With the proliferation of the internet and WiFi, I have found myself sending a lot less postcards then on former trips. But when you’re on a ‘round the world’ tour like me, you will inevitably have to send some packages home from various countries. I’ve been fortunate to have a few friends visit me while I travel and not only of course is it great to see them, I also benefit by being able to shove some crap into their bag that I no longer need—like some memorabilia I’ve collected or the hiking boots I haven’t worn since the rainforests of South America or the magic walking stick from New Zealand or the conical Asian hat I got in Vietnam. This way they can cart it home for me and I save a ton on postage and mostly am saved from the stress I would suffer by worrying if my precious package would ever make it safely to the shores of ‘Amerika.’ When I could not pawn things off to friends, every few months I’d put a little care package together to send home. I’ve learned that the post offices around the world are as varied as the toilets. And some are just as stinky.

Monteverde, Costa Rica—This was a tiny post office up in the cloud forest with one window and one man. No muss no fuss. Signed, sealed, delivered.

Galapagos Islands—In the middle of an empty beach on an island only inhabited by animals three hours from mainland Ecuador is a ‘post office.’ Well, it’s actually just a wood barrel with a door cut out, but it may actually work better than some real postal systems that I have come across. Here’s the deal: You write a postcard to someone you know (or perhaps a stranger if you are feeling friendly) who lives anywhere in the world. You address it and sign it, but you DON’T put a stamp on it. You leave it there in the barrel. Then you look through the other postcards that have been left in there and take one that is supposed to be ‘sent’ to your country…or a country where you are headed. Once you get to that country you can either hand deliver it if you are near the address or just buy local postage and just send it off. It’s a postal system by the people, for the people. Sounds perfect, but, by the way, has anyone ever received my postcards from here??

Melbourne, Australia—Fairly similar to going to the post office in the US: fill out some forms, pay way too much money, stamp it with some official looking seals and away it goes—all the way around the world and up into another hemisphere. Too efficiently boring to give me anything interesting to write about.

Hong Kong—Here I remember playing ‘musical windows;’ the first window guy said to go to another window across the room. At the second window, they weighed my package and addressed it. Then I had to return to the first window with some kind of receipt which I gave window guy #1. Here I had to pay and he stamped it. Then I returned to finished package the second guy. Got it?

Hanoi, Vietnam—I think I could have sat in this tiny post office (similar to a small bar with some round stools at the windows) all day and never have been served. They certainly didn’t ask me if I needed help and when someone local came in she would literally just shove in front of me at the window and be helped before I was even acknowledged. Before I ‘went postal,’ I finally pushed my way in and was handed, I kid you not, about five different convoluted forms to fill out—each one just about the same as the last. My current address, the recipients address, the address of my second cousin once removed, several lists of what the contents of the box where, the value of each item in Vietnamese Dong, the total weight, etc. I was given two different total costs by two different people. I was not feeling confident about this one and thought I would never see my Vietnamese trinkets and souvenirs ever again…but alas it arrived weeks later intact and unharmed.

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam—One of the prettiest post offices, it was in a grand old building and kind of looked like an old fashioned train terminal. I had been told ahead of time by fellow travelers that I did not need to scavenge for a box prior to my arrival here. The young man that helped me here was great—he found me a box behind the counter, we put everything in it exactly how I wanted it and he spent the next ten minutes taping it up so good—that the whole box was covered in blue tape and you could not see one speck of brown from the original box color. I filled out one form and paid in cash (only). I noticed that the ‘form process’ was much simpler than in Hanoi—kind of strange considering it is the same country, no? In the end, I made a possibly detrimental decision and chose to save money by sending it ‘sea mail’ as opposed to the modern method of ‘air mail.’ I pictured my sad little package all wet and moldy with crabs and seaweed clinging to it on the decks of some old pirate ship. Four months later it arrived in the US and apparently had no sea creatures in it. Amazing.

Istanbul, Turkey—This was a doozey. There were only five windows at this post office and yet none of them wanted my package. They actually ushered me through the ‘employees only’ door and behind the glass partition that usually must separate postal worker and postal user. I had brought my package unsealed to show its contents. Not only did they not care one iota of what was inside, they did not have me fill out one form at all. No, actually there was one form—it was practically the size of a postage stamp and had three lines on it—one for the sender’s name, one for the recipient’s name, and on the final line they scribbled the word ‘Amerika.’ Doesn’t seem like enough info for an important international parcel, does it? I already did not have a very confident feeling. After finding out my package was going to ‘Amerika’ the postman told me, like nearly every other foreigner I’ve met, ‘America? George Bush bad man.’ I agree, but it gets tiring after a while being a spokesperson for our entire nation and carrying the weight of the American government’s often bad decisions on my shoulders. Plus, at this point, I just wanted to mail my package, not be a diplomat. I actually forced the two Turkish postal workers that were helping me to just take a gander of what was inside my box, just out of habit. Then they haphazardly taped the box shut, took it away, and told me the price as if we were finished.

“What about the address??” I exclaimed.

“Oh yeah, address, address.” The two men said in unison. Then they proceeded to slap on some plain white stickers onto the top of the box where I was to write in the address.

No official stickers. No official cards. The postage meter machine apparently had a maximum of nine lire per sticker so now he had to slap about five different meter stickers all over the top of my box wherever they would fit. Lastly he licked an ‘airmail’ stamp and a “Turkey” sticker and slapped them on as well. By the end of this unofficial process I just about decided I would certainly never see this package or any of its contents again. When the nervous security-crazed U.S. Customs Department sees this crazy looking, hand scrawled box coming from 99% Muslim Turkey…they will probably just blow it up on site.

In actuality, all of my packages traveled half way around the world and have arrived safely. BUT ironically, the postcards I sent out from the most efficient, anal city in the world, Singapore, never made it. Makes you wonder. Maybe Turkey is on to something.

Here are some general tips for you if you decide to send packages from abroad:

1. Bring your passport.
2. Bring cash and lots of it. Many post offices in other parts of the world do not accept credit cards.
3. Bring your package unsealed. Oftentimes for Customs purposes, they will need to look inside (excluding Istanbul) to see what kind of contraband you are actually sending, so be prepared to explain your ‘apocalypse now’ shot glass from Vietnam or the ‘opium pipe’ you picked up for decorative purposes in Phnom Penh. Also be aware that many post offices can provide you with a box and tape it up for you.
4. Bring your patience, sense of humor, and comfortable shoes.
5. Before you go, make a list of what you are sending. This will make it easier to fill out all the forms and keep them all consistent rather than you repeatedly shuffling around the contents of your package (like most guys I know tend to do).
6. Of course, wrap everything breakable very carefully. And then you will inevitably unwrap it and wrap it again after you show it to the postal worker.
7. Don’t mail anything from Singapore.

In Costa Rica there’s a saying that permeates everyday life. Pura Vida literally translates to ‘pure life.’ But here, it’s used in many ways to kind of mean ‘it’s all good.’ When someone asks:

“How are you?”
“Pura Vida.”

“How’s the weather?”
“Pura Vida.”

A pretty girl or cute muchacho is “pura vida.”

It’s an attitude. It’s a feeling. It’s all good. It’s laid back. In the States we don’t really have this attitude in everything we do.

It makes me think about how we say we want to live life to the fullest, but how hard it is to actually do when we are so preoccupied with working, making more money to buy more things, commuting, running on the treadmill, and falling into bed exhausted. How do we have time to really ‘live life’ or ‘pura vida?’

We say “stop and smell the roses” and “work to live, don’t live to work.” But it takes five seconds to say these words and then MAYBE we think about their meaning for another five seconds before our own daily thoughts, responsibilities, and to-do lists come crashing into our brain. We fill our lives with so much crap when we need to be focusing more energy on the most important things:

Personal Relationships with friends and family
Love
Happiness
Laughter

Believe me, I’m writing about this, but I’m no expert and no better than anyone else and certainly get caught up in the daily BS. And if I figure out how to do this thing called ‘life’ better I will let you know. And you do the same for me.

Pura Vida.

…and they’re all Gringos!

I’m back in San Jose for a few nights before my flight to Ecuador. So as I’ve traveled throughout the country I’ve noticed an amount of poverty that I’m not quite used to. And this country is nowhere near the poorest country I will visit. Again, it makes me painfully aware of all that we have in the states and more specifically all that I have.

I’ve also noticed nearly every house here has at least bars on the windows and in most cases, a gate, and a big metal fence usually topped with razor wire. Sadly, the more tourism has increased, the more crime has also increased.

For my last few nights, I decided to stay in Escazu, a well-to-do suburb up in the hills just outside of San Jose. I hadn’t seen any wealth and was curious as to what I’d find here. I knew I would find many Americanos because as my bus pulled into town we preceded to pass Denny’s, Tony Romas, and possibly our worst import—Hooters. Wow. Was I in Costa Rica or Atlanta?

After a morning of catching up on my sun at the pool and catching up on my writing, I took a walk around the ‘hood. I turned a corner and there I was in Gringoland. It looked like a wealthy suburb of Miami. Coral colored stucco mansions with tile roofs one after the other lined the streets. It was the first time I’d seen pretty streetlamps and manicured lawns the whole time I’d been here. I strolled up a block that dead-ended at a security booth. I ended up chatting with the security guard (in Spanish—so thankful for my lessons!) about the neighborhood. According to Señor Security, nearly everyone that lived here was American. And they all worked for Intel.

If you recall in an earlier blog, I mentioned technology was the number two industry in the country, thanks in large part to Intel. It was like a mini Stepford with all these American housewives whizzing by in their SUVs into their gated driveways and their hermetically sealed homes. Muy interesante. AND I bet they pay beau coup bucks on the monthly exterminator bills to keep the ants out.

Isn’t that fun to say? That’s what they call the transportation method I took to get to La Fortuna and Arenal Volcano. It’s actually more like Van-Boat-Van, but I really think they should call it Bus-Boat-Bus and really have some alliteration fun. The road from Monteverde to Lake Arenal was probably the worst yet—bumpy and rocky the entire way. But the scenery was gorgeous—rolling green hills dotted with cows and a few small farmhouses. And in the background the perfectly conical Arenal Volcano arose from the hills into the clouds.

We reached the lake and boarded a boat for the other side. This quick one hour ride across the calm waters provided a nice reprieve from the unpaved roads, plus it provided the most spectacular view of the Volcano itself. Arenal Volcano is the second most active volcano in the world. It has eruptions every five to ten minutes. In 1968, it erupted violently after laying dormant for hundreds of years. A village was destroyed and 80 people were killed. Nowadays, Arenal erupts just about every five to ten minutes shooting red hot lava rocks out of its crater.

Proving once again, IT IS a ‘small word,’ I met a guy named Scott on the boat who had worked as a TV Producer for WIS-TV in Columbia, South Carolina. I was a Director at this same station for three years just out of Journalism School! He worked there about six years after I did, but we knew some of the same folks. I love random encounters like that. We got to the other side of the lake and what to my wandering eyes did appear?? A double yellow line and actual pavement! We’ve reached civilization!! Land ho!

I took the last leg of my “Jeep-Boat-Jeep” excursion and was dropped outside of “Gringo Pete’s,” the hostel Marcel and friends recommended. Pete is a jolly (and I soon learned often condescending) ol’ expat from Washington State. I’ve done it—I’ve crossed over into dormitory living. I’m in a clean room with 4 bunks and my roommates are a Swiss guy, Martin, a Dutch gal, Sandra, and a cool Romanian (who speaks 5 languages and works for a bank in Geneva) just walked in. We all end up hanging out now I have instant friends for the next few days. Oh—and the rate? Three dollars a night!

My second day in Monteverde I went on the very popular Canopy Tour
through the St. Elena Forest. This is a series of steel cables, or ‘ziplines’ strung across the top of the forest. You wear a harness and with a pulley and several carabineers, you are hooked up to the line and literally zip across the tree tops. Costa Rica has become somewhat famous for these adrenaline pumping tree top ‘rides.’ The canopy tours have popped up all throughout the country. Mine consisted of about 17 different lines of varying heights and lengths. It’s not for the faint of heart or those with a fear of heights. It’s also not really a good way to ‘see’ the rainforest since you are zipping through so quickly you can enjoy the tree tops, but little chance of spotting any wildlife.

I loved it—it’s scary and exhilarating at the same time. The guides were a bunch of fun young Ticos who made it even more fun. The craziest part was doing what they call the “Tarzan Swing.” It was basically just a rope they tethered your harness to and with a “lista?” (are you ready?), they would push you off a high platform and you would free fall until the rope caught and then you’d swing into the jungle. I screamed and then kept laughing so hard, I was crying! It was a great rush and as I was whizzing through the forest with no control, like some kind of monkey, I realized this was the ultimate feeling for ‘letting go,’ like I hope to be doing all year.

At the Canopy Tour I met some cool Americans (sometimes sadly that seems to be an oxymoron). There were two couples—one from Buffalo and the other from Aspen, Colorado. We hit it off right away and it was nice to be with fun, down to earth, outgoing people who were my own age. I ended up kind of inviting myself to dinner with them (I’m usually direct, but being alone, I feel I sometimes have to make friends quicker than I normally would) that night. We went to a place called Sofia’s and I had the nicest meal I’ve had since San Jose (these were not backpackers on a backpacker budget). I ordered the chicken in a plantain crust with a mango salsa and coconut rice. It was beautifully presented and delicious

Later that night I met back up with my roommate, Marcel from Germany, who’d gone away on a sidetrip for a few days and had now returned. Super nice guy—very friendly and easy going—he made the perfect roommate, but alas, he was also leaving the next day for Nicaragua. We met up at Amigos, the local watering hole, and were joined by Daniella and Yasmine, a couple friends from Switzerland who were also staying at our hotel. Also there was my cute Tico waiter from dinner who’d actually invited me to go dancing at the local ‘discothèque.’ He had a cherub face and the sweetest brown eyes with long eyelashes, but I think he was ten years my junior. I think I’d sit this dance out. I really enjoyed my new friends—we were a mish mash of German, American, Swiss, Canadian, and Tico. Monteverde definitely was a special place and after three days in this small town I already started to recognize and be greeted by some of the locals. That is definitely something I like and a lesson in staying in each town for a good length of time to enable me to meet and get to know the people. I’m definitely starting to meet more people which is great, but many new friendships are fleeting as we go our separate ways. It is so easy to meet and ‘bond’ with fellow travelers and swap road stories. It makes the solo traveling hardly solo at all!