 COSTA RICA JOURNALS
Photography by Steve Wallstrom
Journals by James Mallory
The Coast of Riches
Evidently someone wasn't rich enough because here in the tropical utopia of Central America we experienced our first brush with thievery. The region is not without other ironies, as the richest country we've visited also contains by far the most deplorable roads yet. It seems the vast social programs leave little extra for trivialities such as paved highways. Though with stunning scenery and not a piece of trash in sight, the tradeoff is well worth it.
Crossing the nearly efficient border a change of both culture and economy instantly overwhelms the senses. Highway shoulders no longer serve as trash bins, slash and burning is frowned upon and people actually obey the laws. First traveling through the likes of Honduras and Guatemala encourage a deep appreciation for such differences. A history book on the region summed up Ticos (Costa Ricans) best: The amazing thing about Costa Rica is that if you make a law such as no smoking in restaurants, people will actually obey it, where as in the surrounding countries few would even know or care of the laws existence.
Reveling in such refreshing surroundings we pulled over to video tape one of the many puddle crossings. Though the size of these sometimes bordered on pond status. None the less, we decided a helmetless approach may provide a better look. Anything for the camera. Sloshing back and forth across the coffee waters searching for the perfect angle, the helmet sat quietly 30 yards away, always within sight. Two or three trucks and a motorcycle rumbled past, but we paid little attention.
You gotta be kidding me, I hollered at Steve. Someone jacked my helmet along with the comm gear inside. Unbelievable, the land of peace and tranquility strikes the first punch. Not so much as a stick of gum has been lifted from our bikes yet and now my helmet on this backcountry road in plain sight. Shrugging it off as nearly amusing, we fired up the bikes in hot pursuit. Unfortunately the trucks and bike went in opposite directions and with the bike traveling much faster we opted for the cars.
photo by SW
Rallying off towards the thieves provided a fun game of chase until I remembered the rather unprotected state my head was in. But the thrill of riding unencumbered is not without benefits as the wind gently massages with a thousand undulating hands. There is just some very basic and raw desire that is satisfied by the daring blast of air screaming past your face. Such theraputic thoughts quickly fade as one contemplates the simple physics of soaring over the big latin heifer grazing in your lane. Perhaps on a straight desert highway such flagrant risks could find justification, but the back roads of Latin America seemed a poor testing ground.
Alas our search was fruitless, the only car we encountered held an old German couple that couldn't steal an extra mint from Denny's restaurant. Though several hours of helmetless riding cultivated a wonderful 80's windblown look. Fortunately the next sizable town carried an adequate replacement, complete with cheesy Latin graphics. The store clerk shared his grievances over the theft and also explained my luck at not receiving a ticket from a zealous cop for riding unprotected.
You mean there is a helmet law in Costa Rica? Even more amazing is the fact that people actually obey, incredible. I would have gladly paid the fine just for the sheer novelty of it all. Ironically just a couple hundred kilometers away, San Jose, the capital of Costa Rica, that produces some of the most lawless terrain in Central America. Everyone warned us to avoid the capital or expect a visit from a local mugger. The statistics people provided were impressive, non the less our bikes were desperate for a visit to the Kawasaki shop in town.
San Jose -
In our ever-present search for decent movie theaters we wandered the halls of a local mall. Not really local actually, if anyone knew the lengths we take to see a simple movie, one would question our sanity. For some reason movies take on a disproportionate importance when traveling far from home. While perusing the very modern stores we stumbled upon one of the most creative ministry options yet.
The manager, a local Costa Rican, referred to the project as a Christian night center, complete with internet, pool tables, a coffee shop and music stage. Every night bands, both local and North American descend on the center to jam and share a quick message about their faith. Though only in its second month of operation the place bristled with 70 or so locals, mostly in the teenage to upper twenties crowd. Reggae, jazz, hip-hop, rock, rap and just about every other form of music throbs from the stage late into the night.
The center hopes to attract more stateside and Canadian bands in the future and represents a great opportunity for a talented group. Strumming a few chords here in Costa Rica has some distinct advantages over a similar setup up north. The foremost is the simple fact that in general Latinos are far less cynical than the average American youth. Thus, a Costa Rican teenager with no concern for Christianity would have little problem listening to a band belt out lyrics with a Christian theme.
Chatting with the manager under the soft red lighting I silently wondered how a Costa Rican church could afford such prime real estate in the nicest mall in town, while similar stateside locations are relegated to church basements. I suppose it just depends how badly someone wants to provide a place for the youth. Considering the troubling options for entertainment awaiting most kids entrance to high school one would think no cost is too high.
Walking the bustling streets, one can hardly cover 10 minutes without a stern warning from a concerned citizen. And convincing the hotel manager we could handle the short walk to central park at night required a concerted effort. Bandits lurking in every shadow, waiting faithfully to contribute their effort to the surprising robbery statistics. At least, that is what everyone says. The battalion of cops swarming the city with eerie blue lights permanently spinning provided unfortunate credence to the stories. But with only cash in our pockets and everything of value left in the hotel room we almost hoped some fool would give us a good story. To no avail. Leaving the city unscathed and a bit bored we droped into the cursed coastal heat once again.
Puerto Viejo - Surfers, drugs and reggae -
Those three words pretty much summarize the initial impression of this Caribbean coastal town. The first person to approach us, a washed up ol' expat, was friendly enough, offering his hotel for a solid price. But as he lazily slung his overly tanned body over his bike and began to ride off, he slipped out his real offer, "I got some really good weed too." It wasn't the last time drugs we become the topic of discussion with an enterprising local.
Although the reasons may seem quite obvious for avoiding drugs in third world countries, I've stumbled upon another quite unique one. In Puerto Viejo, and many Latin American towns there is an odd relationship between drug dealers and la policia. Wages for the average Honduran cop are rather limited and thus supplemental forms of income are sought.
Next time you contemplate lighting up consider the fact that after selling you that bag of herb, he will likely walk straight over to his cop buddy and provide essential information regarding the transaction. Next the cop makes his bust, provides pleasant accommodations complete with steel bars and concrete for a week and demands a couple hundred dollars before your release. Of course the dealer needs his compensation so the bag of drugs is promptly returned to him for the next sucker.
Rastafarian-
If you're coming down here for work or pleasure one needs to understand true Rastafarian culture. Not the dred-locked gringo driving through Seattle in his new four-runner, but legitimate, African descended Caribbean's Rasta's. As anyone who has seen a Bob Marley poster can attest to, Marijuana is a central tenant of the Rastafarian religion. Walking the dirt roads of Puerto, the distinct smell of the burning herb is unmistakable. The cops must look the other way because people light up quite conspicuously right in the middle of a restaurant.
Representing the ultimate goal of many mission organizations, Ronny and Tammy became the first locals from Helene to wade into the difficult waters of foreign missionary work. Trained in Helene through Alternative Missions the young couple moved to Puerto Viejo two years ago, injecting a much needed bolt of enthusiasm among the local community. Stepping into an unfamiliar country and language is a profound step for a gringo, let alone a family from a remote island community. Most Latin Americans grow up confined to a their immediate surrounding area. A traveler with two weeks in Honduras has likely seen more of the country than almost any native.
Thus the commitment to live out their beliefs among new regions reflects a mission coming full circle in their commitment. A self-sustaining program that trains local leaders can rely less and less on foreign involvement. This frees up both people and finances to move into other regions, perpetuating the process started 2000 years ago.
Puerto Viejo offers two distinctly contrasting opportunities for service, one catered towards foreigners, the other with the native Hondurans. Though under the umbrella of Rasta lifestyle and the surfers that come for the fine waves, these two meet in an eclectic mix of cultural backgrounds. Odd because while numerous locals are fed up with a life of drinking and hard drugs the travelers are visiting to enjoy those same aspects.
Franklin, a local introduced to us through Ronny, exemplified the former group for many years. A short, stocky fellow with forearms bigger than my leg, he colorfully recounted his former life as a drug dealing cocaine addict. With conviction rarely observed these days Franklin described how he came to know the Lord through numerous conversations with Ronny. listening to his story, standing on a split log bridge recently built by an American team, the distinction between his past and present couldn't be more dramatic. Violence and addiction has given way to peace and stability.
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