After a couple days in the rain and the jungle, I catch a van to Montezuma on the southern end of the Nicoya Peninsula on the motherfuckin’ Pacific Ocean. That’s right, bitches, no Caribbean shite this go-round. I want big waves, big action. The Pacific is a little surlier, has a little more throwdown, and I like it.
So, I get to my hotel, which is a sweet bargain at $25 a night. It’s pretty basic, but supercute and superclean, built into the side of a hill in the jungle overlooking the ocean. So at night, you can hear the howler monkeys scream, sounding like something out of “Alien vs. Predator” and the little spider ones frolic around in the daytime, rattling the rooftops and dropping shit all over the place.
I don’t trust monkeys, as I think they’re kind of evil. But here’s one anyway.
And the people running my hotel give me great advice about what to do, see, etc. The owner even smokes me up one morning and tells me where to buy the best weed in town. Can you beat that?
The first night at dinner, the guys next to me at the restaurant clearly have brought their prostitutes to the table, but the girls barely speak English, and I am listening to these knuckleheads try to navigate their way through the John/Hooker experience. One guy turns to his friend, “Dude, I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
Then he’s like checking me out, and I’m thinking, “Dude, you’ve already got your 22-year-old prostitute right there.”
Then the creepy one tells the girls to “save their energy for later” but the other one has no idea how to talk to these girls, who I do find out are indeed 22, and he starts asking her about her house and her life as a little girl.
“Dude, you’re going in the wrong direction with this,” says the other guy. And I’m thinking, “Fucking amateurs. Don’t ever personalize your prostitutes.”
Next day, I decide that I’m gonna hike these fucked-up waterfalls–there’s three, one layered on top of the other. Here’s a picture of the bottom one, but you can see people at the top on the second one and how high it is:
I find the first one fine, go swimming. Then look around. Where’s the trail for the second?
Some German kid sees me staring at this wall, a pretty steep wall, covered in rocks and vines and tree limbs—“That’s the trail,” he says.
“Up there?” I say. “Does it get steeper?”
“Yes, very steep. Very dangerous,” he says.
Oh, shit. I am very afraid of heights, but I realize that I’m not satisfied with the pussy-ass lame waterfall I’ve just seen. I’ve got to see the other two. So I start climbing. About halfway up, I’m stuck. I can’t figure out which way to go, clinging by fingers to a tree limb—and I’m like, “Don’t look down, don’t look down.” Fuck, I looked down. Then I start to kinda panic, thinking, well, I can’t go back down the way I came. So, I refocused and forged ahead.
At the top, I found a smooth, easy path around. Until I get to the other side, where you have to climb down a vertical drop, holding onto a blue rope. I am about to lose it, but some nice kids from Wisconsin spot me down. Ah, Midwesterners, always handy in a pinch.
I go swimming, blah, blah, blah and take the easy way out of that clusterfuck—the secret easy path my hosts at the hotel told me about. Rest of day is pretty uneventful, but after dinner I go for a stroll on the Harbor Beach.
So I go over there. Two Ticos and an Americano are sitting at the table, drinking and smoking cigars. There’s a doofy-looking one with a gold tooth, ghetto jewelry, backwards baseball cap. This one is the Weed/Coke/Pimp dealer. Then there’s a 26-year-old fisherman, his friend, who just broke up with his girlfriend of five years. And the American is an intern at USA Today from D.C.
“What you want, man?” Weed/Coke/Pimp says.
“What you got?”
“Weed, coke, X, whatever you want, man,” he says, laughing. “I got girls too.”
“Is your weed any good?”
“Oh, yeah! It’s the best!”
Now, there was no way this guy sold decent weed, that much I could tell. I was warned about the ditchweed, and he was going to charge me $40 an eighth, truly overpriced for the quality.
“I could get you a guy, too,” he says, laughing. “I have this guy right here!” he says pointing to the fisherman.
“Are you cool with him trying to pimp you out?” I ask Fisherman.
“Oh, yeah, I break up with girlfriend, I’m free to do whatever I want. No kids, no nothing, I’m free. I’m going to start being gigolo,” he says and laughs.
“How much would you charge?” I ask him.
“Oh, for you, free. I do you for free!” he says.
“No, not for me,” I say. “Hypothetically, what would you charge?”
“For anyone else? Like ‘gorda, gorda, gorda?’ ” he goes, gesturing with his arms and face to make himself puff up. “Two hundred for an hour, one hour max. But I can go seven, eight horas, all night, ‘til I finish the job for you.”
The best thing about these so-called dealers here is that even if you won’t buy anything from them, they’ll get tired and roll a freebie anyway. So Weed/Coke/Pimp rolls a joint, and we pass it around and smoke it “Tico-style, none of this one puff shit. Take two, three hits,” they say.
Pimp and Fisherman eventually wander off, which leaves me with the Intern. There’s a sleazy nightspot in town, Chico’s, and he says, “Wanna go check it out?”
Of course I do. So we wander up to the only bar in town, and man is that a scene on a Wednesday night—there’s one Tico couple tearing it up on the dancefloor, mangy dogs running around everywhere, a card game with full-on cash betting in the back, and shirtless pool-playing, Ticos hitting on blonde touristas. We grab two Imperials—the official beer of Costa Rica—and go sit out back over the ocean.
So, I’m having a fine enough time with the Intern, he’s 24, skinny but cute, kinda preppy. Nothing he’s said so far really trips my trigger, but then he asks me to make out (which I usually do not like being asked, just be a man and fucking do it already), but I’m like, “Fuck it, it’s been a while, and I need to make out.” And making out on the beach by the ocean, under the stars, with a cute 24-year-old doesn’t seem that bad a prospect.
But I cannot get into it—and I can’t put my finger on it. The Intern isn’t a particularly bad kisser, but he ain’t great at it either. There’s just a lot of Triple AAA type rookie fumbling going on, and I am bored. Bored! An emotion I’ve never experienced with making out—I’ve been turned on, disgusted, curious, etc., but never bored.
So, I don’t know what to do with the Intern. I mean, I’m having the same internal dialogue I have with myself whenever I’m making out with someone new.
“Sigh. Should I just fuck him?”
“Yeah, you really should, I mean just get it out of the way.”
“But this is so boring! I know it will be bad.”
“Yeah, but it’s vacation sex!”
“But bad sex is sooo not worth it.”
And on and on this goes, while Intern sucks at my neck and paws at my boobs.
He moves us farther out on the beach, between these rocks, and I’m like looking up and thinking, “Oh, God, I’m so sick of this.” Then these ’Mer-Kuh Guys come outside the bar, and stand not far away from us to piss. There only about five or six feet away, but for some reason they can’t see us.
“Oh, my God,” I say. “These idiots are totally gonna take a leak here. Can’t they see us?”
“No, wait, don’t look, don’t look,” he says. “And still don’t look.”
They finally finish pissing, but they continue to stand outside, practically right over us and carry on with their inane conversation–bashing Costa Rican food and culture, talk about their stupid jobs and making money–but when they raise their beers to toast Ronald Fucking Reagan, I lose my shit.
“Mmm, hey guys, we’re trying to get it on here so can you fuck off?” I say.
“Huh, us fuck off?” they’re straining to see where that came from. “Yeah, uh…why don’t you fuck off!”
“Uh, no,” I say. “You fuck off.”
They grunt but they leave.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Intern says.
“I knew they’d go away,” I say. “I have a talent for fucking with people.”
Anyway, things go real south after that distraction. I cannot get into it, so I’m like, “Hey, let’s go back to the bar.”
And then he gets pissed, “Man, I cannot figure out what you want.” Then he wanders away.
Left on the beach, I decide that I have no idea what I want—it’s funny the things we think we want the most have to come from certain sources, otherwise they’re quite worthless—but I was quite happy regardless. I climbed an insane waterfall, got high for free with the town pimp and just made out with a 24-year-old who thinks I look 28.
That’s not bad for a day. Not bad at all.
(Part Three, sharks, surfing, cooter-flashing, why guys from westernized nations suck, etc.)