Quepos/Giselle The Fox

The nicest bus I have ever ridden in Costa Rica rolled me through increasingly-dry countryside on my way from concrete and razor-wire San Jose to the small backpacker towns of Quepos and Manuel Antonio. The sleek bus, which had individual leather-ish seats and those air blowers you always see on airplanes, had picked me up at the Tropicana Bus Station at two that afternoon. I was supposed to leave at 5:30 in the morning, but my travel buddy left his tent in the taxi, which he needed, and we went to the wrong bus terminal, because the bus company had switched stations for this route two weeks ago, and it hadn’t really trickled down to travelers yet, but we were confused, because the people we were splitting the cab with from our hostel SWORE TO JESUS that it left from a THIRD station and ect. And we missed the bus. We had also been up the whole night drinking wine and arguing race politics and gender shit with a Mexican guy from Oakland and a Black guy from South Cali, so when we figured out we had missed the bus, I was grateful to catch a cab back to the hostel and fall into bed until check-out at 11.

I left solo. They guy I was supposed to travel with was still sleeping by check-out and was presumably still tent-less, so I told Kaitlyn, one of the managers, to tell him I was gonna be at the hostel we booked.

I google-mapped the bus’s travel time while still in San Jose, but the two-hour estimate didn’t take into consideration that the bus wasn’t express. At every exit on the semi-highway, the bus pulled off and made ambling loops through small towns. Through the four-hour ride, we went from San Jose suburbs to Mountainous Rainforest to rolling hills topped with the fauna of a place with more moderate rainfall---trees that reminded me more of New York’s, as well as a good amount of palm.

There was an increasing amount of English-language billboards on the side of the road, advertising snorkeling, casinos and hotels. The bus drove into Quepos, a town of maybe 15,000, getting off on a strip of bars, restaurants and souvenir shops. I didn’t want to hoof it the 5 kilometers to the hostel, because I’d be screwed if I couldn’t find it in the dark, so instead hopped into a cab and rode to the Vista Serena hostel.

It was much larger then I had expected---the lady checking me in said they had filled all 70 beds that night. It was mostly American kids out of the country for a week to beach it and party. In my 18-bed mixed dorm, I introduced myself to a shorter, pot-bellied American of half-Columbian decent named Ray. He was wearing boarding shorts, a surf shirt, and wrap-around sunglasses.

~

SITTING on the long hostel porch which overlooked the bay, waiting for my order of French Fries, I felt a little ill-at-ease. Everyone seemed to be here with a giant group of their best friends from childhood. I eventually started talking to a Dutch couple traveling the world for a year, all the plane tickets already paid for, and a broad-faced Swiss girl. I dipped out and grabbed a box of Klos Cabernet and drank it with them (well, they were drinking the hostel’s over-priced beers) as night set in. After a bit I got tipsy and started flirting with the Swiss girl in a kind of automatic, tipsy way. I was jonesing for a stoag, so I wandered to the parking lot, where a few people were slowly puffing away around a picnic table.

Ray was there with his girlfriend or wife or whatever, whose name was Giselle. Giselle was a fucking fox. She was half-Japanese, half-Brazilian, and had gorgeous skin the color of unfiltered honey. Her petite frame was taught with smooth muscle and she smiled sweetly and a little rambunctiously while talking in a cute Portuguese accent, gesturing by throwing her hands around and fluttering her fingers. Giselle was doing something on Ray’s computer as she smoked. Ray leaned in while whipping off his glasses to examine an item on the screen, and I saw he was actually older then his clothing and girl-thing suggested. Maybe…45?

42, I later learned. He kept bringing it up. It was a little odd, simply because Giselle was kinda young even for me (not that I wouldn’t bang her through a wall with little provocation…just one of those thing you have to initially fake-deny yourself). She barely looked 20.

I continued to drink the Cab with the group around the picnic table. There was laughter all around. Ray’s laugh had a sad, barking cut to it, especially after stories such as:

“I usedta have money, I remember when I was TWENTY-EIGHT, had a million dollars in a bank, companies that were makin 5 million a year. Then the recession came and I was workin at...uh…sellin houses. Y’know, sometimes, in real estate (Ray had a thick Oklahoma accent), you think you gotawl these like, sales, set up, just like, for months in the future? It was like that, and I was gonna sell those houses, then leave and travel down here. But y’know, sometimes (hands exaggeratedly thrown up in exasperation, the cut of a laugh), sometimes, y’know, sometimes, shit...doesn’t work out! But I left anyway. Gonna try this music thing, just playin my music at bars and restaurants around here, jus, y’know, getting by, travelin.”

Ray, two Appalachian dudes and the a local rafting instructor later smoked a joint on the porch. I lit it after the rafting instructor said it was definitely OK. It definitely was---the security guard, an older Tico with a nightstick, pulled stools down for us so we could more comfortably blaze.

It became apparent throughout the night that Ray had self-esteem issues. He scattered his stories with the narration of  “…Damnit, Ray!”---as in “…and after my Dutch girlfriend left me, I was like …‘Damnit, Ray!’ you messed THAT opportunity up for good,” and, “…after the government took all this land I had, I was like…’Damnit Ray!’ looks like you’re just gonna hafta try something new again!”

Not that Ray wasn’t a cool guy, but I suspected he wasn’t cool enough for his relationship with Giselle to be uber-solid. He touched her in that boyfriend way, though---affectionate without being sexual, small casual contacts at a consistent rate. Plus the age thing was a little weird. Not that it was a separate, major issue, really---for instance, there was a guy probably a couple years older then Ray at the hostel, a super-fit surfer with silvering hair that lived off of investments and bummed around the world, looking for tasty waves---that guy was cool. It was more Ray’s desperate laugh combined with his high-strung, bulging eyes, his large-lipped mouth, which was always flapping wetly, always explaining, his almost stooped, tired posture…that COMBINED with the age thing made me innocently ask Giselle how long she had been with Ray.

“Oh, Ray?” She glanced back at him and the others at the table “…we just met in San Jose a couple of days ago, and he invited me to come watch him play at this hostel.”

I didn’t see Giselle for the rest of the evening after that…she was chillin elsewhere. Ray was talking again:

“…and y’know, I jus came from a dark parta my life…and y’know, I’m still so tense! It’s gonna…there’s jus this BALL of tenseness in me…it’s gonna take jus MONTHS for it to unravel, especially now that I’ve ran out of my medicine.”

I must’ve cocked an eyebrow when I looked up. Ray picked up the remains of my 1/8 and shrugged while tensely half-grinning…y’know….

I mean, kinda…

“Well, I mean, I could roll another joint if someone has papers.”

Ray immediately dug into his pockets and starting throwing things on the table.

“Well, I got these papers, and this one-hitter, and this nice little grinder here.”

As I started to reach for my bag, I felt a sudden, subtle rush of illness. That Clos drinks quick.

“Actually, I’m feeling a little nauseous, so I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Yeah, Ima-bout tah hit the sack too,” said the remaining Appalachian, sliding off his stool.

Ray was the only one left.

“Ok, I’ll…yeah, we’ll smoke tomorrow, and I’ll-ah…I’ll see ya tomorrow.” We did an awkward combination dap-shake, and Ray grasped my hand.

~

Still on the sleep-cycle of an agriculturalist, I had been waking up at 6:30ish since leaving the farm. This is actually pretty nice unless you had been up till the wee hours the night before, drinking cheap Chilean wine and smoking joints of Mexican brick-weed. I woke desiccated and cotton-headed. After chugging some water, I headed to the hostel’s porch to drink coffee and eat toast. I sat with the Dutch couple, who were set to fly to New Zealand, the next leg of their world-trip, that afternoon. I saw Ray and Giselle at the toaster together.

An hour later, I headed back to the dorm and bumped into the two of them again. Giselle was wearing a bikini top. The curving dip between her lower lat muscles was sublime.

“What’re y’all doin today?” I inquired.

Ray turned to me with a smile. “Well, beachin it, I guess. Gonna do some boogie boarding.”

“Both of you are just headin down in a little bit?”
,
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna go down to the beach in Manuel Antonio, and I think Giselle here is headed to the beach closer to here for the day. Waves aren’t as big though.”

Giselle nodded, her back still turned.

Ray continued to smile, his body twisted to face me. “What are YOU up to today?”

“Well, I definitely wanted to hit up the beaches…you said there was one closer than Manuel Antonio?”

“Yeah, the one without the waves…you wanna come along?”

“Uh, to…which beach?”

Giselle then walked off without really saying goodbye, so I headed into Manuel Antonio for the morning with Ray. As the two of us walked to the bus stop, I saw Giselle getting into a Jeep out of the corner of my eye. The silver-haired surfer dude closed her door before hopping into the driver’s seat.

~

“Really sad that Giselle didn’t come along, I mean, we just met a couple days ago in San Jose and I invited her here to see me play at the hostel, and I thought we were hitting it off, but I guess she jus wanted to do something else today, y’know, and said I should jus go and do my own thing.”

“Huh.”

Ray and I were floating on rented Boogie Boards about 30 meters off the fine-sand public beach adjacent to the pay-beach and national park the town had been named after. There weren’t really any waves. Ray was wearing the age-concealing wrap-arounds again.

“Some cuties at the hostel, though, definitely a few cuties…”

“Ray, that’s an extreme understatement. All the women at the hostel are flaming hot.”

“Yeah, definitely a few cuties…”

A good wave rolled up, and we rode it to shore.

A group of svelte white girls with Tica asses spread their towel out about 6-7 meters in front of us. Ray commented on their hotness; I said I agreed. After a few minutes of idle chatter, Ray moved his stuff a little towards the water.

“I’m jus gonna set our stuff down here a little, jus so we can see it when we’re in the water, right next to those girls…”

He blatantly yet non-threateningly checked the group out as he set our stuff down tellingly close to their towel. I went to get a beer and Ray went back in to board. He was still in the water when I arrived back. I wanted to talk to the girls, and was definitely at least passively given an opening; I caught them looking my way several times. I’m kind of a pussy though, so I never did.

Neither did Ray. At least I wasn’t the one setting up our shit five feet away from their towel in a semi-deserted beach. After an  hour-and-a-half in the sun, I realized I was kind of hungover, and my eyes were hurting in the glare due to their extraordinarily light & gorgeous color, and was getting kinda sick of Ray and his whining and pathetic self-justifications, so I headed back to the hostel to nap. Ray stayed in Quepos to look for gigs or some shit.

I woke an hour later in a shitty mood. The beer I drank at the beach had combined with the residual effects of last night’s wine, and I felt tired and bleary. I didn’t really wanna go back to the beach, so I elected to walk the four or so kilometers to Capos in the opposite direction. The winding, two-lane road didn’t have any side walks, almost as though the town wanted  you to take the cabs and tour buses and Quepos-Manuel Antonio shuttles, all of which whizzed by in great abundance. I passed other hostels, upper-class hotels and a strip club with English advertisements that looked like a fucking villa.

I arrived in Quepos a little less than an hour later and had to deal with the first truly dark mood of the trip. It started pouring as soon as I arrived, and continued for hours, quickly soaking me through to the extent that I was embarrassed to enter businesses, even though I was starving and needed to eat. I eventually bought some shitty bread and a meat pastry at an over-priced bakery, then sat staring out at the rain, hating on shit.

Ray was such a fucking downer. In my foul mood, the mountain in my head said:

       That’s you in 14 (God, only 14?) years, Roger. You to a tee. The obsession with women that      want nothing to do with you, the low self-esteem, hanging out with younger people who still have their shit together better than you…Ray is just an exaggeration of you, an extrapolation, and what does time do but lead things to their more extreme end-point? Pay attention, Roger, because in less then a decade and a half, you’re Ray. Why the fuck would you be hanging out with such a mood-killer if you didn’t empathize with him anyway?

Soaked enough to not care about the toned-down rainfall, I morosely crept across the short, one-lane bridge to the non-touristy, run-down part of Quepos, where people looked at me like I must be lost. I passed through a semi-sketchy barrio where some sort of Tico house party was going on. A dark-skinned guy in his twenties asked me through gestures if he could bum a stoag. His friend yelled for the guy to get one for him too. I bummed the guy a couple, and he tried to talk to me, but No Entiendo. I uncomfortably said Adios and released myself, then realized the street was dead-end, and had to immediately walk past the party again---ultimate gringo -style.

I felt like shit by the time I returned, avoiding others to the extent that I casually crossed the street whenever I saw people approaching. I felt like going straight back to bed (it was barely dark).

       “Give up on the day, Ray…oops…I mean Roger…Fall into darkness…

(maybe things will be brighter tomorrow?)

       …don’t make me laugh, Roger. You’ve been saying that shit for 28 goddamn years.”

I often whine to friends when in dark moods, but without anyone to talk to within a thousand miles other than the downer Ray, I had no outlet. I packed a cigarette with the Mexican Brick and found a spot away from the bustle of the hostel, then had a philosophical smoke, feeling better as I whined my sins to the stars.

After getting a soda at the local grocery, I walked back to the hostel. Three times during the ten minute-walk, guys offered my tourist ass drugs, first starting with Marihuana (I already had some, I responded) then going onto Cocaine (I declined).

I was just planning to smoke a night-cap and go to sleep (it was 11-ish at this point), but I passed the smoker’s table on my way to my puff-spot, and saw Ray telling a story to the two Appalachians from the night before, gesculating wildly. I felt social for the first time that day, and the Appalachian dudes were pretty solid, so I headed over.

Ray immediately looked up and smiled.

“Hey, hey man. Got some…a little repayment for last night.” He gesturing to a small bag of bud.

“Yeah,” one of the Appalachians piped in. “Shit’s kind. Best stuff I’ve seen down here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ray responded, flattered. “Jus got it in a couple hours ago.”

“Where’d you get it?” I pulled up a plastic chair.

“Oh, y’know, I have my sources here. Set it up as soon as I got into town.”

Ray was in an even darker mood than last night, and the much-younger Appalachians kept softly supporting and reassuring him with their backcountry accents. The only reason I felt they were putting themselves through the situation was because they were nice people and were afraid that would Ray suddenly leap up and sprint off a cliff.

It also became obvious through the conversation that Ray was a compulsive liar. He told a couple completely illogical whoppers---that he had owned five corporations “before WorldCom and Enron” (you don’t own five corporations; it’s doesn’t make any business sense. You own ONE corporations and soak up others into the original one. Plus I don’t know what Enron and Worldcom’s failures would have to do with whatever Ray’s five corporations did, something he always avoided explaining); and the three accompanists on his shitty-looking EP “were all nominated for Grammy’s this year, all for other stuff they did, technical stuff, and, y’know the Grammy’s already happened this year, and I didn’t hear how they went, so they might be Grammy WINNERS now, for all I know" (I know oodles of semi-professional and professional musicians, and, just…just…no). From these Whoppers (the Appalachians were either too naïve to pick up on them, or too nice to react) I was able to read his liar’s tick, and that shit was EVERYWHERE. I doubt he said a single thing about his past that wasn‘t complete bullshit. I doubt the guy had even fucked during his lifetime, much less ran business that made him “bout a million, a million a year“ throughout his late twenties and thirties.

His lies revealed the truth.

All of a sudden, Giselle walked up with the silver-haired surfer. She pulled up a chair and lit a Marb. Throughout the next hour or so, she asked me for sips of wine several times (“of course, of course, no problem”) and I tried to non-confrontationally bring up my theory about why landlords and tenets never get along (animalistic territorial overlap) to the property-renting surfer, but he took offense anyway and started talking down to me. Ray was chatting with a semi-responsive Giselle in the background, and the surfer dude occasionally glanced away from our conversation and back at them in a territorial way of his own.

Giselle was going back to Sao Paulo the day after next. The surfer-dude made a final comment about why my theory was stupid, then started walking to his Sport Ute, gesturing Giselle the Fox along. Ray said his final goodbye, talking some shit about looking her up if he “ever made it out to Brazil,” and Giselle said some shit about “you DEFINITELY should,” and Ray hugged her for way to long. He sat back at the table afterwards (the Appalachian boys had gone to bed), and, as surfer-dude was whipping his Sport Ute away to leave, Ray suddenly clapped his hands down on his pockets.

“Oh…oh shit.”

He ran up to the car, which barely stopped, and handed Giselle a lighter she had forgotten. He hugged her again, this time through the car’s window.

It was two in the morning by now, and I was ready to leave. Ray offered me a packed bat of his bud, which I passed back after a hit (he waved it away, saying, “no, no, man, just like, finish it up, finish it yourself”). I pulled at the piece as Ray rummaged through his pack. He remarked about how it was a good day.

“Was it?”  I almost felt like crushing Ray for no reason; he was just that pathetic.

“Yeah, YESS it was. Gotta gig. I was jus walkin around after you left the beach, goin up to places to see if they needed someone to play, and I got to this one place. Waiter was just…just a dick. Told me the owner was out of the country, but I was just like ‘Damnit, Ray!…,’ ya gotta do something, money’s runnin out. So I, I jus sat my ass down in front of the place and startin playin my songs…and who comes up but the owner, and he’s like, ‘come back here for a minute.’  And he lets me play.”

“Cool. How often ya gonna play there?”

“Uh, well, probably every day, probably. First night was good enough, got a nice meal and sold FIVE albums.”

Definitely a couple ticks in there.

Atlas Shrugged somehow came up, which I said I had never fully read, but wanted to.

“Oh yeah, you should, solid book, solid.”

I mentioned that I really ought’ve read it by now, seeing as it’s political philosophy was such a precipitator of the Libertarian Movement in the US.

Ray snorted at this without looking me in the eye.

“What?” I inquired.

“No man, that’s not right.”

“Why not?”

“Atlas Shurgged was NOT Liberal.”

“Naw, Libertarian, dude.”

Ray looked confused for a moment, then sharply dropped his eyes down to his hands. I doubt he had even read the back-cover synopsis of the 1000-page plus manifesto. This was just too much.

“Ray, Ayn Rand was an anti-egalitarian free-market capitalist. She therefore has heavily influenced the Paleo-Con/Libertarian movement for decades.  I campaigned for Ron Paul in 2008. I know what I’m fucking talking about.”

..and I walked off.

~

The next morning, I was in a fine mood. I was to head back through San Jose to hiking in the Oriso valley. The shitty two days behind me, I thought of what might as well be the traveler’s creed, a combination of one of my favorite-ever tatoos and a Jay-Z lyric:

This Too Shall Pass/On To The Next One

…and hoofed it to the bus station.