Just as I'd rolled into town a few days ago, I ran into a few Argentinian dudes who recognized me from Santa Teresa. One of them gave me a beer and smiled strangely from behind sunglasses. "We are having the acid," He announced. The others gave a knowing grin, anticipating my response. I laughed and said ok, tuning in with the ambient psychedelia eminating from the evening trippers. We went to a bar for a live reggae show. The act turned out to be a sub-mediochre singer with an Ipod for a band who I'd seen about a month before in Samara. He started every song with "This one's for the ladies" and would restart every tune about halfway through for no apparent reason.

I camped at a place called Antorches on the beach. The surf was not hitting anywhere as well as it's reputation suggests, but an occasional good set rolled in around sunset when the tide was high. I was riding a chubby four-fin 6'3" and managed to catch a few good waves before dark. Back at the campground, I met a cool dude from Willits who was cooking some fish he'd caught in the river earlier. We talked of Mendocino and Humboldt and the surf.

Surf is virus - an infectious obsession that eclipses all.

The next day the waves were looking better, but instead I decided to sever the webbing between my thumb and index finger with a machete while opening a coconut. The wound was wide and gaping, but mysteriously absent of blood. The camp host doused me in hydrogen peroxide, a woman filled the cut with fresh aloe goop, and another woman brought forth a giant ant to be used as a stitch. I declined the ant. One didn't seem to be enough, and besides, my mood at the time was much too cosmopolitan to be waltzing about with severed insect heads dangling from my unbecoming wound.

I admited defeat and read for most of the evening. After dark, I went to the beach with two Canadian girls with a guitarlele (guitar/ukelele combo). They are heading up to Montezuma to sing songs on the street for money and extend their vacation. They sang David Bowie, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, and the Beatles with angelic harmonies. One of the girls played a song from her old band, The Phycks, who sing exclusively about algae. She serenaded us with a piece about the majestic red rhodophyta.

Now I'm waiting for the town doctor to get back from lunch so I can get a few stitches before heading south. Like a true Boy Scout dropout, I had been hacking at the coconut carelessly, like a fool. I therefore forfeit my Whittler's Chip and will be dropping it in the mail to be delivered post-haste to Headquarters by a fire-breathing bionic buffalo from Antelope at high noon on Chinese New Years.

written by  chaddeal on January 17, 2009 from Dominical, Costa Rica
from the travel blog: The Great Pan-American Synchronistic Cycle Extravaganza Unlimited
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dude

You idiot!
didn't you mom teach you how to play with sharp metals?!
You should have taken the ant as stitches! I've had them in Australia and they work surprisingly well...

Anyway, I am sending you plenty of healing vibes from Nosara. Thinking of you while I'm slowly progressing in my book of Rumi.

hugz

susy

written by  pinkfish on January 17, 2009

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