, and uncommonly fortunate in the acquaintances I made this go-round. Having been won over by the convenience of airbnb, and captivated by the outright bizarre randomness which typically embodies an airbnb residency, I had booked the weekend at Kaya's Place, on the periphery of town, with no particular expectation, save that I would likely see something I hadn't seen before.

Being that I venture to Costa Rica in search of... opportunity?... and no longer merely as a dollar-hemorrhaging tourist, it has become particularly interesting to me when I meet other estadounidenses who seek personal renewal; those few of us willing to undergo a reboot of the 'American Dream' on singular terms, devoid of the taint of propaganda. And so it was that I met J.T., ex-pat of 11 years, from Vermont, and the affable proprietor of Kaya's Place.

J.T. has been brewing since he was 14-years-old. Initial tutelage in the craft of beer-making began by virtue of his older friends, who themselves had begun their own fermentation experiments. Though not old enough to drink, J.T. was old enough to buy ingredients. And certainly, the social capital that arrived at the rampant whispering amongst his peers, 'Hey! J.T.'s got his own beer!', must have paid awesome dividends for the New England teenager. The hobby became the passion. Fast forward to 2004: Scion of an enterprising family, poised to eventually inherit their company, and no doubt, millions of dollars, J.T. walked away from it all (save for his marriage, which, even after a heroic effort on her part, she unfortunately walked away from him.)

~ There's something about hitting thirty which, I think for men in particular, prompts a sober reassessment of life choices ~

[ My own honest appraisal of the ground upon which I stood at thirty led me to essentially walk away from a 50% ownership stake in a digital recording studio in San Diego; it led me to East Texas - the historical incubator of my matrilineal ancestors - where I went back to college,  and subsequently found a much more hospitable economic landscape, not to mention the fresh start which would become exponentially harder to initiate the longer I waited, the older I became. ]

J.T.'s 'career path', if you will (or perhaps it is more accurate to call it a profile in self-preservation), brought him to the warm embrace of the Caribbean. To have lived the life laid at his feet, to have fulfilled those basest of expectations, this no doubt would have been easier, as it would be for anyone. Is it a condition of being 'well-adjusted' to constantly feel like you want to leap out of your own skin for lack of any meaningful reminder that you're actually alive? As I interviewed him, and as J.T. plied me with his concoctions, we both more or less arrived at the consensus that 'The American Dream', as sold to us through endless imagery, through the insipid assurances of everyone from high school guidance counselors to Presidents, has nothing to do whatsoever with actually being happy, and everything to do with the compulsion to consume: our time, and all of its tangible derivatives.

If I may be unequivocal, the 'American Dream' is simply the pursuit of passion, and the journey to wherever it takes you in life - something Americans used to be heroic at. Some of us still are. "Passion is everything," J.T. agreed with me.

J.T. followed his passion for beer making to one of the loveliest places on Earth. And so it was that I discovered the varieties which Bribri Springs Brewery has to offer: a selection of artesanales full of creativity, each one more different from the next. (Disclaimer: though I love beer, I am not a beer critic.) At first glance, they all appeared as one might expect beer to look like. Of particular note was (I believe) the third variety which I tried. Called Hibiscus Mango Basi, this was no beer at all - derived from sugar cane, it is the undistilled precursor to rum. It sits at about 12% alcohol content, if memory serves. It was a unique pleasure, and I'm curious to try other varieties of Basi, now that I know what to ask for. The most experimental of the five would have to be the Sundown Brown, which contains maple notes, as well as a not-even-subtle bacon motif. (Yes, bacon.) As revolting as other food amalgams have been, such as bacon-flavored ice cream, or soda, Sundown was surprisingly good - I can definitely envision this being a seasonal delight around Thanksgiving time.

Certainly the most relevant of the five samples would be the chocolate porter, or Big Choco, as it's formally known. This is significant for the simple fact that the chocolate is local, bought from the Bribri, the indigenous people who inhabit the Limón province. The cacao farmers, as J.T. related to me, suffered a terrible blight beginning in the late 1970's due to an invasive fungus, Moniliophthora roreri, which destroyed about 80% of Costa Rica's output of cacao beans. The official narrative is that this amargo misterio was something entirely random, a misfortune that was the inevitable result of nature, and of commercial farming. But the Bribri tell a much darker story. The eyewitnesses paint a picture of airplanes dumping bags of the fungus onto the cacao fields from above - deliberate acts of eco-terrorism carried out by contractors on the payroll of U.S. multinationals, with the goal of forcing the farmers to burn their fields and transition to banana plantation. Nowhere in the Costa Rican National Library, nor in any of the news archives, is there even a hint of this. Nor was John Perkins, author of the indispensable Confessions of an Economic Hitman, and expert on corporate-sponsored terrorism, able to confirm this bit of history when I asked him via email. 

After an afternoon of digging, and hitting mostly dead ends, I did however find this one article, which reported on the legal action against Standard Fruit for dumping - and this is ironic - fungicide into the ecosystem. Whether or not this same multinational is definitively responsible for the cacao plague is beyond the scope of this posting. I am inclined to believe that there is truth to the allegations, as there is scientific evidence that suggests that the particular strain of M. roreri which destroyed Costa Rica's cacao industry is genetically identical to varieties found in Ecuador; that the presence north of Panama is not the result of natural selection. Whether there is also truth in the notion that modern commercial farming played an innocent part in the devastation, we may never know.

My next visit to Costa Rica will definitely include another trip to the Limón region, as this allegation is truly alarming to me, and deserving of more investigation. I'm very grateful to J.T. for telling the story of the Bribri, and for making such a noble effort to bring not only understanding, but healing between two disparate worlds - the indigenous, and the European - bundled together paradoxically within a distinct identity; a people who share a regional history that is tragic, at times brutal, but also triumphant: Costa Rica, and that which her people have built in a half-millenium of coexistence, has become the jewel of Central America.

~"I'm telling the history through the beers I brew." - J.T. Ficociello ~

2025 UPDATE: JT and I have reconnected after more than a decade and are collaborating on a real estate project. For more information, please visit www.tejanosproperties.com 

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.