Morning 2 and laid-back, easy-going, life's a beach, let's toke "Bill" is washing the "floors" of the hostel. They are basically dirt floors, which apparently bothers "Bill" because he wants them to be cool, clean, cement. Bill (I think I can drop the quotes now) is quite aggressively muttering to himself his discontent with the guests walking in the spot where he JUST mopped. 30 MORE SECONDS PEOPLE! For a shirtless beach bum, Bill was getting pretty upset.
Bill was quickly calmed by what we can only assume is his true love in life- American classic rock. He jams to it all day long. Currently, we're chillin to some "you can't hide your lyin eyes," following "Janie's got a gun."
We spent this day hiking to the Montezuma waterfall. I think it is now appropriate to insert that we think we are on "the island" and because we are mostly hiking alone, when we see or hear other people they are, of course, "the others." If you don't watch Lost, then this is lost on you, and really? are we that good of friends? So, back to the waterfall- we hiked there, Jack & Kate, Jin & Sun, Juliette & Sawyer, jumping over the creek, hanging from trees, and generally sweating our tushes off. It was about 100 degrees.
we swam in the lake at the base of the falls, even though there were fish that I was certain would touch me- after sitting on the edge for a good 30 min, I finally went in. and they didn't touch me. go figure. but, seriously, there were a LOT of fish in there! oh yeah, and we met this nice friend pictured above.
Then we hiked back, every tree rustle sure to be a sign of the approaching smoke monster!
We spent the afternoon on the beach (Reg got sunburnt, I did not, thank you very much. yes, black people can get sunburnt. and yes, they peel. and yes, they need sunscreen too. cleared that up?)
This evening we decided to participate in "family dinner" at Hotel Lys. Family dinner costs 3,000C (about $5) and is cooked by Bill and his compatriots and basically you eat at a big long commie table til the food is gone. Tonight? Burritos! We sat at the tables, bowed our heads to Che, and chatted up some Germans, Aussies (of course, you can't throw a rock in another country and not hit a Deutsche or an Aussie) and a few Frenchies. We provided shocking entertainment to our Euro friends because we only vacation for 1 week, while they go away for 3. we got it- you get more vacation than we do. why does this still shock you? you also have universal healthcare and lower crime. get over it.
We were bad hostelers because we didn't know the staff by name. Remember those cool girls at sleep-away girl scout camp who knew all the counselors and got to help out with counselor stuff? those people still exist in hostels. we are not those people.
Reg said that the theme of the night was- "what is going on here?!?" This started when a strange man, whom Reg immediately named, "El Capitan" who may or may not "live" at the hostel joined us for dinner. Who is this man? What does he do here? He looks like a cross between Capt Lou Albano from WWE (Reg's reference, not mine. I have no idea who that is) and Cheech Marin (him I know). He is old, and, we assume, crazy. El Capitan has been wearing the same, oversized red tropical themed shirt the entire time we've been here. He appears to lay around all day, smoking and yelling incomprehensible phrases at the people who we are pretty sure actually do work here. They don't kick him out and he seems to have VIP privileges as he is allowed into the kitchen at will. Of this, we are jealous. After being fairly quiet during family dinner, El Capitan decides to turn up the salsa and teach a young girl (also not sure if she lives here or not) the bongos. After a few songs, El Capitan decides, no, the cowbell is his instrument. He plays the cowbell badly. Arguably, the only skill needed for the cowbell is rhythm. This is not a skill that El Capitan possesses. The intermittent yelps (spanish?) don't help. We are pretty sure he can go all night, and this terrifies us. Ever wonder what those kids who smoke a lot of weed and dred loc their hair and never seem to have jobs turn out like at 50? we don't wonder anymore.
During El Capitan's concert, people kept coming up from the beach. By now, you know what they looked like- minimal clothing, super tanned, unkempt hair, carrying homemade guitars, painting pictures of Che Guevara (no joke), reading JD Salinger. "itchy white dog" one of the resident dogs at the hostel who constantly scratches at his fleas, barks at the newcomers. Not sure how he knows they don't belong (cause really, who does?). It appears this group has come for our beer, the piss-like Imperial stout of Costa Rica which, despite its taste (or lack of) we drink for 5 days straight. The oldest (?) of the group has a shaved head, curly white chest hair, dos nipple rings, and a sticker on his water bottle that says- "burn fat, not oil."
clever.
We decided to leave, correctly assuming this honky-tonk isn't big enough for all of us...and we are hot and exhausted. We walk to pick up our towels from the line where they were drying after the waterfall hike and....no towels. Bill! Where are our towels? Bill doesn't know. We go on a recon mission and spot them, hanging from a tree next to some pots and pans and a pair of overalls at the campsite next to the hostel. The campsite next to the decorated bus that we have now learned has people living in it, and a toilet where the driver's seat should be. I try to push Reggie into rescuing our towels, but he reminds me that since we can't wash them, we probably don't want them now.
And it really doesn't matter because Hotel Lys no longer has water this evening. We are the only people that this seems to bother. "you can buy a beach towel tomorrow in town," a fellow traveler says. I try to explain that that isn't the point, that it's the PRINCIPLE of stealing another man's towel! then I remember that there is a wall here dedicated to commie/socialist love with everyone from Fidel to Che to, yes, Obama, pictorially represented, and I decide to not waste my saliva on this one.
It's about 10 pm but the party at Lys is just beginning. Hot, frustrated, tired, thirsty, and really wanting to just wash my face, we decide to turn in.
Or so we think.
For the next 3 hours we hear nothing- and I mean nothing- but salsa and cowbell. Assuming a raging party must be going on, I decide to investigate around 1am.
I pad out to the deck and to my surprise/horror ONLY El Capitan is awake. Playing the cowbell. Alone.
"YOU HAVE TO STOP WITH THE COWBELL!" I say loudly, like people do when you don't speak the same language and assume that getting loud will help the translation magic happen.
El Capitan looks at me like I'M the crazy one.
"COWBELL!! PLEASE!!! WE CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!"
He growls something at me (spanish?) I point to our room, less than 5 meters away. He looks annoyed. He growls something again (pretty sure it was spanish?) and walks away.
And the cowbell stopped. So did the salsa.
til 545 am, when it all started up again with as much gusto as the evening before.
I looked at Reggie-
"we're leaving, right?"
"definitely."
next installment: MONKEYS! or, a day named Triage.
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