Dominical Dot Biz

If you are just finding these articles, this is Part III of III. You might want to start the series by clicking the following links: Part I || Part II
After sitting there for awhile in that post-terror state, I decided to walk around. Opening the door I stepped down into the water and found that it came up to just above my knee. My cell phone has a flash light in it, so I put that on and began to walk upstream. The night was gorgeous. Now that I was away from the lights of the car, the blackness seemed to lift slightly and there was a glow from the sliver moon, and the countless stars. Then I had my second scariest moment, but this one was entirely from the contents of my mind.

As I waded along through the river, looking for the outlet of the road on this side of the river, the thought occurred to me: “Ben, you’re in Samara Costa Rica, in the middle of nowhere. It’s a rather wild place. Mightn’t there be some crocodiles about these parts?” Suddenly, all of the floating river debris, of which there was quite a bit, suddenly became crocodiles stalking this lost gringo. It didn’t last long, but there for a moment I felt the presence of one of these behemoths in the water and sent an additional dose of adrenaline through the system, just sort of as aperitif to the main course. After that I just simply decided that there weren’t any crocodiles, since I really had no choice with respect to being in the water there, and I calmed down a bit.

Finally I found the out-ramp, about 25 meters upstream from where my car sat burbling. In my natural chemical induced state of giddiness I started to think about my predicament. The car was stuck, and not just a little bit. You know how when your car gets stuck and you put it in gear to try and coax it forward, or you put it in reverse to ease it out of its stuckedness? You can kinda feel the car lurch forward and backward. Well, my car felt like it was in neutral even though all four wheels were in motion. There was no motion whatsoever. So I was what I would call, stuckisimo. This means that I would need to get some help. The problem with this conclusion was that I was 6 kilometers from the nearest resort, and I had no cell reception. And even when I found someone, what were they going to be able to do to help? No one else would be able to get out there to my car. So I felt just a little consternated by the situation. So I did what any red blooded, lost gringo male would do in this situation. I walked aimlessly around. This seemingly aimless activity yielded some pretty good fruitage. I found a signal area for my cell phone. I was able to call my family and let them know of my predicament. They in turn were able to notify the resort people of my situation, who in turn, responded as I had: they ran around, without really knowing what to do. So I signed off hoping that the situation would change and that somehow magically, my car would get out of the river.

The area that I was in was affected by the tide of the ocean. The tide was, as luck would have it, high at the moment of my crossing attempt. Now the tide was starting to recede and I noticed that the muffler sound was no longer a blub-blub-blub-blub, but a normal, muffler-in-the-air sound. This, I felt, had to be good. So, lacking a clear purpose, I waded back down to my car and decided to sit there.

After some time, jungle up above the out-ramp showed some illumination as a car passed along, illuminating the trees with dancing shadows. The fellow arrived at the river and wisely stopped. He noticed my car’s headlights shining askew down in the part of the river where a car ought not be and did what any red-blooded Tico male would do, he honked. So I waded back up to him. He had a coupe that had no hope of crossing this high-ish tide waterway. So he asked me if I was stuck, to which I replied, in my still chemically induced silly-state: “oh no, everything is fine. I thought it would be a nice time of night to cruise the river and see whats up.” He did not grasp that I was joking and so ignored my comment. So I attempted to sober up and admitted that I was indeed stuck.

Well, so at this point, I am deciding to make a long story short. He took my cell number, drove back up into the jungle to another crossing that he knew about that was shallow and crossable (Why hadn’t he just gone there to begin with? I don’t know, nor do I care, and actually, I’m glad he didn’t.) He got to the nearest establishment where lo and behold, there was a back hoe that was able and willing to come to the river and pull me out for a fee of 10,000 colones ($20.00 US). I have here attached a photo that didn’t turn out so well but they do give an idea of what it all looked like.

The process of getting pulled out of the river was enhanced by the usual Tico (Costa Rican) friendliness and the conversation was vibrant as the recently arrived resort staff member joined in the festivities of me getting pulled out and all was fine. I paid the 10,000 plus a 5,000 colon tip and the staff member led the way to the resort where the festivities were under way in what is an extraordinarily beautiful beachside resort. The area was lit up with just the right sort of torch lights, illuminating the dance floor and the outdoor tables and buffet that they were putting away when I arrived. I was late, but it wasn’t over, so I guess you could say that I made it. (The staff was extremely attentive and had made a plate for me which they insisted I sit and eat, and fussed extensively about making sure that I was OK)

I hadn’t seen my entire family together in nearly a year. My two daughters, my son, my two grandkids (I know, I’m not old enough to be a granddad, but my daughters each have a child of four years, so apparently I am), my wife whom I hadn’t seen in months as well, and some dear old friends from Colorado that I had not seen for some 9 years. The oddly silly effect of the trauma had diminished some but had not disappeared entirely, and so now gave way to the wonderful human emotion of extreme appreciation for the simple fact of being alive, and having so much. My heart welled with emotion as I got numerous hugs and concern was expressed. I told and retold my tale, while hearing of the hub-bub of running about that my situation had caused to the goings on there, with everyone trying to locate someone that could help me out and, was I alright, and so on.

The lesson that I have learned from this is “Dumbest Thing That I Have Ever Done” is: the next time that I encounter a river at night, the bottom of which I cannot see, and that I have never driven across, I’ll not drive into it. Oh, and next time I’ll use a map.

If you’re starting here, you might want to read Part I first . Click here for Part I :: Click here for Part III The next pause in my trip was to drive through Jaco.I wanted just to see it.We used to vacation in Jaco as a family, years ago, when it was a sleepy surf town.There was a bit of a buzz there that certainly was not felt in San Isidro de Perez Zeledon, where we lived, so it was a nice change of pace for us.I had heard that I wouldn’t recognize it.And this proved to be true.There are high rise hotels going in on the beach, and there are various malls and shops of every type.If what we experienced in the good ole days of Jaco was a buzz of activity, then what we’ve got there now is a full blown brass band on crack.The main drag was awash in tourists meandering about, shopping, and enjoying the hot weather that Jaco is famous for.And here is where we start about the dumb thing. (The photo there to the right is taken driving along the main drag in Jaco)

I stopped into a few shops looking for a Costa Rica map.Just a few shops, and evidently the wrong ones, cuz I couldn’t find one.So, failing in my half-hearted search, I called my son, who was already up in Samara and asked him how to get there.He said: “It’s easy.Just head north, following the signs to Liberia, until you see the sign to the Taiwan Bridge or El Puente La Amistad”.”Ok” thought I, “no problem.I can do this”.

So off I went.

Not that I have displayed any interest in editing this story to such an extent that what was a longish, carry-on sort of tale at the outset should be reduced to a gripping, fast moving adventure that leaves the reader rivetted by the anticipation of coming developments, but we here at this juncture will jump ahead to where I drive into Liberia.

I followed the directions.I know I did.The groups of signs north of Jaco all had one for Liberia.Easy.So, I assiduously examined them all for that one that would direct me to the bridge.

As I drove into Liberia, I thought that maybe I had gone too far.Fact is, I was enjoying the drive very much.My life as a realtor in the Dominical / Uvita / San Isidro area is one of lots of activity.I love it.I spend most of my life in what have to be some of the Earth’s most beautiful terrain.I see waterfall, toucans, monkeys, spiders, misty ocean views throughout the majority of my days spent in the mundane pursuit of supporting myself and family.There is also my office life which is one of refreshing harmony.Francine my friend and secretary.Rod, my associate, listing agent, and friend. Scott who is our resident tech guy and affiliate marketing expert, and friend.Then there is the steady flow of property sellers, and clients that stop in throughout the course of a normal day in the office.Going to work is for me, a genuine pleasure.

However, when I get a bit of time to myself, you know, the kind where you know that there is not going to be any sort of a deviating influence to the present path that my thoughts are moving along, no interruption to the contented browsing of the contents of my own skull and heart; I enjoy this time. Solitude would be the name for it.Oh, and then there are those amazing podcasts.If you, dear reader, don’t yet know about podcasts, and have an iPod, find out about these things, especially if you are planning to make a long drive longer by getting lost any time soon.

I called my son.“I’m in Liberia” said I. “What???!!!” said he.I had evidently overshot the turn. I had an hour and a half drive yet ahead of me, and the graduation proceedings were to begin in an hour and a half.Off I went, deciding to break the number one rule of driving safely in Costa Rica, I drove fast.It was fine actually since the road was very straight and rivaled the quality and width of that wonderful highway down south in our neck of the woods.

About 5 minutes of making great time, driving at a speed that would have no doubt gotten me to the graduation with 7 or 8 minutes to spare, I came to a screeching halt.There was some construction going on.I waited for an hour and a half with what ended up being somewhere around a hundred other people, sitting parked, in their cars, on that road.

I drove into Samara some time after the graduation ceremony, so I had missed it. But the banquet was to go on into the night. I felt more determined than ever to get there.Once in Samara I called Neil (my son) again and got directions on how to get to the resort.Samara is way out there.Well, once you get to Samara, you drive further out to an island, or point, or something like that, that is yet more remote.I was to drive to a sign that someone had spray painted a red arrow on, and follow that arrow.I did.Then when I got to the river, I was to cross and continue on another 6 kilometers. And here is where it gets really dumb.

The night was black, aided only by a fingernail moon and the Milky Way’s myriad stars.I arrived at the river’s edge and noted that this was indeed a “river” as opposed to what that word can sometimes designate here in Costa Rica, a “stream”.My headlights died about halfway across and the far bank was nothing more than a faint silhouette in the distance. The water was murky so there was no bottom to be seen. Hmmmm.Looks dangerous. In my determined state, I decided to call my son to have him describe to me the route to take to cross the river.Hoping to hear something like, “you enter the river and veer to the left curving gradually to the right where you’ll find the road again coming out of the far bank”.No signal on the cell phone. Hmmmm… the whole graduation procession must have crossed this river so it must be crossable… Blinded by my resolved determination to get to my daughter’s graduation, I drove into the river.

Well, as you might expect, I drove, not on a level plain, through the river.I instead drove down into the water, which promptly came up over the hood, diffusing the headlights as though they were those of a submarine.All four wheels continued to turn and some water reached as far as the windshield.Forward progress was slow going and I heard myself saying “oh please oh please oh please oh please”.There was a moment of a weightless floating sensation where I knew that I had lost the battle and would end up; best case scenario, floating down to the ocean but continue on alive, just needing a new car.Or, worst case scenario, dead, in which case the loss of my present car and the need to buy a new one wouldn’t bother me near as much as it would in the best case scenario, but I was still hoping to have those concerns.

My tires found purchase on the gravel river bottom and I continued ahead, trying with all my will to not gun the motor, (which for some inexplicable continued to run), thereby effectively nullifying any slight traction that I might currently be enjoying: the forward motion continued, until I bumped into the far bank, no exit in site, but my motor still running, my headlights pointing up to the bank askew and my muffler under the water making blub blub blub sounds.I sat there for a little while and realized that I was on the other side of what I now regard as “the scariest moment of my life”. I suspected that I might be in some sort of shock or something.The emotion of fear had been intense.I could feel the residue of whatever chemicals we release in such a situation still present in my veins.So I sat for a little while and began to enjoy the fact that I was still alive, and that my car was still running.

For the gripping conclusion Click here for Part III

Part I of III
Part II || Part III

Actually, I’d just as soon not talk about it. It’s a bit embarrassing. There may be a catharsis in the telling, and perhaps a description of the journey that preceded the “Dumb Thing” will be useful to those interested in Costa Rica as a vacation spot, or as a place to live. So, I’ll tell the tale, but you, dear reader, are going to have to get to the end to discover the really dumb thing.

My daughter recently graduated from the highly acclaimed school of massage up in Samara, Guanacaste Province, Costa Rica. 4 months of super-intensive schooling in anatomy and the various techniques for massaging that anatomy, all of which culminated in a graduation ceremony in a very remote, seaside resort just south of Samara called Punta Islita. I set off from Uvita, which is south of Dominical by about 12 minutes, and south of Manuel Antonio by about an hour and forty five minutes, and south of Samara by about 6 hours, just so you can get your orientation.

Uvita is situated on the Pacific side of Costa Rica, and Samara is also, but it’s out on the Nicoya Peninsula, which involves either driving around the inlet that forms the peninsula, or you can take a ferry across the bay, or you can drive a little further up and drive across the bridge that is known as “El Puente de la Amistad” which is also known as “The Taiwan Bridge”, since it was donated by Taiwan to Costa Rica. So, I took off at 5:00 AM. I had to take a quick jaunt up to San Isidro since I had left some gifts up there that I really bad wanted to be able to give to my family. We hadn’t all been together as a family for about a year, so it was to be quite the special occasion. My little detour up to San Isidro would add about an hour and a half to my trip, but such is family life. Besides, the early morning drive to San Isidro was breathtakingly beautiful.

When I returned from San Isidro, I headed northward towards Quepos / Manuel Antonio on what is known as “The Bumpy Road” or simply “The Road From Hell”. It is a roughly twenty five mile stretch of road that has eluded paving since Costa Rica’s inception, despite the fact that the highway north of it is smooth and wide, and the highway south is what us residents of this particular stretch like to call, (and quite modestly so I might add), the nicest highway in the country. Anymore with all the road improvements going on in the country thanks in large part to the current Arias administration, its probably not, but I think that we’ll just go ahead and keep bragging about our stretch of coastal highway.

Anyway, in order to sort of give a report on this stretch of road, which I get asked about quite a lot, and in order to delay the detailing of The Dumbest Thing I’ve Ever Done, I think I’ll go ahead and describe the drive. The Bumpy Road between Dominical and Quepos is in the best condition I’ve ever seen it. It took me about fifty minutes to travel its span, and it was, relatively speaking, smooth going. Please note that it pains my honesty-loving heart to use the word “smooth” in connection in any way with that road. But, I emphasize the qualifier “relatively” in deciding to use it. If you’ve ever driven that stretch of road, and have survived the drinking binge that resulted from it, you’ll know of the condition to which I refer. It is still amazingly bumpy, but relative to how it has been for the years that I have been in this country, it is a lot, well… less bumpy. It seems that they are actually improving the road and are getting it ready for paving. There are still a number of single lane bridges that are made up of railroad tracks running cross ways to form the driving surface. These bridges form a bottle neck that punctuate the drive with a number of slow downs and stops along the way but also provide an opportunity to purchase various road vendor snack foods as you wait. I subsisted on salted and dried plantain bananas washed them down with the wonderfully refreshing and healthy “pipa” or coconuts with a straw for drinking the juice. Some call that coconut milk but it’s really not. The juice that is found housed inside of the hard exterior and nutty meat of the coconut is coconut juice, whereas coconut milk is something different. I think that is made from pulverizing the meat of the coconut, but really I’m not sure. Do I seem like I’m stalling?

Ok, let’s move north, up into Quepos. I always like to stop at the Café Milagro, which is found just before the one lane bridge as you’re leaving Quepos towards the north. It’s on the right hand side and is well worth the stop for the traumatized traveler who has just passed over the now “smooth” road from Dominical. Their coffee is great and the owner has great taste in décor. You definitely feel like you are in Costa Rica, but there is a wonderful “café” feel there that invites you to sit and relax, and perhaps chat with whomever you might be sitting with. I got a double espresso and then moved on my way. Oh, I should mention for the tobacco aficionado that there is a small shop just next door to Milagro café that sells Cuban cigars. I stopped in there just to smell the tobacco, which I love, but didn’t by any cigars, which I don’t care a lick for, but I’m sure they’re good, if you’re into that sort of thing. Ok, getting on with it.
Click here for Part II

She says: “Honey, where should we go this year?”
He says: “Oh, I don’t know, the South of France was sure nice last year”
She says: “Yeah, and the year before that the kids got a real kick out of Disney world.”
He says: “Whattaya think about maybe Cancun, or Rio? Some place tropical?”
She says: “Yeah, that sounds good. What was the name of that little place on the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica that the Wellingfordbreaths went to last year? They loved it… Dominican… no.. that’s that island. Oh, I remember, Dominical. How ’bout there?”
He says: “Huh?”

That Dominical Costa Rica, and its surrounding areas, Uvita, Ojochal, Matapalo etc… would even be mentioned in such a conversation, is a huge indicator of the change that is going on in the Southern Pacific Zone of Costa Rica. The word is out: Its pretty darn cool there… well “here” from this writer’s perspective. This is an extraordinary part of the world and tourism is kicking in with a vengeance. But, it isn’t “tourism” as one might think.

Dominical features beaches, and perfect tropical weather. The mountains come right down to the ocean from just north of Dominical to Uvita. The country itself is so tiny that there are spots in the center of the country where a really good spitter can hit both oceans by simply turning 180 degrees (hyperbolic authoric license), meaning that there is all kinds of ocean breezy climate going on here. It is a wonder to be so close to the equator and be able to live without air conditioning.

So what is “tourism” like in Dominical? Well as much as it seems to want to be, and with as much pressure as the developers are putting on to it to be your normal fare tourism, it isn’t. Whats normal? Well, normal is defined by what so many people arrive here looking for. Chaise lounges on the beach with waiters in attendance. A golf course. A big hotel that offers all of the amenities, including child care.

Dominical just isn’t so.

I remember when I first visited Costa Rica in ‘98, I was amazed at how far off the beaten path one could get and still find some kind of little business. We got lost one time, consequently I have no idea where we were. But there we were and we stumbled upon a lone Tico shack that was painted in an amazing fashion. Reds, yellows, blues and greens. We found it most appealing. Come to find out that it was a little Bed & Breakfast that wasn’t cheap. It was right on the water though and to stay there would have been therapy at its finest.

Anywhere else in the world that I have been the big 3 prevailing factors for a successful commercial endeavor were, as we all know: location, location location. Costa Rica seems to defy this. When you make a reservation on the web for your accommodations here in the coastal region around Dominical/Uvita, you may be making plans to 4 wheel drive up to a screaming ocean view vacation rental where you just might decide you don’t need to go anywhere for the duration of your visit. The activity here is the place where you are staying. If you get up and sit on the deck looking out over the Pacific, and you enjoy a cup of coffee with your family and friends, the conversation oftentimes goes until lunch time. This was our experience as a family when we first arrived. No TV, no nearby mall, so whadaya do? Converse. We noticed that our time conversing went way up. Some say that this is good for a family, couple, or even friends. I don’t know about these things but I know that some people say that.

Anyway, it seems that there is an awful lot of interest in quieting down. The Ticos say “tranquilo” when someone appears concerned about something. They are the masters of being “tranquil”. This quality is truly important to the people that live in this country, and it seems to pervade the air, resulting in an agreeable affect on us when we get here.

I have written about how the changed perspective of living here in Costa Rica makes it interesting to visit the States. The article about “The Wall” details an exercise that I like to do when first entering the US. Life in the US is media saturated. To get out of that is, well, therapeutic. It seems like right at about day 4 of being in Costa Rica, the mind stops considering what the left is doing to the right, and if Tom Cruise is really going to get married and if Brittaney’s boobs are real, and we start to think purely about what we want to think about. This too, is an agreeable experience. I think that this is what “tourism” is all about in our area of Costa Rica.

There are an awful lot of creative minds moving into the Domincal / Uvita area. The creativity is seen mainly in
how to move here and live here. Setting up a B & B or some villas is a common strategy, and it is frequently accompanied by: massage, meditation, yoga, and exercise of some sort. Selva Y Mar is an example of this. This is a far cry from a chaise lounge on the beach.

We are hoping that “tourism” can be effectively defined here, a la Dominical / Uvita / Ojochal before the typical definitions of the word are able to take hold. So far there are no big hotels and the beaches are wide open for a quiet walk and talk with a friend. The topography of the area helps quite a bit. As much pressure as there is to put a golf course in, and Lord knows this would help “tourism” sooo much here, it is nearly impossible, thanks to the radical rise and fall of the terrain.

Tourism in Dominical is a time to quiet the soul, to see how one feels about one’s own company, to quiet that internal dialogue that has, in many cases, been augmented artificially by intelligent marketing efforts of big money making concerns on Planet Earth. Of course, there are those of us who simply have a blaring internal chatter going on naturally, no matter what. But to stand on a beautiful beach, with maybe 5 other people visible as far as the eye can see, and to watch a stunning sunset, and to consider what is all about; this is tourism. Or to sit alongside a waterfall tucked back and up in the jungles along the mountains of this pacific coast, we can see how we do with quiet.

Tourism re-defined. Give it a try.

Had a bit of a shock on my way home from California. I had caught a red-eye from Sacramento California to Houston, where I had a 3 hour lay over, which is fine since the airport there offers some serious people watching and stuff browsing opportunities. I made the best use of my time there and then went to the gate, where they were announcing that “even if you are all checked in, please come to the counter to get your passport approved”. I hadn’t ever heard this before, so I dutifully went to the counter. They took one look at my passport and said, “you can’t travel with this, I’m going to have to pull you from the flight”.
Needless to say, I am now miffed. But, I enacted my “Friendly and Patient” policy that I developed during my repeated crossings at the Panama border from Costa Rica. I stood there without saying the things that I wanted to say: “Could I be sure and have your full name please, so that I can file a complaint”, and “you know, you could just let me through and I’ll get the thing taken care of at the Embassy in San Jose Costa Rica, you are just harassing me” along with other less speak-able diatribes - meanwhile he is calling the baggage place and telling them to pull my luggage.
He explained to me that Costa Rica is one very persnickety place about passports and that, even though I live there, they might deport me for having one in this condition, and that it had happened a lot lately. I said, “you’ve actually seen people deported for this?” to which he and his companion behind the counter emphatically nodded in confirmation. They said that the airline itself might be in line for $10,000 fine as well. So, I cooled off pronto, glad that I had not voiced what I had wanted to voice, and ended up thanking them for pulling me from the flight. We are a strange bunch, us humans.
He gave me the information on how to get my new passport, and I copy it here in the event that this information can be helpful to anyone else. I will write this from the perspective of it all happening in Houston Texas. I was at the George Bush International airport there. In one of the customer service areas of concourse E there are several phones on the wall for just this use. Well, the use of people traveling that have had problems. Anyway, to use these phones you gotta dial 9 first then the number. The office for passports has a toll free number with very helpful people on the other end of the line.
1-877-575-5700 I don’t remember how all the menus and options went, but I did actually end up talking with a human after awhile. I think that after listening to lengthy instructions on how to use the website, I finally got to a person (very helpful) who then transferred me on to the Houston office’s automated system for making an appointment.
I found a website that offers to help guide on through the “stressful process of getting or renewing a passport”. No why is that? Why would this be “stressful”? I think that we fear some catastrophic thing happening, something that will actually keep us from being able to get it done. Or worse. Maybe we’ve seen some movie or read a book about someone who, in the innocent process of dealing with a government agency, is mistaken as a missing terrorist or the equivalent thereof, and they end up in a web of intrigue where they have to, all of a sudden, know how to travel internationally and dodge high tech surveillance and drive fast through small and crowded European streets until they are able to clearly establish their innocence and help to catch the actual bad guy. In fact, it would seem, that this rarely happens. The whole system is actually designed to get us what we need so that we can get on about our business. This is, after all, the U. S. of A.
But, you do have to make sure that you have what they require.
What they require depends on a few things about you. In my case, I had a “damaged or mutilated” passport. The thing, I wish I had a photo of it, it was a mess. The cover was de-laminating from the inside and it was all dog-eared. It turns out, that this is actually a bit dangerous, having a passport in this condition. They can really getcha for having such a passport. The below if from the page: http://travel.state.gov/passport/get/renew/renew_833.html

• If you mutilate or alter your U.S. passport, you may invalidate it and risk possible prosecution under the law (Section 1543 of Title 22 of the U.S. Code).
• If your passport has been mutilated, altered or damaged , you cannot apply by mail. You must apply in person. ( See How to Apply in Person .)

But, lets say that your passport is fine, and that you simply need to renew it, you can do it all via mail, and it’ll cost you around $67. And you can do all this by clicking here.
Returning to my saga; I made my appointment, all through automated channels, and got an appointment in the at 1919 Smith St. Houston Texas, Suite 1400. It was for 10:00 AM and it was, at that moment 9:00 AM. So, off I went to “Ground Transportation” where I walked out, and directly into, a waiting cab. He drove me there to my appointment for a fee of $49, yeowch! Big cab fare, but hey, wadda ya do?
There is, it turns out, an option if you’ve got the time, which you most likely won’t, but here it is. There are free shuttles that run from the fine downtown hotels out to the airport and back. They charge $15 but take a round about way to your destination since they go to all the hotels. You’d just have to ask the driver to let you know when to get off.
There is airport-like security at the 1919 Smith St. Houston Texas, but, as with everywhere else that I went in Houston, the people are wonderfully friendly, so its not so bad. You go on through and up to the 14th floor, where you are greeted by a friendly guard, who will direct you to the wall of forms, there are 5 of them, with instructions that actually make sense, and you fill the thing out to the best of your ability.
I had a confirmation number from my phone-time with the automated system back at the airport. As I was filling out my form, I noticed that there was an automated voice over the loudspeakers, inviting the next number to go to “window 5″ or “3″ or whatever. I figure out after a while that the number was the confirmation number. So the 10:00 appointment was really just a guess that the queue would have moved along enough, and at the necessary pace, for my number to get called right about… oh say …. 10:00. Well it took a little longer, and actually what I ended up doing was just going to the information window where a very friendly person looked over my stuff and told me that I needed to go back down to the street level and get my passport photos taken. There were a number of options down there on the street, so I chose the bright yellow building that said “Passport Photos” on it. I figured if a guy was so serious about getting my attention that he’d paint his building that color, that I’d bite. He was friendly and it went easy and cost me $25.00.
So, back through security and up to the 14th floor and to the information window again, I was a little bit concerned that the original friendly gal that had been there was gone, and so now I had to deal with a new one and surely she wouldn’t be as friendly. It is amazing how our fears can work on us through this process. Anyway, she was friendlier than the first one and she gave me a new number, which later on was called and got me to the gal that was going to be the final word on me getting my passport.
She wasn’t all that friendly, but she wasn’t unfriendly. Its just that by contrast to everyone else that I had dealt with, she was unfriendly. I was coming to expect smiles and personal concern, none of which I got from this gal. She even had an outstanding mole on her cheek that could so easily be removed, but which she didn’t for some reasons, maybe just to enhance to overall effect. But, she informed me that, in addition to the normal passport fee of $67, I was going to have to pay an expedite fee of $50 plus another $60 for a file search to make sure that I was who I said I was since I didn’t have an original birth certificate, and my passport was “mutilated”, and so couldn’t be used as ID. Wow, so this is turning out to be an expensive way to get a new passport.

• $50 cab fare
• $25 photo phare
• $67 passport fee
• $50 expedite fee
• $60 file search fee

There was a mother/daughter team that came in and stood next to me in line at the information window. They were lovely Texas gals, but they were definitely concerned about being able to do what they wanted to be able to do there. They had been on their way to Costa Rica, and were in the airport in Dallas as a family: Mom, Dad, adult daughter and son. They had been informed that the birth certificate that they had brought in lieu of a passport for their 20 year old daughter, was not in fact, gonna work. The men aspect of the family went on to Costa Rica, and the women aspect caught a puddle jumper over to Houston to remedy the situation. So I’d like to get the accounting from their passport adventure, what with that airfare and all. We became best of friends, life stories told over lunch, and they shared the joys of Soduku (sp?) the game that seems to be all the rage in the States now. I wish now that I had bought one of those little Soduku books at the airport book rooms. I am forever indebted to Susie and Katie for the beginner strategy on how to play this game. :o)
They had been told on the phone explicitly that a birth certificate would be good enough, but it wasn’t good enough, not as far as the folks at the American Airlines counter were concerned.
We were to pick up our passports at 2:30 ish, and the room was full of people waiting for theirs to be ready. Behind me I heard a fellow mention that he was going to the airport directly. I asked if I could join him, Rocky, was his name. Taylor ended up joining us as well, so the ride back to the airport was on Rocky and his rental car.
I got on my flight at 6:00 PM and ended up in Costa Rica at 9:00, nobody having the least concern about my brand new shiny passport. I have one problem though, my other passport was good for another 5 years and I looked considerably younger in that one compared to this one. Such is life.
What I have learned:

• It is worthwhile to pay attention to your passport. Make sure that it is in good shape, has several (at least 4) empty spaces in it, and that it is current.
• That airlines may have their own rules based on laws that they choose to apply, that maybe others don’t. There is a relationship between immigration of various countries, and the airlines. Because of this, the airlines, in what may seem to be an arbitrary way, may enforce policies inconsistent with what the other airlines require. They don’t make up laws, but they may apply, to the letter, laws that the country generally ignores, or just recently started enforcing.“Some countries require that your passport be valid at least six months beyond the dates of your trip and/or have two to four blank visa/stamp pages. Some airlines will not allow you to board if these requirements are not met.” (taken from the above sited page)
• That Texas people are friendly.

California Contrast Articles - 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 ||

Today marks the 1 week point of my visit to Davis California. I know this since the Farmer’s Market is happening again.

I was taking photos of the event when this fellow comes up to me and says, “is that an S2IS”? or something like that. I said “I don’t know”, but upon further investigation, which involved looking at the front of the camera, I determined that it was, in fact, an S2IS. “I use that camera too” he said.
Uh huh, thought I, but then I noticed that I was standing alongside a photo booth: “Teacher Bill’s Photos”. I said, “are you Teacher Bill? Yep,” he said. “And you use this camera to take photos that you sell here? - Yep”. Cool.

We got to talking. I told him that I had been raised in Davis. Him too, as it turns out. I told him that I live in Costa Rica and have this website, Dominical.biz. He said: “of course, everyone here knows about Dominical.biz!”… all right, just kidding. That is a bit of an exaggeration. He had actually never heard of the site. But, he was interested in what I was doing with my photos. I told him that, even though I had been raised here in Davis that after leaving it 30 some years ago, and also living in a foreign land for the last 8 years, there is a large cultural contrast. We call this “cultural contrast”, those of us in this particular profession. It is this “cultural contrast” that I document via photos and writings, mental meanderings if you will.

Anyway, in talking with Teacher Bill, as is so often the case, I found myself formulating ideas that had been kind of rattling around, undefined in my head over the last few days. The contrast between Dominical / San Isidro, and Davis California, is black and white, night and day, ocean and dessert, you know, contrasty. Here in Davis, everything is all so, well, correct. Yes, that is a good word for it, “correct”.

I mentioned this to Teacher Bill the photographer, this point about “correctness” and he concurred. Davis is PC (politically correct) whereas the Dominical Costa Rica area is absolutely not. As an example of this, among my Tico friends in San Isidro and Dominical, you will hear the Spanish equivalent for the word “fat” used openly and freely. “Hey man, you look fat today”. I’ve been told that I look fat. In fact, I think that this was meant as a compliment. “Healthy” would be synonymous with “fat”.

In the Davis culture I think that, whereas F words, and S words, have lost some of their potency over the years, the Fat word, has taken on new strength, to the point where we will lie. A fat person acknowledges “I’m fat”. All those in earshot lie and say “oh no your not fat. You’re just big boned”. Fat is a bad word here in Davis California, and as I understand it, elsewhere in the States.

This is not so much to discuss “fat” as to discuss culture. It’s different. Everywhere you look there are cautionary signs about what could happen here. I guess the concern is litigation. “Careful, this tree will likely fall down and land on top of you if you choose to walk under it. Most people are known to die when a tree falls on them. Walk under this tree at your own risk.”

The grocery store here that I have mentioned in some of my other articles has a cancer warning sign as you enter it. The bike path that I used as a boy to get to junior high school has a warning alongside it for cancer.

By contrast, in San Isidro, you can be walking along on many street corners and see a jagged piece of steel sticking out of the concrete where a sign used to be. Watch out man! You could really get hurt by this thing, this jagged piece of steel sticking out of the sidewalk, if you don’t watch where you are going.

I imagine such a situation in the States, and what I imagine is a line of people, waiting their turn to get a running start at the jagged thing sticking out of the sidewalk so that they can injure themselves in some way, then sue the city, and never have to work again.

In San Isidro, or elsewhere in Costa Rica, if you were to injure yourself on such a thing, you’d likely want to hide the fact, because, “hey man, watch where you’re going”. Plus you’d miss time off work, and you’d have to pay your own medical bills.

Anyway, I am hoping that we see some postings here to Dominical.biz from Teacher Bill. I told him about the site, so we’ll see. He does some lovely photography and, he’s got a really fat camera.

California Contrast Articles - 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 ||

7/22/06
The value of living outside of the country of one’s birth is clearly seen when one returns to that country. It is interesting how something so familiar can be so… well… unfamiliar.

I have a custom, when travelling to the States, the country of my birth and where I spent the majority of my life until moving to Costa Rica in 1999, of going to one of the newsrooms in the first international airport that I arrive at in the States. This is usually in Houston. I like to go there to see what’s up in the US of A.

Standing back and looking at “The Wall” is what I like to do. “The Wall” is covered with magazines that have covers designed for the express purpose of getting us to pick that magazine out of the myriad of choices. You might say that this visual experience is telling the tale of what the majority of magazine buyers want to read about in the States. To appeal to the lowest common denominator? I think that for anyone visiting this country, this is the way to know what is going on, right now. I think that also it explains, to some degree, why people are pouring out of the US and into places like Costa Rica.

“The Wall” tells me what I am going to be hearing about and coming to think about during my visit to the States. I was thrown a curve ball this time though. The flipping newsroom had categorized its magazines: “Men”, “Women”, “Technology” etc…

So I adapted.

I decided to do a psychological test and see what gender was on the covers of these categorized magazines. The men’s section had mostly women. The women’s section had all women with the exception of one. Interesting. This study actually confirms what I’ve been saying all along: women are beautiful. I’ll bet your glad you’ve taken the time to read this article, eh? This is some late breaking, cutting edge stuff.

OK, well. A slight detour there. The first few times that I did this er, research, the hands down winner of the “What is Going On In The States” award went to – boobs. It seemed that no matter what the topic, boobs were featured, or strongly suggested, on the cover of the magazine. It is interesting to note that I think this is changing some. Now, there is likely someone that we recognize, some kind of celebrity thing going on.

On this trip, it would seem that the country is concerned about Jennifer Aniston and the actor that she is currently seeing, as to whether or not they are going to get married and, it is reported, she isn’t interested in getting a pre-nup. Imagine! Jen is going to risk everything… Well, we’ll see. Also there is some concern about Tom Cruise’s child, not sure what, but something’s going on there - and it could be that Jennifer and Angelina are going to get together and do what Brad fears most, whatever that may be… or so they say.

Peace in the Middle-East is big this trip, and global warming. The Peace in the Middle-East isn’t new, in fact it was hot 20 years ago, but its particularly hot right now. It’s incredibly sad how many people are dieing over there.

Global Warming is enjoying global acceptance after emerging out of the morass of debate over its actual existence. Now, it seems, everyone is in agreement that it is happening. Although looking around at the cars that people are driving around in California, mostly large, the news doesn’t seem to really matter.

California Contrast Articles - 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 ||

Saturday, July 22, 2006
This article is one of a series that is explained by clicking here.

This is my second day here in Gringolandia and my amazement at the wonders of the place continues on longer than I have experienced in other trips. Maybe its because of the timing of my arrival. Getting here at 2:00 AM and then getting a couple hours of sleep perhaps has extended my “just got here” state of mind, even into day 2. Whatever it is, it’s been delightful.

I went back out to The Nugget for coffee this morning on my way to dropping Mom’s car off at the Honda place. Her brakes were going bad last night in our jaunt out to Sacramento. I got to thinking that, really, the ability to make a car stop, is more important than the ability to make it go. It, the car, goes fine, but what it doesn’t do well is stop. So I took that thing out to University Honda. If one were to compare going to a mechanic’s shop in California with a mechanic’s shop in Costa Rica, well… they may as well compare with Mars. You drive into a well arranged and delineated entrance. The far left has a fellow standing at a counter helping people that need quick assistance. Stuff like oil changes and minor service. I felt that maybe our brake problem could be considered “minor” like maybe just an adjustment or some fluid or something, so I pulled in there. The guy was totally helpful and directed me to Stacy inside the office. Stacy was a bubbly professional gal that liked the fact that I had brought my roller blades to return home with. She had just gotten a new set of roller blades but her husband wouldn’t let her use them until she had the full set of pads: knee, elbow, and wrist. She said that she is a speed demon.

I had just seen the Honda car called an “Element” driving down the road, and they had one out on the lot. I think that it is one of the coolest looking cars I have ever seen. I have never seen one in Costa Rica. I asked her about the car and we got to talking. I said that I have been out of the country for the past 8 or so months and that during that time, there seems to have been a huge change in car styles going on. The Element I had seen before, but there are some extremely strange concept vehicles that have now, evidently, been put into production. Of course, California has always been this way. One big showroom floor for cars. Gazillions of ‘em.

Global warming is very much in the news, but I can’t imagine any way that they can change the system enough to make any appreciable difference when you see a highway, near a mall, in Sacramento California, at about 5:00 PM. Every stinking one of those cars, of which there are an innumerable amount, is belching out carbon dioxide faster than the Earth can assimilate it. And there is no way that you could talk these people out of it, no matter what the consequences, like total and global annihilation. Doesn’t matter.

I found it interesting that the Honda dealership provides a shuttle to town for folks that drop cars off. There are no buses, no taxis. Everyone has got their own ride. I see young men and women driving around in Cadillac and Lexus SUV’s. These cars cost boatloads of cash to buy, and some serious buckaroos to drive, but these kids drive ‘em anyway. No problem. Beautiful cars though. I saw a 4 door, super tricked, Cadillac pickup truck. I didn’t know that Cadillac made a pickup truck.

So after getting things arranged for Mom’s car, which by the way, is a ‘91 Honda Accord with about 54,000 miles on it, I set out on roller blades to the Farmer’s Market.

There was something very cool about cruising through the silky smooth streets and overpasses getting back to town. I had on my iPod and was able to really get into being alive and having the health and ability to engage in such an activity. Wendy Range, an old family friend, and now a dear personal friend - its interesting how things like this change in life. Here is one of Dad’s old buds, you know, one of the “olds” when I was growing up, and now we’re hanging together. Anyway, he had heard of what I was doing and was concerned about me taking on such an arduous task of rollerblading during a heat wave. Its supposed to get up to 109 today. I am not finding the heat a problem so far. I guess that Costa Rica has conditioned me to the heat. So he drove out to Honda to see if he could give me a ride home. We crossed paths shortly after I started my sojourn. I thanked him but told him that I was fine and that I had water in my backpack.

I think that if such a thing had happened in Costa Rica we’d go on about how friendly the Ticos are and how much they take care of each other. What do we talk about when it comes to our own kind doing such acts?

When I got to the Farmer’s Market, I cruised by the whole thing cuz I was a little bit nervous about getting there in my strange getup. I had a helmet on, wrist protectors, a backpack, and no shirt. I glid (past tense for “glide”) by on the other side of the street to observe if there were any men in the market without a shirt on, but there was not one, despite the heat. The place is shaded by a roof overhead, but nonetheless, in Latin America there would have been a number of men with no shirts on.

So I set up in an isolated area and got myself presentable. I had a shirt and my flip flops in the backpack. Keeping the iPod on, I cruised the market. I found it most agreeable that among Gringos, one can sort of create their own little world, almost like not even being there, allowing one to engage in the voyeuristic pleasure of serious people watching.

In Latin America, the people all look at each other, right into the eyes. In Gringolandia, they don’t. Just an observation, but I think that it is this that makes walking around in a crowd with an iPod on all the more interesting. All the interaction with the people in your area in Latin America would make this sort of cocooning awkward.

After tasting a salmon cake at a booth, I asked the guy if they shipped internationally and he said yes, and off we went, talking. The website is www.cedarcreeksalmon.com, but their site appears to be offline at the moment. The guy, whose name I didn’t get, has the perfect personality for the job. He’s funny and engaging and you want to buy from him. The Salmon cakes were outstanding and so I bought a couple for Mom and I to have for lunch, which we did, and they were great.

Anyway, the guy says, “man it must be weird to come back to this country after leaving it for so long” … then he went on to say something about going into a grocery store. “How did you know?’ I said, and told him about my experience yesterday of going into The Nugget, a grocery store, and getting a cup of coffee. I got a medium and it came in a paper cup, which burned my hand. I figured that I’d have to wait for it to cool down so that I could drink it, when I noticed a stack of those wonderful “Java Jackets” right there next to where I had set my cup down. Perfect. So now I can drink my coffee. I went off to get a shopping cart and began navigating, one handedly and with difficulty as I held my cup in the other hand when lo! I noticed that someone had so oh-so-thoughtfully designed a hole in the cart just perfect for my cup, effectively freeing up both hands with which to push the cart around, and still get to enjoy my coffee.

Well the salmon guy and his wife seemed to enjoy the objective perspective of his land as I concluded my account by saying: “man, you gotta love this country!”

Relaxation - calming down - it seems to be the objective of a lot of visitors to the Dominical area. Right at about day 4 we hit critical-mass relaxation. Getting away from the cell phone, secretary, 24 hour news broadcasts, and e-mail, results in some anxiety, actual withdrawals, as we leave behind those things that cause anxiety for us. But the separation anxiety only lasts a little while. Somehow we survive and we begin to actually start thinking thoughts that originate within our own psyche.

The beaches in the Dominical to Uvita zone all have nicely spaced out palm trees, perfect for hammocks. We carry a box of beach stuff with us that has a bunch of those nylon straps that have hooks on either end with a length adjustment clasp. We get ours here at Price Smart in 4-packs. I have seen them in hardware stores in the States, as well as CostCo. These are perfect for hanging a hammock under the palm trees. Do this thing. Bring your straps with you, but you can buy a hammock on the beach. I think that they are about $20. Spend a few days there. You can read if you want. Try not reading also. Just sit. Dozing’s OK. As you pass through the various stages of withdrawals, you will gradually feel calm.

So, at day 4 you are now re-integrated with life on planet earth; what now? Well, take a look around. There are a number of things to do in Dominical. For the moment, I want to talk about one in particular, that of basket weaving. I know… “basket weaving” you say. “How ’bout we build some bird houses while we’re at it“. Well, I gotta tell ya, these are no ordinary baskets. These are works of art.

Kim is the Gran Maestra of basket weaving, and we’re not just talking Dominical.

Click Image

These are the finest baskets that I have ever seen. They are generally irregular and organic in their shape. But not awkward. They are elegant and beautifully balanced. The colors of the materials display a full earthy spectrum. Kim comments on how lovely the molds are that color the various palm fibers, almost like a patina on bronze or copper.

Kim and her husband Steve live in downtown Dominical. Their home is right on the river, and is quiet and tranquil. It is situated alongside the Baru river. A visit to their home is more like stepping into an art center than a home, although it has a distinct homey feel.

In my past life as an art dealer in the States, I witnessed the tendency of artistic types to congregate for the steel-on-steel affect of discussing, arguing, and debating the various ideologies with respect to art. I enjoy the stories of the artists in Paris and Spain, where they would get together at salons to drink coffee and stimulate each other with such sessions so that they could then go back to their studios to paint, sculpt, and construct to new heights.

So - basket weaving in Dominical. You are welcomed into an open air studio alongside the Baru that is perhaps 200 meters from where it dumps into the Pacific Ocean. There are beautiful tropical flora all around and the chirruping of the toucans can be heard outside up in the trees. Take a look around at the baskets, lamps, and various vessels scattered about the studio and you’ll know that you are in for an artistic experience.

Kim offers personalized instruction to each member of the class. She discusses warps, wefts, and weavers, but kindly doesn’t expect us to know right off what the heck she’s talking about. After awhile the vocabulary starts to make a little sense. In fact, this writer now knows that if you weave a thing with the warp and the weft of equal widths and weight, you can make a place mat. If you bow the warp material out and then back in from its origin, and weft it with twisted or flat organic fibers, you can make a basket suitable for holding stuff. Impressive verdad?

I actually did not take the class. I just heard about it and so went and visited with my camera. Socially it was cool since there were a number of folks there who were visitors to the area. Finca Ipe, a nearby organic, biodynamic, permaculture, farm, provided the majority of the weavers. The colors and forms that took shape while I was there were a delight for the eye. The classes cost $25.00 (at this writing) and include lunch.

So, when you get to that critical-mass relaxation point, and want something to do with your new-found outlook on life, why not weave a basket.

Oh, and by the way. Steve & Kim have rooms for rent as well.
Click here to see their page.

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