Blue eyed dog . . . .

Sunday is a day of rest and that is what it was. We made it to church in the roaring beast - still a little life left in him, but the muffler is broken in half right below the driver's seat so exhaust is coming out from the side. We literally rumble down the roads and the locals turn to stare. They probably think we've souped up our ride, when in fact it is crumbling from the outside.

I enjoy it though because the rumbling is so loud all other sound drowns out leaving little room for thoughts. Just a visual and sensory experience remains and since we are without air, the windows are down allowing the wind to whip through my hair and against my face. I feel the warm morning sun on my skin as I stare at the rushing world outside and indulge in the moment.

When we arrive at church, he is waiting for us. Patiently watching as we scramble to unload precious baby and boy cargo from our transport, he remains still and contemplative. Only with a twitch of an ear does he announce the release from his meditative state as I pause with humble fascination. His blue eyes reveal a canine wisdom of sadness and devotion that I can only catch a glimpse of in the shadowed light. I've run my hands through his soft fur before but today was a distance day. We both needed space so I captured his image from afar and he cordially remained posed for the session.

It was just a small moment but one that adds pleasure to everyday living and reminds me that God's wonderful peace and calm does not come from grand experiences or wild adventures; but in the appreciation of the moment. "Be still and know that I am God" Psalm 46:10 says. Be still - STOP, take a moment, pause. Know that I am God - don't just think it, KNOW that he is GOD. Such a simple statement but with great impact. Breath. Feel the God created sun upon your face, languish in the God given breeze that brushes your skin and know that who you are, what you are doing, your existence, is his divine plan. His intention for you is in every second and blink of an eye. Feel better? I do. All of this from a blue eyed dog . . . . thank God for small moments . . . .

Water Taxi . . . .

So who would think car troubles were a blessing, but the Beast has to officially be put down. Something to do with the muffler and loud noises. I'm sad to see our trusty steed put out to pasture, but having a reliable mode of transportation is a necessity here. Especially a 4x4. Because of this happening, I was forced into experiencing something new that I probably would not have done.

First let me explain something. From Playa Grande you can see Tamarindo down the beach. Tamarindo is the largest town in the area and a total tourist spot. Now you'd think,why not just walk there if you can see it? I wish. Such an action is not possible because there is a large estuary that runs between Tamarindo and our side of the beach. (An estuary should you not know, like me, is a fancy word for river that runs into the ocean. Not a place where they keep birds or house lizards. Boy that was a bit of a disappointment) So we drive to Tamarindo to get groceries and to drop me off at the Organic Market, and it usually take us twenty minutes to get there. Talk about places farther then they appear!

So where is this all going? Well when the call came in that the Trooper was a no go for my usual pick up from the Market, I wondered what other options I had. First there is always the trusty taxi downtown, but it would probably cost an arm and a leg and I'm quite attached to both of them. Second, I could try to figure out some sort of bus transportation system but I'm not ready to tackle that challenge just yet. (I need more info then "stand there and look for a gray bus") What did that leave? Since I really wasn't dressed to swim across the river, and hadn't yet mastered my crocodile survival phrases I figured I'd give the water taxis a shot. What did I have to lose but a little dryness and a long walk down the sandy beach.

Like usual, I tried to glean as much information, in a casual manner, from the local transplants before I left. What I learned was: A) Yes they were real B) They cost about 500 colones ($1) and C) they stopped running around 5pm. Glancing at the clock and noting the time, I used the bathroom, got a drink of water and grabbed my two plastic bags of organic goodness (I would not have used plastic but I did not know I'd be barefooting it and had not brought a larger purse). Not knowing the exact location of the "taxi stop" I trudged through the sand spotting a boat and figured I could always holler out my question and be pointed in the right direction. As I neared the inlet where more boats were moored, I was greeted by two gentlemen casually standing on shore and not apprently waiting for anything. One asked something that I now realize included the word "bote" and I stared at them a moment. Then acting like the completely clued in individual that I am, I pointed towards the inlet and said "Taxi agua alli?" They simply stared back and I shrugged moving on figuring they had said something I had completely misunderstood. Not unusual . . . .

Getting closer to the original boat I had fixed my sight on, I hear running and the gentlemen who'd asked the question appeared at my side. I pointed at an empty boat and said "Alli?" He nodded. What I really wanted to ask was "So are you a water taxi driver? Is this your boat?" Sometimes when you don't speak the language you just kind of guess. Blessedly I got it right and after a few brief Spanish questions, I was stripping of my sandals, heading into the water towards a boat with bolted down blue wooden seats. Now I've never taken a water taxi before, but there is nothing like taking your shoes off to get into a "taxi". It just seems so whimsical and fun. With bags in one hand and sandals in the other, I scrambled into the boat as he pushed it out and started the engine.

Apparently his only passenger, we rode in enjoyed silence and my one minute boat ride was over quicker then it took to mentally prepare for it. With reluctance I handed over my fare and splashed over the edge with a sigh. Like the ride, "it's a small world" I wanted to do it again, but there were things that needed to be done and I think Diego, my boat driver, might have thought it odd that I just staid in his boat for three trips. Who knows, maybe he just would have smiled and held out his hand for the correct fare. I was too grown up to find out, but there is always tomorrow. - Should you need a water taxi, I have his card. It has his email, cell phone and house number. Give him a call and he'll be waiting for you at the estuary, your own private water taxi driver. The story will impress all your friends back home, I'm sure of it. - Three people waited on the opposite shore and boarded my boat for a return trip. Standing on the deserted beach, I adjusted my load, twisted up my hair and prepared for the long hike back. I'd walk this far before, once, but not wearing clothes that covered three quarters of my body, lugging groceries and wearing a purse. Some how I felt a little over dressed, but oh well, I was on my way home barefoot.

Walking along the beach later in the day is a pleasant experience and it crosses things off my to-do list. First - exercise is completed. A necessity but not necessarily done as often as I should. Second - you get your vitamin D for the day; meaning you get tanner, feel better and won't suffer from SAD. Third - there is nothing like a little walking to call to mind that really, you can get anywhere just by doing it. Sometimes I forget that's possible because so often it seems you can only "drive places." Granted it takes a whole lot longer, but you save on gas, help the environment and get in touch with your local, rustic, sweaty self. I love it!

The shores of Playa Grande are not populated so normally with a few passing strangers, it's yours. I walked along the edge where the water slips up on shore, just enough to get my ankles and feet wet. Lost in thought, it took me a while to realize I had a winged procession in front. Several water birds strolled in front of me, clearing the way and making sure it was safe to pass. Quite honored by their presence, I noticed they kept looking back at me to make sure I was following them, and then would scuttle a few feet ahead and wait. Company on a walk always adds enjoyment, and this small group was no exception. Once it was determined that we had passed beyond the "dangerous" stretch, they moved on in a different direction leaving me alone with my meandering thoughts.

It's funny. Every since I started this blog, I've been looking for things to write about. Challenges turn into stories, fear is now replaced with thoughts of "Oh, Oh, this would be so cool to write about." I wish I'd decided to do this earlier because who knows how much more I would have done, or could now remember. Granted I'm still working on the adventure part of my life, but I think slowly I'm getting there. Especially living with my family here. God is so great with his wisdom ruling our lives. Even though every day here is such an adventure, I can't help but wonder what he has planned for me next. Where will I be needed and what new place will I travel too? Only he knows, and I pray each day that he'll show me how to live in this moment and not worry about the next.

Smart Fruit . . . .

I've always known that eating your vegetables was good for you and fish was brain food; but no one ever told me my fruit was well educated. A bright white spot on my apple today stopped me from taking a bite. Was this a new form of tropical rot? Was I to be the next Snow White attempt? Upon closer examination I saw what appeared to a "U" shaped logo with a fruit symbol inside and the name "unifrutti." Unifrutti? I just had to smile. "Uni" is the abbreviated term I always hear for University. Maybe not in the states, but in Europe and Australia it is quiet prevalent.

My apple, the one I was about to murder in peanut butter soon, was not your run of the orchard type, but a well educated, diploma toting Malus Domestica. Now I've heard of genetically modified fruit, but educated? Perhaps it is strictly a Central America thing. Costa Rica does have a literacy rate of 94.9% so maybe that comes from educating the apples. Maybe I'd just grabbed a smart apple? Would I suddenly be able to read Spanish, speak it, turn tan and handle spicy food? Anxious to discover the truth behind such things, I went to take a bite but hesitated. Even though it could have been the next "iMac" apple I was biting into, when you think that your fruit might be smarter then you, it does play with your mind; or at least with mine. So I quickly checked online to make sure I wasn't about to destroy a well trained, government operated spy apple and thus suffer severe consequences and indigestion. Nothing. No Apple U or Oxford Orchards College. Whew. Now I could sink my teeth into the deliciousness of imported goods without guilt and definitely no fear.

Actually Unifruitti is a produce company based world-wide, but bring these graduates from Chile into Costa Rica. Apples are not native to this country and don't grow here because they need a freeze to release the seed in the ground (thank you Titus for that little fact). With the coldest temperature here dropping to a chilling 75 degrees, you can see why apples remain dormant along with locals during the hours of 11am and 4pm.

There is a local Costa Rican apple, but it is shaped like a pear, not like their traditional cousins from the north. It is both sweet and juicy, but perishes quickly and thus cannot be sold in the market before it turns into mush. I'd love to try the mush, just to know, but sadly no one thinks that is a good idea. If you are lucky to find such a mythological tree (as I have seen one but not the fruit, and thus could not identify either again) eat till your hearts content because the local wildlife will soon be by to finish off what's left. Again another lesson learned on our Rancho Margot ranch tour. It wasn't just a tour, it was an education!

Darkness in the Jungle . . .

The power went out last night. There was darkness in the jungle and the brilliance of the stars was overshadowed by the growing moon’s light. When there is darkness here, it is truly dark. No lights, no back up generators, no battery powered Exit signs. You can actually hear the darkness as everything shuts down. Like a tribal drum, one low beat sounds and fills the night sky. Then the sound of silence, the loss of all man's technological achievements suddenly dying. Blessedly our computers switched to batter power, so their bright screens held out while we scrambled for flashlights. Finding them was a challenge especially when you can’t remember where you put them and can’t see to find them. You never realize how ingrained you get to turning on a switch until you go into the bathroom and do it. When nothing comes on you pause and then the knowledge comes flooding in and you laugh.

So what do you do with no air, no fans, no lights, and no Internet? Sing, play flash light tag till the batteries die, watch the power drain out of your computer battery as you furiously try and get everything down for your blog before the little icon flashes good bye? Yes but slowly the heat sets in and the sweat settles on your skin campground for the night. Yawning, you give in to what night was made for, sleep. The time 7:15pm. Only babies and bakers go to bed this early you think as you fumble to find your pajamas, the closet looking like a massive cave in the dark. I'll never fall asleep you reason belly flopping onto the cool sheets, still holding the last gusts of air conditioned goodness. Then stillness, a moment with your thoughts and dreams . . . .

. . . Today was a casual day, more trips to see land and encounters with Earthmovers, this time a little more friendly. Towards evening plans to dine out were made and we traveled to a quaint pizzeria. It was a small six tabled place with a warm welcoming Argentinian owner named Alexandra. We were the only ones there and she welcomed us like family with smiles and apologies. On the menu chalk board was the list of homemade pastas, the restaurants specialty, along with two desserts and drinks. Natalie dove into the challenge and ordered ravioli, while Titus and I, in search of the perfect pizza, ordered the famous Quesos pizza. With casual conversation, a sharing of backgrounds and a delicate appetizer of crispy bread with garlic spread, our food arrived and was delicious. Light, thin and flavorful each bite was savored or smeared across the face in enjoyment. Dining on the outside patio as the sun slipped away, we devoured and digested while a gentle breeze and music wrapped around us. As the evening shadows stretched across the sky, a strand of twinkling lights were turned on and flashed with memories of Christmas in March. Stuffed and drowsy, we were sent off with cheek kisses and requests of return. Driving back with the windows down, a contented stillness hugged us close. Nothing like a new place, a new meal, and new friends to end the day I say. . . .

Message in a Post Card . . . .

Attempt to contact the outside world using the postal service was made today. For the huge expense of 280 colones (or 50 cents) a message was sent via post card to family back home. Bets have been placed. Some say under a week, but my moneys on two, before it arrives in the States. Either way, we'll be waiting anxiously to see if our note is received. Should it be, then we can start sending out birthday, thank you cards and notes of survival to family, friends, and skeptics. We can stop with the smoke signals, messages in a bottle, and carrier pigeons.

I most say traffic here is of the unusual sort. Cattle with long horns and skinny tails roam the roads at their leisure. Sometimes with a cattle rustler, sometimes not. In no hurry, no direction, and certainly no respect for cars on the road, they wander the paved paths chewing. There is such young happiness at each sighting. Time stands still in wonder as neck straining, face pressed against the glass, I watch them pass by like fur covered waves. Their dark eyes, just above the window line of the Trooper, peer back with the same childlike wonder as we watch each other go. If all traffic jams were like this, then what fun it would be to get "stuck" with them.

There are other such challenges here on the west side of Costa Rica when it comes to driving. With no sidewalks in the surrounding area, there is no place where people can stroll along main roads and avoid cars. Man and machine must share the way along with bike, horse, cow, iguana and dog. Since there is such interaction between all species of transportation, you encounter varied sorts of obstacles. One such challenge is an old man. He is ancient, nearly blind, with a face a canvas of wrinkles so numerous his eyes are hidden behind them. His steps are a simple shuffle, but they keep him moving forward. Head on against us he comes nearly every time we see him, but with a fearlessness I marvel at. Unable to see us or the white faced panic on our faces, he continues his journey down the dark asphalt road in one of the busiest intersections here.

Now if there were sidewalks he would not be noticed, walking safely away from our beast of steel, but because he walks in the main road we always see him. With nervous anticipation we try to see how close we can come to avoiding him and not also careen into the oncoming scooter carrying three people or have the barreling truck from behind smash into us. In those seconds of slow motion where doubt hangs in the air on whether or not you will die, or kill someone, his sun weathered face becomes etched in your mind. Forever immortalized by those split seconds of fear, I cringe, but he doesn't flinch as we pass within a breath of each other. Then its over and he's only an image in the side mirror fading quickly as I look back. One thing is for sure, wherever he is heading, he'll get there. It is the rest of us that may end up elsewhere. . . .

On a safe stationary note, my African bracelet broke today. Like my past slipping away, the string caught on a fence post at the playground and I felt it release. I've worn that string of beads all the way from Ghana to the States, and then to Costa Rica, for a total of seven months. Now it is just a lose string with a few plastic beads, lying limp on the table. I kind of feel as though it is a sign from God that I need to let go of Africa and move on. It was the last piece from that trip that I carried with me and now that reminder is broken. My wrists are free again. Here's to moving on and moving forward only with God's help. . .

Stare down with a backhoe . . .

Road construction here on the dirt roads of Guancaste comes as a bit of surprise. One moment you're bumping along, doing your best to keep the Trooper on the road, and the next you hit a smooth watered down stretch. Immediately you let your foot of the gas and coast to a crawl, eyes scanning, body tense. Where are they, you ask yourself sweeping the road for any signs. You know they're there, you just need to wait for them to appear . . .

There we were, chatting on our drive to Avellanas for our weekly Bible study when suddenly the road ended and a river of deep dirt appeared. Knowing it had not been there the week before, we looked at each other and then back at the road. Watching us from two kilometers down were three earth movers. A bulldozer, backhoe and water track. Like a duel at sundown we both paused, wondering who would make the next move. "Which way do we go?" Natalie asked aloud and I didn't have a clue. How could we go? I wondered with the road a river of dirt, the current so strong our tires would surely stop turning and we'd be stuck yet again (and it was only Tuesday). Attempting the most feasible way, we pressed on and so did the backhoe. Dropping it's shove to the ground it came towards us, like a determined yellow mule it plowed forward while we held straight for it. As the distance between us began to close, we looked at the driver as he stared us down. With no witnesses in sight, not even a cow in the surrounding fields, we could easily be buried under the new improvements and no one would discover us till the next road project a week later.

"Which way, which way?" Natalie cried as I desperately scanned the road for another path. "Try that way," I hollered pointing to a titled goats trail along the side of the road just beyond the parked water truck. "Are you sure?" I wasn't but the backhoe wasn't slowing and we couldn't afford to get plowed under. Not when I spotted a circle of dark birds in the sky. Vultures. Someone else had tried and failed. We couldn't meet the same fate. "Yes!" Jerking the steering the wheel to the left, the Trooper edged along the dirt mounds, tires sinking in, slowly crawling away from the path of the backhoe. Tipping to the left as two tires touched solid rock, we edged beyond the reach of the water trucks grasp. Two workers watched us creep by in silence, our side mirror nearly clipping them in the chest as they refused to budge.

Returning to solid pot hole paradise, silence rode in the car as we took a moment to utter a prayer of thanks before a small voice in the back uttered "That was fun." Breaking out in giggles of relief, Natalie uttered "You just have to laugh, because what else can you do?" Wise words from a wiser person, especially when it comes to living here.

With no orange cones or men in vests, coming upon road construction here normally means you suddenly find yourself on a torn up road, covered six inches deep with newly poured dirt, looking for any possible way to keep going. That's what happened today. . . .

Monkey's for Neighbors . . .

(Warning, this is a long rant for a short day, so get a tall glass of water, a carb induced snack and settle down with this blog because by the end we'll be good friends - or you'll be asleep)

I live among monkeys, and I don't mean my nephews. Real live, black furred Howler Monkeys. They're known as "some of Costa Rica's loudest inhabitants," and even though they may be loud, I don't mind the sound. It just reminds me that we're living together in peace. For a moment I think of Adam and Eve, living among all the animals of creation and what that must have been like. . . .

Like a noise from Jurassic Park, it echoes through the tree tops, a cross between a growl and howl. I can't help but smile when it happens. Howler monkeys live among the tree tops near our compound, or should I say we live on the ground near them. Small, dark shapes that cling to the swaying trees their presence is so unique that you must stop and take notice. Living here, among them, seems so surreal. Monkeys in the trees, not always seen, but constantly heard.

Now there could be far worse neighbors then they. Late sleepers, howling at one another occasionally and sticking mostly to themselves. What more could you ask for when living together in a "community"?

I found a great site about them -

http://www.wildernessclassroom.com/www/schoolhouse/rainforest_library/animal_library/howler_monkey.htm

and it is also where the image came from. I've not been able to get a picture of them yet, but I'm improving my stalking skills and perhaps will snap a shot worth posting soon.

I've lived here a little over a month and a half now and I really haven't taken the time to do any research on them. But like all information in the digital age, simply type in their name and you'll have access to all sorts of personal data. Where they live, what they eat, even how long they sleep. Is nothing sacred? They really are fascinating creatures though, and what constantly wows me is that they're not in cages. They're free, roaming in their own habitat and there is nothing "tame" about them. I think for so long I got used to seeing animals behind bars, that I thought if I encountered them in real life they'd attack me. Bear, tiger, parrot, monkey always caged, separated like criminals for our own protection.

There are natural enemies to man here in paradise. Those that inflict pain and seek out after what we have. With segmented bodies of armor and hovering technology they hunt us down to take what one thing they need the most. . . . moisture.

Avispas (wasps) or the dark sentinels of the air as I call them, are that which I speak of. They hover outside our doors and windows, seeking cracks in the fortress. They wait with devious patience till there is an opening, a partially closed window, an opened door, and sneak in with stealth. Either that or they seek out their own way in. We'll be sitting, reading, blogging or perhaps sucking on a mango and they'll appear. From behind curtains they'll jet out, radars scanning, and ambush us for life giving water . . . .

. . . . Sure, sure there are wasps everywhere back in the States, but they're named after clothing items (yellow jackets) or are grinning mascots for football teams (hornets). Here in Costa Rica they've got names that strike fear into the minds of slightly out of shape adults and tropic burnt visitors. With names that translate into "Run Man Run!" or "Drowning Cow"(meaning they sting cows crippling them until they die by drowning in the spring which they came to drink from) how could you not fear for your gentle flesh?

With such ominous titles anything nearly resembling these flying assassins of pain incurs hollers and mad scrambles for doors, windows, and the safety of the bathroom. They tag along in cars until screeching to a halt all occupants bale out leaving the vehicle momentarily unoccupied except for a strong buzzing. If you ever want to evacuate a room, you don't say fire - that's just a common sight here in central america, you yell "Avispa." You'll see adults jump around like children and wave their arms like monkeys.

Should you encounter these water deviants, here is what you should know. Don't panic, as in all near pain encounters, it is seen as aggression and a sign for attack. Should they make a landing approach, don't swipe them off with your hand. Blow them off - literally. If you swipe at them you can make them mad and they'll retaliate. Should you ignore these valid recommendations then by all means "Run Man! Run!"

- Wow for a day that really didn't result in much activity I wrote a lot. Well I'm not done, I have one more thing I want to mention before ending. Its about the trees here. I'm a tree lover, not a hugger. I don't chain myself to them, or dance around them, but I do have a strange fascination with them. (Stairs too. Where do they lead? Especially spiral or old crumbling ones. Who has walked on them? Like doorways to different places, stairs seem magical. You can see where they start, but not where they end. Up to higher levels of learning, down to darkness and danger. Normal household stairs are boring, but spot a black steel spiral tower case, or hand carved dirt steps and the images pour in). I love different types of arbors for their beauty or majesty, but here there are the ancient gnarled barons, with their twisted vine trunks and dangling skin. Like wise pillars they just hold my attention. I have one that I've fallen in love with, on the dirt road short cut, that I'm desperate to photograph. It is massive, twisted and has actually grown into what a appears to be two trees with one trunk.

Anyways, getting side tracked, there is a tree in Costa Rica called the "Pterocarpus Officinalis" or more cooler known as the Dragon Blood Tree. Why, well I'll let you use your imagination . . . .no really - use it. I know it's been a while but give it a shot. Brush off those "realistic" adult restraints that seem to muddle it up and have some fun . . . . .

So what did you come up with? Something good I'm sure. Feel free to post it on the comments so I can read about it. I'm curious to see what creative fun I've induced. The great thing is pretending is not for kids anymore, partial grown ups can do it too!!

As this appears to be a country of novel inspired names, I'm thinking any author suffering from writers blocks should just start asking the names of things here. The Dragon Blood Tree actually gets it name from the blood red sap that oozes from it. Imagine the surprise of the first local that struck a machete into one. They'd wounded an ancient one, a forest soul and now a sacrifice must be offered. Why is it Dragon's Blood, and not the Tree's? What passed down tale was told to give the tree it's name? What powers do you gain from the bitter tree's sap? Couple this with the Eternal Children's Forest and you can feel the mythical magic of this place.

There is one more place that has a name with a story I have not learned. A large mass out in the ocean called Witch's Rock. It has no known story. I think things that are named as such need a story otherwise there is nothing to them, just a visual image. Give them a story, a legend, a history and you've created something with so much more. Perhaps I'll tackle it. I've already started an idea about the daughter of a great healer named Elania who falls in love with a warrior named Hectrus in her tribe. Only, you see, the chief's daughter, Solistia is also in love with him. Expected to honor his family by wedding the chief's daughter, Hectrus refuses instead confessing his love for Elania. Outraged and unwilling to see him marry the witch's daughter, he is stripped of his spear and it is thrown into the ocean where it strikes the side of a large rock. A warrior's spear is a symbol of his life, without it, tribal law demands that they be put to death. If the spear can be returned to him before the sun goes down, he will be allowed to live, forever indebted to the person who retrieved it. Both girls swim out into the ocean, but the rough waves and strong currents claw at them, trying to drag them down. Solistia, daughter of the chief, quickly turns back while Elania, child of the healer, swims on . . . . and that my friends is how the legend of Witch's Rock begins.

If you've read this whole thing, wow, thanks. If you haven't then you'll never read this either :)

Adventures in getting stuck . . . .

So today was a wonderful day . . . . Church had a blessed cross breeze that kept the sweat from trickling down my back. I love it, dogs roam the isles as we sing, iguanas creep along the rocks during the sermon, even the occasional spider makes an appearance during services. It was another lazy day, until the idea to "explore" occurred.

Now I always thought of myself as an adventurer, but my family here makes me look like a nun without ambitions. Every dirt road, open gate, or path is free game to be explored, even if it means we might get lost or stuck. As long as we have a full tank of gas (mind you the car still has a mind of its own) and the boys are strapped in with snacks and water, we're good to go.

So todays evening exploring led us to another beach, called "Pirates Beach" which is yet again, another beautiful spot. The water is so clear you can see the waves start to form, curl and then fall. Large sand granules make the shoreline interesting because it's like miniature boulders instead of grainy sand. Easier to clean off, and it doesn't cling so bad to your ankles and toes. Standing with the waves lapping at my ankles, rock islands so near that they begged to be explored, I could imagine pirates laying anchor long before it was discovered by hotels and tourist. Rowing their boats ashore they would have found a long stretch of beach, deserted with a thick tree line of jungle forestation and numerous spots to bury their loot. How else could it have gotten it's name?

Once we'd soaked up some rays, we were off again, down another dirt road that was supposed to lead us to a town. Well it ran right along the shore and when were finally cleared the numerous jumps, we discovered a strange crossing. On the edge of the tree line there was large plain of white sands, like an empty river bed, and then more trees. Now we were already in soft sand, you could just feel the Trooper settle in. Titus looked at Natalie and then back at us. "Should we do it?" he asked. There were tire tracks across the sand so obviously someone already had, but here is where my adventure spirit takes a punch from my practical side. First there are two small children in the car, so if it sinks you can't just ditch it and walk away yourself. Second we're all wearing flip flops, skirts and shorts so pushing is not really going to be an apparel approved option. Third, getting stuck doesn't even sound that fun and I've had a few close calls to know.

Hesitation hung in the air, as the decision went undecided for moments. Facts were debated, and the motor just rumbled on through it all. Finally it was decided to be too risky (whew) and we backed up. But here's were the real adventure began. Cars were parked along the way, making it hard to do a three point turn. Finding a little nook, we did point one and then we stopped. Tires spun, the back dropped down, and we all looked at each other. Again the gas was pushed, tires turned and nothing. . . .

We were stuck and we hadn't even tried to cross the sandy plains. Locals looked on with amused smiles as Titus got out, then Natalie and they placed sticks under the tires. Seeing our helpless state, generous souls came over and offered advice and direction on how to free our sunken steed. Down shifting into low four wheel drive, we rocked forward then back and then popped out. Local tourist police (who'd been standing by the whole time watching behind shaded sunglasses and crossed arms) suddenly appeared to direct our backing up and then waved as we bounced back the way we came. Relieved smiles and the words "Well wasn't that an adventure" were expressed as we found our way back to more solid ground.

In closing, when taking a risk that involves getting stuck - first make sure you have the appropriate shoes on before deciding to trek across the desert; and second, decide to do it within view of the locals - so they can have a good story to laugh about later that day and because they're the ones that will be able to get you unstuck when you try.

To cap off our grand expedition we visited this restaurant in Playa Flamingo that was high up on a hill with an amazing view. Do you know the sun sinks below the horizon in less then six minutes?First it's there, and them bam! it's gone. It turned out to be a cool beautiful evening and the wonderful ending/beginning to the week. Who knows what new experiences will unfold in the next six days, but as I've learned living here, life in Costa Rica is always an adventure . . . . .

Camera Funeral . . .

Well its official, my wonderful seven year old canon is dead. Not like won't work at all, but since it's free fall from my backpack while horseback riding at a ranch, the sensor won't register and everything turns out all holy lit. Meaning bright white lights and faded out images. I knew this day had to come, but it is really tough. I can play around and get it to work, but it takes a lot of guessing to get a good shot and there just isn't time to do that when you "experiencing" through photography.

Soooooooo . . . I've started to do research to find a new digital friend and so far I think I'll be okay. It will just have to be budgeted for accordingly. But I can't postpone because I'll need it here, no excuse with all this amazing scenery and culture. Figures, now that I've gotten settled in and really want to start snapping again, I can't. Oh well, Murphy's law right. But blessedly that is all the serious drama in my life for now and I am thankful for that . . . .

Feliz Cumpleaños . . .

Today was a busy day filled with much activity. I went to volunteer at the Organic Market again. Holly asked me to see about working on the website and helping out at the store. I got great Sushi and some organic Chocolate out of the whole thing so it was totally worth it.

Holly's life amazes me. She came to Costa Rica on a Bus, literally a school bus, from California and they drove it all the way down to Tamarindo. Three girls and seven guys did it, nine years ago. Originally from Colorado, she didn't speak a word of Spanish, had never been here and now, along with a her husband, own/run a restaurant, hotel, surf camp, and surf school. She speaks fluent Spanish and says that she never pictured herself here, doing this. Now she's opening an Organic market and its going to be an amazing avenue for all those who want to help improve instead of consume.

So I did that today for a few hours, got to take the car. I can't help but feel like a teenager, all proud that I got the car today. I love driving it because it is so big, loud and solid. Like a tank with better gas mileage there is just something about driving an old car with squeaky shocks, limo tinted windows with Costa Rican license plates. Surreal moments just run through my head. Driving here is way easier then Africa, but people still hitch-hike, walk way too close to the road, and ride bikes on the main highways. Seeing people thumbing a ride just recalls the horror tales/movies I ever watched about "things that could go wrong." The worst here is you get asked for money or meet "interesting characters." Most of the time we drive, there isn't any room in the car, but one of these days I'll have to stop and work on my Spanish.

This evening was Duvan's 2nd Birthday. The caretakers of the complex are amazing, friendly people that invited us all to his birthday celebration here in the courtyard. It was a small gathering of friends and family, but we had Arroz con pollo, ensalada, and three desserts. Dulce pudding (amazing! tasted like rice pudding with cinnamon and cardamom) creamy vanilla ice cream in cones, and two types of birthday cake. Needless to say I was in addiction heaven, and savored every bite like the children that were there. I can still hear the Spanish music outside now, as they relax around the pool and enjoy the festive occasion. I'm way to tired to socialize but I did spend a good few hours mingling and eating.

Tomorrow is Organic Market day number two, so more volunteering and meeting new people. No driving, but I'll pray that the car gets us there since it's been having some difficulties. The mysteries of mechanics, well that's another story . . . .

Nosara and childhood memories . . . .

Nosara, Yoga haven of the world. I had no idea such a spot existed and here in Costa Rica. Nosara is a small town, no large super markets, traffic or hotels. A small town feel with great aspirations, it is slowly becoming an American draw, but for now, clings to the allure of local charm. A lot of vegetation, one main street and the largest selling point, it has an organic store.

As yet another spontaneous land hunt trip, I had no idea where Nosara was and yet into the car we went and down south we headed. It is about 2 hours from the house, and the trip is again full of interest things. Speed bumps a big as your car, iguanas that have suicidal tendencies (they wait till the last minute, when you madly swerve to miss them before they scurry off) and a possible Mel Gibson ranch sighting. I liked the place, very health conscience with a great beach.

Again the search for Finca land began and we visited numerous sites looking for perfect pasture and abundant water. There was a point where we drove out to this parcel of land where the road was so steep that the truck we were following kept sliding backwards, and finally had to park before it slide back the way it came. The trail along the rented land was a foot path mostly made by cattle that had been there before. Not prepared to go hiking, Natalie and I had flip flops on, while Titus, future farmer, was wearing boots. Still troopers, we followed behind our guides, stepping over branches and tried not to slip down dirt slippery declines. As we marched along in the hot afternoon sun, being there, following that dirt trail, I had a flash from my childhood. . . .

Hiking the trails in the mountains where I grew up, I remember wondering what had made them. These strange trails that really led no where and began somewhere I never knew. I'd imagine deer, or mountain lions, even the occasional exotic camel, but I never really knew for sure. They just seemed to exist and never end. I don't remember ever finding an ending to any of the paths I followed.

The memory brought a smile, seeing how far I'd come since then. Now trekking those same animal created paths in flip flops, huffing and panting like the cows that had made them, sweating like any tourist. Yet, suffering the comfortableness of being without the proper footwear, athletic body shape and endurance, I enjoyed it. Climbing in those hills, seeing amazing scenery, and learning what little I could from the Spanish I could understand, I thought I was still that same child. Still fascinated by what God has created, still playing with the unknown, filling it in with my imagination, and still traveling to exotic places to find the answers. I think I've been surrounded by more awe moments of nature here then I've ever been. Going along with a potential farmer and his wife as they look for land has its benefits. There is still so much wild land here, no houses, paved roads or telephone poles. Rugged trails, barb-wired fences, and the stillness of peace from nature remains. Primitive would be a way of describing it, and yet it's not meant as a negative. There is possibility where no one has taken the time to develop, and yet changing it alters it's appeal. Finding a balance is the true skill, accepting that to have everything is to really lose touch with what is important, having nothing is truly being blessed with knowing who you really are. Spend time with yourself and you'll discover someone new. Someone who has been there the whole time, yet you've never really taken the time to get to know . . . .

Yes, childhood memories of following secret trails, looking for an end but never really finding it. It's the adventure that really holds the appeal for me, and I hope I never stop searching and believing in the fantasy that there is none . . . .

Amazing Grilled Goodness . . .

So we arrived in Samara on our way to Nosara. Wanted to check out the area, but it turned out to be just a small town, backpacker hangout. But we did discover an amazing restaurant called El Lagarto (or lizard). They have everything grilled in this out-door huge grill, with hot coals falling down toasting the potatoes underneath.

We'd arrived around 5:30 and no one was there. At first we took that to mean it wasn't a good restaurant, but the atmosphere was great, outdoors and right on the beach. When we sat down we learned they were not open till 6pm. Oppps. We glanced over the menu, saw the prices and decided it was too high so we left. For the next thirty minutes we wondered around trying to find a place, and eventually ended up back because we were all starving. Well our starvation turned into our salvation of mouthwatering goodness. The food, I got chicken, was wonderfully flavorful, and they had this garlic butter (it was a bright orange) that was amazing. Oh I'm drooling right now as I think of it.

So even though Samara really wasn't a hit, the food was great. If your passing through, stop in, the place is down a long dirt road, but just make sure you get there when they're open, otherwise you'll have to wait . . . .

Gasoline in a plastic container . . .

Today we were in town looking at rental properties, finding the options that are available, browsing the market. While we were there, it was mentioned that we needed to get gas and the Realtor that was showing us the houses said "Oh you can buy a few liters on the corner."

Really? There was no gas station there.

- Costa Rica has a law that Gas-stations must be a certain distance from the ocean so as not to pollute the waters. Great sounding, but time consuming when you need gas. You can't just pull into a corner gas station down the street here, you actually have to plan a special trip, and there are lines any time you go at the one nearest to us. You'll see people in cars, trucks, dirt bikes, ATV's, Scooters, all waiting their turn. Cars are filed in two at a time and you just simply wait your turn to be flagged through by the service worker. They pump your gas, wash your windows and even check the air in your tires if you ask them. (Our nearest gas station is a good 20 minutes and it is up a steep hill that makes for slow progress but great fun coasting down the other side). I've even seen people fill up 2 liter Coke bottles with gasoline. I've never actually seen the stuff put in the cars I've driven till now. It's pink, kind of looks like pink Lemonade, I just hope people don't confuse those coke bottles with something they can actually drink.

So we pull down this street, the Realtor hops out points to our car and talks with one of the people hanging outside. A woman comes over caring a jug with pink liquid (yes it is gasoline) and then using a cut off plastic coke bottle top funnels in the gas. Now that's not something you'd see every day, and of course the convenience was double the cost, but well worth seeing for real once. Now I know what they do with the bottles of gasoline . . .

Burgers as big as your Head!

Last night was a spontaneous trip to Pablo Picassos ( a place I'd never heard of till then). We have visitors in the house across from ours and one of them had been to the place 6 years ago. It's a restaurant in playa negra, we were told had fish tacos as big as your head. Well who can pass on that, so we all piled into our respective cars - they drove compact we drove 4x4 and off we went. Since we were the "locals" we led the way, but once we passed Aveanas we were in uncharted territory, in the dark, following a mini truck with a huge tire in the back. The road got so rough in parts that we were literally bumping our way off the road, like ice except on dirt. It's a strange sensation when you bumping straight and the next thing your doing a shimmy to the right toward the soft sand the the dread of getting stuck.

It's also unnerving when you pass by a truck that resembles a two truck on the side of the road, with a couple locals hang out and you get the feeling they just know they're services are going to be needed. The last car in a our caravan almost bumped off into a ravine. "I saw my life flash before my eyes," he said once we reached the restaurant.

Once we passed through Playa Negra we figured we gone to far so we asked for directions. First from locals, who told us we'd gone to far, and then from a surf shop that asked "Do you really want to go there?" I wasn't sure if they were joking or drunk. Either way we made it, first you go left at the fork in the road, then left again, and it's on the left hand side. Anyone else noticing a pattern?

Pablo himself is owner, cook, server, host and an all around great guy. No one was there, so we had the place to ourselves. Turns out its the burgers that are as big as your head, not the fish tacos, but we all wanted them anyways and they were delicious. They had a spicy sauce that gave them a real kick, and we ended up ordering several plates extra just because no one could get enough.

No one ordered a burger, even though there was much talk about it - (it is a 1 kilo patty meaning 2.2 pounds of mooing madness) - but next time we go back someone is going to have to get it, just so I can see what it looks like. . . . .

My Furry Friend is Gone

The tarantula left this morning. What a blessing he was outside and not in. I'm not sure where he went but I tried to peer into ever corner of the outdoor slider and didn't see him. Last week after the house was cleaned, I discovered that the slider had been left open, and now I can just imagine his slow progress, each hairy leg propelling his body farther and farther into my room. Closer and closer to my bed. I'm not sure which is worse; a scorpion or a tarantula in bed with me. . . . . Tarantula probably, the scorpions here are supposed be smaller with a painful sting (like a bee sting they say) where as hairy spiders just make the heart stop.

Its the dry season now, and they are just burning everything down it seems. Fields, fences, even power lines. I got an amazing picture of a power line pole where the bottom is burnt off, still smoking while the power lines are holding it off the ground. I couldn't believe. Only here would you see such a thing.

Secret Beach . . . .

In whispered words and subtle pointing, rumors of a secret beach were passed along to us. Without specific directions or a name, we mounted our trusty trooper, wearing our suits and off we went heading in the "possible" direction. The dirt road wound and dipped, trying to persuade us to turn back, that we were lost, filled with craziness, but we kept on.

One wrong turn lead to a steep incline that even mountain goats would have shuddered at, and so did we. Another dip almost catapulted us out of the car, but our desire for pristine black sands and a thirst for a new discovery kept us going. Finally we spotted it. There in the distance, down a rutted road with a water ravine scars we crested the lopsided hill and saw it. A cove of dark rocks, sunset golden water and emptiness. Our own secret beach . . . .

Dismounting and a little shaken we cautiously approached the mythical sight, still wondering if we were dehydrated and imagining the scene before us. We weren't, the fence that warned "No cars on the beach" and a scattering of empty plastic bottles and cans told us what we saw was real. It was amazing, beautiful and slightly discovered. No one was there, but there were signs. Still it didn't ruin the effect and happiness of finding a new spot. . . but we were not alone. . .

As we admired the breathtaking scene before us, something moved. Actually the whole ground moved. . . the entire shore was home to hermit crabs. Millions of them scuttled and scurried about their business. From shells the size of my pinky finger nail to a balled fist, they covered the sands and it was a thrill. Usually the ones I'd seen were too used to people, and hid inside their shells once your shadow fell across them, but here . . . well there was no fear.

Carefully making our way across the shores, we explored our new found territory and discovered ripple cut wave rocks, textured tide pools, and the thrill of childlike wonder. As the sun began to sink beneath the waves, the golden rays shadowed the beach and we took seats upon bone white logs to watch it go. As darkness began to fall, we trudged back to our car and with a last longing look back and whispered wish of return, we left.

I'm going back though . . . I want to spend more time with the hermits, and take some pictures, to prove that it is real. It was, it had to be, otherwise where did we go . . . .

Utter Goodness . . .

So at the crack of dawn, dressed in our jeans and rain slickers, we trekked down to the milking station to get our hands dirty on some utters. Titus was first up, then Justus, Natalie and lastly myself. Silas just got to watch and gurgle encouragements to us.

The professional milk man offered visuals on how it was done along with patient explanations and we were all able to squeeze out a little dairy goodness without looking too pathetic. The sensation was strange, the utter was warm and skin like, the cow patiently standing by as we grappled with squeezing and pulling, repositioning and trying again. It takes practice to get good, but for me, skill is not what matter, crossing off "milking a cow" from my "want to do list" does.

When you see how its really done, you appreciate your milk and cheese more. Once the professional sat down, he was squirting like a machine gun while we'd just been working with getting a dribble. Like liquid music, the thump thump thump of the milk hitting the pail is so consistent that you can actually make farming music from it. The cows were all doe eyed and curious, watching us fumble and laugh. I got to pet a few, their noses much more rough then horses, and their tongues, long and pink. I was licked and slobberyly initiated into some sort of cow clan with great approval because it happened several times. All in all, waking up early to that experience was well worth the lost sleep. . . . now doing it for the rest of my life, well that would depend upon how good the dairy products were and if I could call one of the cows Betsy . . . .

Rancho Margot . . . .

Welcome to guilt free vacationing. . . What is that you may ask, well it is where your water is heated by compost, the electricity comes from river powered generators, and the food is grown in gardens on site. Everything is recycled, reused, or re-purposed so go ahead and relax, your on an eco tour feel free to indulge in a hot shower or take an additional slice of homemade cheese.

Rancho Margot is absolutely beautiful, with breathtaking landscapes that you can just sit for hours in the hammock and look at. A constant heavy mist hangs in the air moistening everything, and you are constantly wet, but it's great. Like Seattle with way better scenery.It's all lush and green here, and nature just sooths the soul with it's simplistic beauty . . . .

Upon our arrival we checked in and were driven by electric golf cart to our bungalow which is a small hut with two queen beds, one bathroom and a quarter porch complete with hammock, rocking chair, dining set and foot stools. The buildings are light and airy, open with incredible views and such life. Birds, bugs, and rushing water are the constant music that fills the silence. I love being this involved in the Beautiful Creation that God made. No concrete sidewalks, horns honking or neatly manicured lawns. Just raw, wild vegetation and you!

Their website is http://www.ranchomargot.org/ - check it out if you want to learn more, or to visit . . .

You get a tour of the Ranch to learn about all the eco friendly processes they are doing and it just makes you have faith in man again. Nature and nurture are happening, man living along side God's creation instead of trying to rule, remake or destroy. There is such peace in tilling the soil, like creating goodness from dirt. It's work, dirty and back breaking, but I think there is a connection with how we are meant to live, instead of a disconnection with virtual realms and cell calls. There is Wifi at the ranch, but it is slower, like the pace, and I think Cell Service is select. No calling out, reaching out or escaping. You come to enjoy the moment, like the verse "be still and know that I am God," and it is such an amazing experience.

Our Guide of the Ranch was Jimmy, an Eco-tourism student who'd been living at the ranch for two months, who is Costa Rican. He showed us all around, the medicinal garden, milking stations, garden, soap processing plant, and answered all our questions with calm assurance and patience. During our Ranch tour I had to ask about the mountain that is a massive image in the background of the area. "It's the Eternal Children's forest," he explained and the name just caught my imagination. Eternal Children's Forest, what stories could be created from such a title. What already existed? Throughout our stay, that mountain remained a fixture of fascination for me, and I spent hours wondering what secrets it held with such a name.

-(I later learned that the mountain was actually purchased by children through fundraising when they learned about the destruction of the rainforest. When word got out about what they were doing, other children joined the cause). An amazing true story, but I still believe there is more to it that would make Peter Pan jealous.

Tomorrow we all get to go down and help with milking the cows. I GET TO MILK A COW! I'm so excited I'm even willing to get up a six to do it. Can't wait . . . . (can you tell I'm a country girl with too much city living?) . . . .

Another note before I close for the evening, the faucets have F and C on the knobs for Frio and Caliente. It took me a while to figure it out, but then the light dawned and I was like "ohhhhhhh". Although common sense registered and I knew which one provided hot and cold. In the Rainforest, a hot shower is a wonderful thing. It is so funny to think how hot it is on the coast and yet here, I'm cold. I never thought it possible in Costa Rica. . . .

46 Dollar Experience . . .

So, like all trips here in Costa Rica, the plan to go to Rancho Margo was made one day, and we were leaving the next. Literally I learned of this self-sustaining resort and the next we were arriving. But let me back track for a moment . . .

Our car, as Titus likes to say, has it's own personality - meaning it acts up when we don't want it to. That's every time we drive it. It is a 1992 Trooper, I call it the beast since is roars to life when you turn it on, but some times it coughs and sputters like it has allergies or isn't quiet awake. So traveling long distances with the Trooper are an adventure all their own. Not wanting such excitement for our spontaneous trip, we rented a car.

- Side note on renting cars in Costa Rica. They are hard to rent. You can't call up a rental and say "I need a car this morning what do you have?" Nope, you need to say "I need a car, do you have any?" Natalie probably called ten, and only three had an actual car. Not like the states. Cars here are limited and renting them requires advance notice. We went to two in Liberia and both had small compact rentals that could squeeze four, but smash five. Finally the last one, a rental in what appeared to be an old airport hanger, had one. Now every where in Costa Rica needs a 4x4, even though roads are getting paved daily. Titus asked the Ranch if he needed a 4x4, and they told here there was one stretch that was pretty rough, but a car could do it. So we rented a little Nissan Sentra for $46 a day and off we went.

Rancho Margo is a about four hours from Playa Grande, but the road is beautiful, passing by wind generators, lush vegetation, and all sorts of interesting sights. I even saw a monkey walking along the power lines at one point. Once you reach Lake Arenal, everything gets green and cools down. It's so different then the dry, burnt landscape here at the coast. The weather is even ten to twenty degrees cooler due to the rain forest and the mist that constantly hangs in the air.

So the stretch they mentioned . . . .

Is a long stretch of road, perhaps twenty miles. Everything here is in kilometers or meters (or as Titus will joke and say "mountains" because a sign will say 50 mts. ) so I'm still learning distance. The road was all muddy dirt with huge pools for pot holes and a rocks like riverbeds round and numerous. We slowed to a crawl and prayed that the car would not die, get stuck, or bottom out. At one point there were four cars behind us, all SUVs, following our weaving and dipping pattern like we were the locals. We had to be, because only locals drove small compact cars on a road designed as a Range Rover test track. Amazingly blessed, we turned into the dirt drive of the Ranch Margot and all cheered (some of us sighed with relief) and pulled into a parking lot with only two other cars and ten SUVs. Who ever said we could use a car had to drive one of the other two there. I nicknamed the whole adventure the "$46 experience" because if we had up graded to the SUV it would not have been nearly as fun.

So Rancho Margot is an amazing oasis in nature with lush rain forest on one side, a cloud forest on another, and a volcano at the back. Peter Pan eat your heart out, we've reached our own Neverland . . . .