Expecting to Believe

What happens when we believe in ourselves, in something, or someone?
Often when faced with a challenge we bring doubt before inspiration can arise. It is easy to see ourselves not able to cope with the situation due to past events and current struggles. Somewhere in our minds there is a creeping doubt that rationalizes our planning to head away from conquering what lies in front of us. It becomes all to familiar to hesitate from stepping outside of what we have known and where we have gone, not seeing a new path to tread or opportunity to arise.
Again and again, we set our expectations to slow our step. Think again about what I have said, for in each situation there is one common thread. More often than not, it is ourselves that hold back the flood of growth and progress that surrounds us. "It's too late for me", "I've never done that so I wouldn't be good", or "I can't" are all prophetic words that carry us in a direction. At times chance gets the best of the situation and you succeed anyway, but you certainly weren't helping the situation.
I fear we underestimate the power of expectation. Contemplate how often we set expectations for ourselves; each day when we wake, every event or activity we partake in, and our lives as a whole. Whether we are aware of it or not, our memories of the past and feelings of the present can set a vision of our future, a vision that molds and twists as we move along, shifting the sands of the day as we take each step.
Hear the science behind my words. You've heard of the placebo effect, but what what extend do you know its effects? How about for arthroscopic knee surgery?
http://www.nejm.org/doi/full/10.1056/NEJMoa013259
The New England  Journal of Medicine published this article several years back that shook the foundation of the surgeons involved. In a study designed to test which procedure of a knee surgery was most effective, Dr. Bruce Moseley did a blind study of his two techniques, and a placebo control group. Shockingly, a difference could not be found between the three groups. Meaning that the placebo group showed equal improvement as those who had the surgery.

Imagine walking into a clinic to get a surgery, noticing the medical atmosphere; doctors, clean rooms and solemn faces. You know that you are in good hands, these experts have been trained for years to treat you injuries and pain. You are given the protocol and how the surgery will help you recover. You say your prayers or give your thoughts and the antitheses are administered, the world fades. As you come back you can see an incision crosses your knee, and comfort comes in the thought you have been 'fixed' or 'treated' as you lay in a spotted gown on a white hospital bed. Your brain responses, the central nervous systems feeds to your body and you feel the healing process the doctors have started. Barely able to walk on your own two feet just this morning, the thought of mobility is exciting and closer than ever. Time goes on and you regain strength, dexterity, and you are grateful for the surgery that got you back on your feet. Years pass and the idea of hobbling around seems long ago.
Then you get a call from the doctor, chills shoot across your body, you were part of the placebo group, you had no surgery. Looking down at your knee, you know the difference, you can FEEL a difference, it's very real, but it wasn't the surgery, it was you. The entire process was interpreted by your brain as a expectation for this event that would benefit you, a surgery that would give you something you were missing. Everything was just as you imagined, the setting, the doctor, the room, even the incision. For all you know, the surgery did happen. But it didn't.
Do not think this is magic, a miracle, or something superhuman. It is the power that lays between our ears, the patients in the study were not exceptional in any way aside from their belief in what would happen to their body. It was not a angel that came and touched their knees, it was a physical, neurological process that set their bodies in a different direction than it once was.
This study is one of many that shows the capabilities of expectation. Everyday these expectations are set by our thoughts and cemented by our actions. The power of this idea has not been wringed out as many are scientists and physicians are hesitant to push the envelope on the topic. But this is inspiration, for the empowerment our expectations may hold is astounding, and the more I can learn and spread about the phenomenon, the better.

This is the time,
when else would there be?
This is the only place you can be,
striving for it to be somewhere else can distract easier than it can assist.
As a bird who can only use the current around him to navigate,
we can only mold the current moment to our desire.

Even, imagine, a convict staring at the bunk above him, white walls surrounding him.
Daydreaming of elsewhere eases the sharp pain of reality,
but only amplifies the numbness he has come to accept.
Since he is imagining somewhere else, it only makes the whitewash and dry colors around him fade farther.
No place could be more different, the clock reaches slowly to turn the corner.
While his mind drifts to his other place, his cell mate stays where he is.
They sit in the same lonely cell, but they are seeing different things.
Not again, his mate thinks, he will never return, accepting the situation he has placed himself in,
While the original continues to think of what he will do when he gets out, avoiding any thought of the present.
He see's not what is around him but what he wants to see, delaying reality until he is set free.
But what is learned by ignoring what is around you? How can this man expect to make a change,
when he does not accept he is wrong now?

As hard as it may be,
as aggravating, frustrating and powerful as the past may pull us into a different view,
we are the navigators of our perceptions, only we can make that final choice to see the beauty,
or wade in the filth.
To grab on a opportunity, or keep walking with our eyes focused in a different direction.
It may be one of the hardest mental challenges we face, but to see the world as it is now,
unaffected by our past events, is to set ourselves free.
To not dwell on what we desire, but appreciate what we have, and see how we can formulate our own plan.
And sail with the wind that we have.

The Day's Question

*Play song for full effect

The horizon brightens to the east,
How will the day unfold?

Are the worries of my past going to chase me?
Will the shadows of the future cling to my legs?
Or can I break free? Open the day to any experience?
Those who may try and drag me down, will they slip off?
Or will their grasp take hold, their influence stronger than mine?
Can I control the air around me, or will my masts have no direction?

Are the problems going to start, or will the opportunities rise?
Will the ups and downs be taken with the same awareness?
Or can only one side of life be learned from?
Those who think like me, would I like to be around them?
Or will I stray to what others would like me to think?
Can I build my own day, or will my masts have no direction?

The sun dims to the west,
How did my day unfold?

Keep Looking Up

The most important image ever taken, the Hubble Ultra Deep Field

For the time being, we are the only ones out there.
There is no life that we will be able to reach, or even talk to, in our lifetimes.
Our solar system gives hints of what was or will be,
Giving life a chance for the day we can no longer stay here.
For throughout the history of man we have fought,
argued, and bashed heads with little times of peace.
We have spilled blood on every continent and every country,
taking lives prematurely due to our hatred for one another.
Yet what is this for?
Resources, power and glory one might say,
but taking a closer look at the cosmic ocean our precious Earth floats in,
we must see that we are nothing more than a speck on the shore.
There is no way we can fully comprehend the size of space,
the trillions of stars that span nearly fifty billion light years across the universe.
Or the number of galaxies that exists, twirling and spinning in the vast seas between one another.
No, I certainly can't comprehend the beauty and the elegance that is contained with out universe,
the beautiful and diverse tapestry that exists even in the largest of scales,
and the smallest of molecules, living in our blood and our tears.
It is a dreamers dream to see the universe, the nebula's and shining stars,
but that too will never be possible with our futile technology.
Yet there is something we can do,
we can stare into the night sky,
see the faces of our ancestors,
the great age we imagine our planet to be,
and see just how small we are,
imagine a expanding valley of stars that stretches farther than we can possibly take in,
and we may touch the edge of the life that is around us.
This feeling; being in the fish eye of the cosmos,
brings me joy and peace no vacation, television show or product ever could.
It makes me wonder why we fight, hate and discriminate
For if we could see the lines of the universe stretched across the sky,
and our minuscule existence played out in less than a flash in the universes grand storm,
our jaws would be dropped, and our minds opened.
We would see the grandest ideas of any human to ever live,
is not beyond a fraction of a blink in the time of the cosmic sea,
not the slightest splash in its waves is found for our ideologies and utopias we force on one another.
Yet we are often too caught up in our everyday problems,
to feel the size we are,
and be humbled in our morality.
Instead we fret and tumble over our problems and griefs,
become frustrated with the days endless hassles,
forgetting how to breathe, how to see life with simple clarity.
What would happen,
if everyone looked up and had these thoughts,
saw their faces in the abyss,
and looked back to those around them?
Would there be more love and understanding,
or would we continue to destroy,
all that has made us be?

Update: Montezuma/Santa Teresa (Nicoya Peninsula)

Pops at Playa Grande


     200 feet away some local guys about my age give me the surfers’ wave (thumb and pinky), I look around, back to the friends I made from Portland, and I hear “happiness is out there, just jump and find it!” I look down at the waterfall and take a plunge. Falls always seem longer from the top, but this was a pretty good one with at least a few seconds of free fall, good thing my “day trip” friends got it on video. Coming from Manuel Antonio, the Disney Land of Costa Rica, this small, cultural beach town is just what the doctor ordered.

     During the green season this part of Costa Rica is only reachable by the brave souls in 4x4’s, atv’s, and boats. Being directly across the peninsula, I find myself in a water taxi on a beautiful Pacific morning. The boat stops in front of a floating brown bob in the water. At first I think it is another log, stranded in the sea but at a closer inspection I see it is a sea turtle relaxing on the surface! “Can I go in?” I ask immediately, not letting a chance to swim with a beauty like this slip through my finger. “You can try, amigo, but before you even jump, she will be gone” the driver says, shortly followed by her bubbles on the surface and an empty sea once more. We pass by several more of these majestic creatures soaking up the rays as well as some other delights: a bright spotted marlin that seems to appear from nowhere and leave just as quickly, a family of jumping fish with a manta ray on their tail, and a pod of dolphins that left me pinching myself. If that wasn’t enough the approaching peninsula looked like a scene from Jurassic Park, and before I knew it we were beaching in Montezuma, located on the end of the Nicoya Peninsula.

     After lugging my stuff to the top of the hill, I find myself, along with a couple of Welsh friends I made on the boat, in somewhat of a jungle and at the hostel we’ll be staying at, Luz en el cielo or light in the sky. After dropping our bags and having a beer, we decide to hit the white beaches and go for a walk. “Is it cool to walk around town barefoot?” I ask one of the employees, “Of course!” he laughs “No shirt, no shoes, no problem man.” I get the feeling I am going to like this place. Before we can dip our feet in the sand, we walk through the quaint town of Montezuma. Although it only encompasses a couple of square blocks, there is more culture here than in the sizable towns of Quepos and Manuel Antonio combined. A true Costa Rican beach town, Montezuma gives of chill vibes and good times from every building and business. Open walled stores with the occasional tour center flank both sides of the slightly paved road. Restaurants advertise live music while merchants roll out their towels of handmade tourist delights. Around the corner I see a brightly colored building with a mural of a waterfall, the ocean and tropical birds across the side. “Escuela central” it reads, the main school for Montezuma no bigger than the average fast food joint, I wonder how many kids go here.

     Then the pavement ends and the beach present itself to us. Blue-torquise water is only plagued by the dirt that is present this time of the year, crashing over rocks on either side of the road. We are passed by several local surfers and the smell of charcoal drifts over from a Tico barbeque. There are no entrance fees to this beach, all are welcome to walk the shore, watch the surfers and explore the coast. About a mile further we are confronted with a slice of paradise. I literally stop every three steps to pick up rocks and shells of a smorgasbord of colors and textures, while a small inlet holds a surprise up ahead. A swimming hole of three light blue colors leaks into the ocean from the falling rocks and little waterfalls carried from the river it once was. On the other side is a Zen rock garden; dozens of stacked rocks, flaunting the colors that struck me just a minute ago. Where did this place come from? I couldn’t have thought of a better place to relax if I tried. Half an hour of swimming, climbing around and taking pictures and I am about ready to leave when I meet a new friend. A black lab with no collar but a full belly runs up to me and places his head on my knee, can I take him home? For the next hour we walk the beaches, he, who I named pops after his age and seemly rule over the area, scouts ahead for any food and glances back to make sure I am keeping up. When we have to take our separate ways I let him know if I ever had a black lab I will name him/her Zuma after such a fine fellow and the town he resides.

     The next morning I head to the waterfalls that I keep hearing about, hoping I will not be disappointed as I was in Manuel Antonio. I walk past an old Tico hanging in a hammock and can hear the crashing water in the distance. Around him is a tiny house, the electric cable hanging off a branch and leading haphazardly through a window. Grandkids run around him as he reads the paper and the smell of a freshly made meal makes it way to my nose. I can’t help but notice how happy this simple family looks.
     There have been several times this trip that I have felt sick, only one being about my physical health. The others have come from a sense of cultural genocide; tourism slaughtering little communities with posters, shuttles and advertisements in bold, English words.  I found myself thinking about the lack of culture in these towns like La Fortuna, Manuel Antonion and Jaco. Why did I come to Costa Rica to read menus in English, get asked ‘whats up?’ and feel bad for the locals who have lost some of their culture? Tourism here has been a double bladed sword for Tico’s, as it gives them a steady and at times heavy income as well as publicity for their country and beauty, but also takes over towns, making English an almost universal language and draining the local color from a once vivid landscape.  As someone studying the life of the people here, this disturbs me. Furthermore, coming from a small town, it makes me sick, and being one of these tourists makes me feel guilty and a little dirty. I try and stay away from the real touristy towns but there is no total escape yet. It is here, while I take in this little shack on the way to the waterfalls, I take a deep breath, sit and smile; instead of taking a negative attitude towards these towns, I started to think back and appreciate what there was and expand on it. In Manuel Antonio the curvy hills are stacked with attractions and tours but walk on the dirt road and find where the culture has run off to. Small grass fields fill with a fifty year old age range looking to play the national sport with their feet while little houses spread their clothes for the beaming sun to dry out. Dogs prowl with their noses searching for scraps and children play on their tails. Here mothers have been making handmade meals for longer than the tourism has been around, and their mothers before them. These people appreciate the beauty around them and live simply, not looking for a Nordstrom sale or trip to the big city.

I take another deep breath and think back to a time of desks and whiteboards.

     About a year and a half ago I took a Buddhism class taught by a small, soft spoken Japanese woman. That class opened my eyes to a religion which resonated with me in ways that others had not before. I was not going to pack my bags and head to a monastery but I saw practical uses for this ancient practice. One day during lecture, we were talking about materialism and its link to the mind. In the understated way she approached everything, my professor told the story of a man who found himself in luxury and the lesson that he learned. This man was given a very nice house, with all the food, entertainment and things he could desire. But soon his mind was left wandering and he became lost, searching in the items around him for the happiness he no longer felt. Until one day he abandoned the house and everything that came with it. He traveled to the mountains, to a place where the closest water was half a mile away up a steep hill. He lived in a small cave, one ridden with fleas and not tall enough for him to stand. But with him were others who believed the same as he did, and he was in bliss. He found himself through meditation, spirituality and journeys into the mountains. He didn’t need those material items, for that only fulfilled the physical needs, but in the cave he was mentally happy, creating a feeling no item could match.

     What do these people need? From what I can see, family, food, and friends are enough. They cannot afford a Ferrari but they can get themselves where they need to go, which is never too far away. Instead they are rich with social activities, common beliefs, and simple needs. These needs are easy to meet, making them happy with little effort. It was at this point that I remembered another reading, something from the book The Peaceful Warrior. Simply, it was; Happiness= satisfaction/desires, meaning if we can create simple needs to be met, happiness will never be far away. I couldn’t help but be in awe of how many Tico’s have fully realized this equation and use it most likely with little knowledge of the wisdom it holds.

The ideas of creating simple needs to enjoy the resulting simple happiness and being aware of mental wellbeing instead of focusing on material desires creates a paradox. The message is to live simply, but the thinking it takes to fully understand is deeper than the idea. Without growing up in a culture like the one cultivated in many areas of Costa Rica, appreciating a simple lifestyle may seem counter intuitive. Indeed, the advertisements and messages sent in the US many times preach the opposite. On television many commercials represent wealthy and successful people enjoying the finer things, news websites post articles about the highest paying degrees and ways to make more money, and possibly the worst is public education teaching on a format to execute not create, and finish in front of understand. This puts us in a situation where we often must create our own simplicity, we must think deeper. If happiness is something we desire, then simple happiness is the easiest route to achieve it. But to access this simplicity often takes effort to sort through the pressures put on by the media and culture. Thus the paradox is required; to be simply happy, thinking deeply is the route to reveal it. While others may stress about their jobs, paychecks or any other current situation, must you have to as well? If your peers are dropping everything to be successful, do you? Thinking on the surface, the answer is yes, of course you must do the same since that is the trend all around. But looking a little deeper, we are the ones in control of our stress and degrees of appreciation. Your friend may not enjoy the misty field as you walk, their eyes fixed on their smart phone or complaining about the work to come, but you certainly can. What is stopping simple appreciation? The awareness to appreciate, the insight that comes from thinking a step deeper.
     The first wall of rocks I encounter has a wide face of water splashing off of it and into several small pools at the bottom. I trek across its slippery ridge and up a small river before heading into the thicket and arrive at the bigger falls. About half an hour more of respectable hiking takes me to a thunderous sanctuary that is lightly inhabited for the time being. About 60-80 feet above me is the first of three waterfalls, and at the bottom I swim in a large pool that could hold a few hundred people. The rock walls hug the edge, and with a little precaution I make my way under the falls themself before taking a deep breath and jumping into the current, turning my back to the water and enjoying the warm day. I hear of a swing at the next waterfall and make my way back up and around a steep path that requires some semi rock climbing to a small but more secluded second and third fall. Here I meet the locals about my age that seem to be pro’s at being stupidly dangerous and laughing about it. “Here, every day is adventure” one guy tells me “we can swim, surf, climb around and jump off waterfalls, life is always fun.” I also meet a couple from Portland, Ore who have just quit their jobs to travel Central America for an indefinite amount of time. “We’ve done this before, seems like we can’t work every day for too long before getting the jitters and traveling.” David, a professional waiter tells me, “sounds like you have a pretty sweet gig here dude, and everyone seems friendly, just wish it wasn’t so expensive.” But this is free, a full day of adventure and a little danger just outside of town, and as I climb back up the waterfall and grab my bag, I feel for once I didn’t need to ask a Tico what they do to get away, because here they already are.

     “This is a small community (Montezuma), everyone knows each other and there are few problems. Growing up about twenty of us were good friends that always knew where to go and see each other, we didn’t even have to say anything, we just knew.” This is Luis, the captain on the boat that I am today. It has been four weeks and I am on my first tour guided activity. We are on Tortuga Island, just off the shore about an hour boat ride from Montezuma surrounded by landscape that once again makes me think dinosaurs must live there. I have just chased down the boat which was trying to leave without me, as I was the last one to come back from snorkeling. Two little rocks just off the island in the big blue held over fifty types of fish that I drooled into my snorkel over as well as eels, crabs and in general sea life galore. “Life here is very Tranquilo” Luis continues. Tranquilo, I keep hearing that word from happy Ticos; in the north near Arenal and Monteverde with their spirituality and connection with nature, on the coast near Judy’s house in Potrero, Flamingo and the laid back cowboy lifestyles and now in the rugged Nicoya Peninsula, where adventure and beauty are omnipresent. Every place seems to have its own stamp but this chilled out, worry free attitude that seems to come straight out of a Bob Marley song permeates through all of these happy places… Are these the roots of Tico happiness?

Santa Teresa from afar

     “Surf, eat, surf, sleep” Reads a t-shirt thrown on the back of a longboard, here in Santa Teresa where surfing is tourism, the local past time and a world destination. The Quicksilver international tour was here just last week, but even without the big names there are huge groups that put their backs against the sun and stomachs on wax in hopes of catching the next wave. But that seems to be the biggest problem here at a surf mecca in a hard to reach spot on the Nicoya, finding your own spot to surf the pristine waves. Little shops and restaurants scatter the dirt roads while the presence of the ocean is never more than a look around the corner away. Eventually a few Europeans I befriended rented a couple of surfboards from the hostel and convinced me (it took a lot…) to give this surfing thing a shot. Fortunately I wasn’t the only newbie at the water riding sport and was given a brief overview before jumping on the board. After a few pitiful paddles I was standing on the board, for at least 5 seconds! With my mission accomplished and sinuses copiously cleaned, I sat back for the sunset.

     I hear a Jack Johnson song playing and I find it quite appropriate. He must have come to a town like this to write songs telling us to slow down and relax, sleep in, and of course, surf. The one road that shoots across a few small towns starts at the tip of the peninsula and ends at a natural spot; where a river heads towards the ocean and bears no bridge to cross, leaving travel only to the dry season and forcing me to either take private transit for 4 hours or public for about a day and a half (with lay overs). But that is something Tico’s just aren’t worried about, the road may be winding and out of the way, but if you get there, what else matters?     

Update: Manuel Antonio

Manuel Antonio "reserve", and their pay phone

     Imagine a ski resort that needs money due to the lack of snow on their slopes. They decide to invest in some dynamite to break a couple of hillsides on top of the mountain. But before they know it they have caused an avalanche, covering all the way to the top of their pristine resort. That’s what I feel has happened here in Manuel Antonio.

     5:00am, Jenny, Judith’s neighbor, is sweet enough to drop me off at the bus stop a few miles away, I tell her she is crazy and drop a few dollars on her seat without her noticing. Manuel Antonio is 130 miles (as the crow flies) from the house in Potrero, so it couldn’t take that long to get there, right? Well my first bus ride of the day takes me in the completely opposite direction, heading north to Liberia. The roads here go in all directions except in straight, causing me to go out of the way to go anywhere. What is said to take a hour and a hour usually takes a little over two hours, but this time it took four and a half.. The first delay came as the bus driver stopped at what I have to assume was his house, for about 25 minutes he is in and out, picking up some groceries and some other stuff I couldn’t make out, so I lean back and close my eyes. I get shaken by the bus coming to a stop. Everyone stands up and the bus driver says some really fast Spanish that I take as, “everyone off the bus!”

     So there I am at 6:45am, almost two hours down already, standing in who knows where, Costa Rica, with a bakery behind me and about fifty Ticos under a bus shelter waiting for the next one to come for Liberia. Half an hour goes by and everyone stands for the incoming bus, crowding onto the road itself. My eyes widen, but not as much as the bus drivers as I see the bus is almost overflowing with people. About twenty get off and the line to get on is a pushing, flowing mess. About ¾ of us get on and I am not one, as I was not going to cut a family to get a place to stand. So obviously I head to the bakery and get a treat. I have to say there is no place I have been with more bakeries than Costa Rica, making my sweet tooth very satisfied with the selections in nearly every town. But soon my pastry is gone and so is another half an hour. The next bus comes nearly full but room to grab a rail. Within 5 minutes there are close to a hundred people on this bus; forcing me to take off my backpack so someone can squeeze behind me.

     I look at my watch, 9:30. I am boarding the bus for Puntarenas, three and a half hours to the south via a giant green school bus. I take a seat by the window and start doing some math. So 75km in 4 ½ hours….

After fading in and out of sleep, experiencing a bus twilight-zone, I decide to take in some of the scenery. On my trip to San Jose I saw the landscape transform from tourist spots on the coast to cow country to the urban sprawl of San Jose. On my way north I saw the land being used to its fullest; sugar, mangoes, livestock, and ungodly amounts of coffee beans. But on my way south along the Nicoya Peninsula, the land is not fertile enough for coffee or major crops. I do not see many pastures full of cows or chicken coops. I have not seen a house with insulation in over two hours as I approach Puntarenas. But the poverty has beauty; shanty town villages huddle around the brown rivers, patching their roofs with a multitude of different shades and textures of sheet metal and whatever extraneous parts that can cover a hole. Old men smile under fruit trees and peel some apples. The kids run with sliced up shirts and ragged shoes, but with smiles and joy on their faces, and of course, there are tons of friendly honks.

     Puntarenas has not been blessed by the past century. Once a booming port city and former capital of the Guanacaste area, Putarenas was crushed as barges and ships headed to new ports to the south, leaving the city to fend for itself. Its location is prime; a small inlet on the Nicoya Peninsula with water on both sides. But it has the feel of a beat down and dirty city, it is obvious to see there have been problems of late. A neon sign reads 41 degrees Celsius (105 F) as I wipe sweat off my brow. I am broiling and lost, once again no street signs can be found. So I ask a taxi driver where I can get a bus to Manuel Antonio, “It’s Saturday” he starts “the office is closed, let me call my boss, I can drive you there real cheap, a good price just for you” yeah, I’m sure it will be a steal. “Alright amigo, 90,000 colones for you , what ya say?” he says excitedly. I literally laugh “That’s almost $200! Can you see me, I may be American, but I’m a student, no tengo mucho dinero.” I respond. “Alright, alright 70,000 colones, just for you. What ya say”

     As I board the bus, I look at the time, 1:15pm. 70,000 colones, I’ve already been hustled once this trip, not happening again, I’ll pay $2 and wait a little longer. But there is no place to sit, so I sneak behind some standing people and sit on the back stairwell and pull out my book. Three hours is a breeze at this point and after some music and a snack I’m in Quepos, only a twenty minute bus ride left! But something doesn’t seem right, all I see is tourism. This place is so hard to get to, how is this possible?? To my dismay, Manuel Antonio seems worse, so I check into my hostel and try to figure out what I will do, it’s now 4:30pm, 11 ½ hour day.

     I meet a group of Americans teaching English who invited me out with them. I am reminded of the small world we inhabit as one girl is from the Tri Cities area of Eastern Washington and another is a stundent at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma and knows my “brother” Bernie who goes there as well. Unfortunately we had all been up for 18 hours so we decided to hit the sack after burritos. The next day we head out for the reason I came: Manuel Antonio national park. The town of Manuel Antonio is a long strip right on the public beach filled with Ticos and tourists alike. Every shop is filled with little toys and Imperial (national beer) shirts, every restaurant is in English and snorkels, jet skis and beach chairs read “rent me”.  We walk down a narrow dirt corridor that leads to the park entrance, again filled with shops and Tico’s saying “good day, special price for you”, I walk a little faster. At the entrance the people I am with decide to leave “It is $10 and we just want to lie on the beach, come meet us later?”, “sounds good!” I can’t pass up the beauty I have been hearing about, although $10 seems steep. The woman selling tickets tells me there are no maps of the park and the trails are easy to find. So I ask one of the employees, “where is the hardest hike you have?” “Hardest? Well they are all the pretty much the same, but go to the end of this road and head left, it’s a nice and easy path that should take about an hour to the top of a hill.” Nice and easy is the hardest, what kind of national park is this?

     A half an hour later I am on top of the ‘hill’, which is mostly paved and barely has me in a sweat even though it is over 80 F out, hiking for Disney Land adventurers.  The view is nice so I appreciate this park for what it is and head to one of its beach. I see a small peninsula of rocks and head out for it. In and out of a couple more of the same and I am alone with a beautiful view of the surrounding hills and rocks that scatter the sea. This is what I’m talking about I think as I take in the views and crashing surf. But coming in is a familiar sight for me; rain, and lots of it. So I start to turn back and I am assaulted by a downpour, once again soaking me to the bone, good thing I brought my rain jacket.

     Walking around the town more I am just not getting the Tico vibe from this town. I feel like I am part of a sponge that is squeezing out all of the local culture that is here in this beautiful place. This does feel like Disney Land with everything being advertised as magical and overpriced food. “With all the tourism here, are the locals still happy?” I ask the hostel employee, a friendly Tico named Carlos “Oh yeah, no problem. It is something you get used to, and if you want to be with people you know, there are always places that the tourists don’t know about.” Well I certainly can understand that, if my town was run by tourism I would want some local hang out spots as well, but he is not going to tell me where that is. The rain continues to come down; I am ready to move on to the other side of the peninsula and Montezuma.

     I decide to head back into Quepos and get a good walk around to see what there is to see. But it is Sunday, and everything is closed except bars and restaurants. Seeing a light hue come over to roofs around me I head to the waterfront; a paved walkway that is full of Tico’s riding bikes, walking with their families, and enjoy the fading sun. A sand bar provides a perfect picnic spot for a few families and hopeful fishermen. The beauty is immense, and smiles are around. Maybe this is how they are happy with the tourists; appreciating what they have. On my way back to the bus stop I run into a soccer field and filled bleachers. High school age kids don bright NIKE cleats and spiked haircuts, strutting their stuff before the game starts. Once the game starts, yelling from the crowd follows shortly after as the players sprint across the dirt with scattered grass field. The goals have no net and there is only one ref trying his best to keep up. They quarrel like it’s the Premier League, yelling and arguing over nearly every play. I glance over and see the subs place an order in a Soda that is on the opposite end of the field, Costa Rican futbol.

     When I get back to the hostel I am struck by a beautiful sunset. Instead of running for my camera, I take a seat to appreciate all the nuances. There is no way my camera could catch the light mist on the valley across from me, at the foot a cliff covered by cloud and flanked by rolling hills. No way, not the array of lights scattered across the horizon by the sun, I count 8 shades of white, yellow and blue. Maybe this is how happiness is found here; the beauty can never be taken away.   

Update: The North Country

My friend for the day in front of Arenal

It is 530am in San Jose, the sun has kissed the hills surrounding the city and the vendors are opening their gates to the morning commuters. I am sitting in the bus terminal with an empanada in my hand (so cheap and so good) waiting for the driver to open the doors for us heading to La Fortuna. After about an hour or so and we have left the outer limits of the capitol and I see a sign that says “El norte, nuestra tierra” (The north is our land) and as we climb higher into the mountains I see sprawls of coffee hills and cow pastures. Towns turn smaller and smaller, into communities with no more than a grocery/mini mart while houses come harder to spot, with more shacks, sheds, and cows than anything else.

The air has been filled with a relaxing breeze as we escape from the urban capital. The farther we get away, the more friendly honks and exchanges I see. I counted 10 honks and hellos from our bus driver in one little town we drove past, a great contrast from the honks I heard in San Jose; one coming every second you held up traffic or in the way. Here and in Guanacaste as well, honks are used as a friendly call, with two short beeps I could hear ‘hey! Goodmorning, hope life is going well’.

More rolling hills and farms and we were in La Fortuna, at the base of volcano Arenal, one of most active in Central America. I was not impressed with what could be a very cool and hip town, La Fortuna was a complete tourist hotspot with dozens of ‘souvenir’ shops and expensive hotel/resorts. So I was thankful to get the transport to my hostel quickly, I already had enough of the crowded streets and merchant shops this trip. Essence Arenal was the name of the hostel I was to stay at, and once we arrived I took a deep breath and was in heaven. On the opposite side of the volcano and perched on a hill overlooking the conical volcano and its gigantic lake, this place was a real escape. The owner, Kelly, was a really helpful guy, making sure every person had every detail perfected for their stay. I stayed in a tent/room that had a cement floor and a double sized bed. I immediately took several shots of the mostly clear day and started on a hike. Up and up I went. Past a little Tico community and over another lookout with tourists riding some horses while others grazed some grass on the hill (the horses that is). There I met up with my friend for the day; a beagle with a hanging tongue and a deep cut on his side. We continued on the horse trail and into a forest filled with huge butterflies and an array of sounds coming from the bush. For several miles we hiked until we ran into a farm that contained enough no trespassing signs to turn away the dog. But I knew a great view was around the corner so I scrambled under the barb wire and took a look. It was getting cloudy but I could see edges of valleys cutting into each other and streams popping out of their hills. I later learned on a clear day one can see to Lake Nicaragua and the surrounding volcanoes.

The next day I went for a hike with two Swiss women and two Frenchmen up Cerro Chato, a dormant volcano next door to Arenal. The lagoon in the volcanoes’ crater was worth the trip and the spring river (100 degrees F) was a perfect end. But our driver to and from the activities that day may have been the highlight. A bright and full bellied man, Eduardo was more than happy to talk about his people and his views on happiness. “Here we have no problems, life is simple because of it, we are happy” he tells me. “We live in a beautiful place, with volcanoes, rivers and lots of beauty to see”. I ask him what he thinks about San Jose to the south. “People are crazy there, they honk and push to move faster, here we are slow and honk to be happy.” I smile.

“Eduardo, I have spent some time in Guanacaste and on the coast and I have heard the same things about happiness there.”

“Yes, I can see there are similarities, but not quite the same. I think we are a little more introverted with our thoughts here and have a lot of religious/spiritual ties to the land. But in both places, problems are few compared to other places.”

Too soon my time near the volcano is over and I headed to Monteverde and the cloud forest reserves. I take a boat ride with a couple of New Yorkers I have befriended and meet a socal college grad on the ride to the other side of the lake. A laid back dude named Robert who has been traveling the country for nearly two months. The ride from the lake to Monteverde was filled with gravel, bumpy, steep roads that criss-crossed the country side, dipping through little towns and coffee country.

The town of Monteverde is what I thought La Fortuna would be; not too big, a lot of local art and color, and cheap places to stay. I got a $6 dorm room run by a couple of Texans and hit the streets. As I walked out of town and towards a small art community down the road I felt this to be a more spiritual place than my other travels in Costa Rica. I ate at a great soda in the back of an art co-op that was running on a wood fire kitchen. Just down the road there was a dairy plantation (with great ice cream) and more art studios. I hiked on back roads and saw unique houses that reminded me of the west coast; surrounded by trees and plants, small but with loads of character. When I got back to the hostel I was notified by Judy that things back in Potrero were not going smoothly. Thus I went on an adventure to get an international calling card that no one in town knew how to use, but the five people I asked were all very nice, and eventually the guy working the hostel knew you had to hit 1 before everything else.

 After our chat, I ran into Robert whom I met on the boat and we grabbed something to eat. We ended up sitting outside and talking for nearly two hours. As a fellow young traveler we talked about the different parts of Costa Rica, places to stay, and a lot of happiness. First he was skeptical about deeming Costa Rica the happiness country, but after a good exchange we agreed on the relativeness of it all. “How can we really assess happiness?” he asked. “Well, that’s a good question isn’t it?” we both laughed. “But that’s half of book, what can qualify as a substantial measurement to something that varies so much between each person?” I answered. “Exactly man. Just a few days ago I saw some kids riding bikes meant for me and you, I mean they weren’t were trying to sit on seat, they barely fit on the crossbar.” He paused “and if you think about it, if an American kid had a bike that was that big, they wouldn’t even try to ride it, they would complain and get a bike that fit them.”

“You know what’s one underlying thing I have noticed here, the happiest people I have talked to,” I paused “they aren’t striving for anything more than they have, in a sense they are only eating what’s on their plate.”

“Exactly man.”

The next morning I packed up my bag and went for a hike in the Santa Ana cloud forest reserve. A beautiful early morning turned into a rain forest worthy downpour. I had to sneak under a tree to get temporary relief. I thought ‘why did I come all the way here to go on a Washington hike?’ but as I saw centipedes and tropical birds heading for cover my question was answered. Although the rain did not halt, I got a good view of a misty cloud forest from a tower and was surrounded with an aura of mystery in the air.

“But even here, the influence of tourism was unmistakable. The only Tico’s I saw were the construction workers building a new area for reception. The majority of hikers went with a tour guide equipped with a telescope, a shovel and planned stopping points to talk about the flora and fauna. “ I am on the bus heading west with Matt, a native of Austin, Texas who just got accepted into law school while traveling around Central America. “It’s everywhere.” He says “you can tell some people are really getting tired of it, some have even told me.” The owner of the hostel in San Jose mentioned the animosity some hold for tourists here. “I mean think about it” he continues “how would you feel if your town was based on people coming in from another culture and stomping around, changing businesses and restaurants to cater towards them?” Growing up in a small town that would have summer day tourists come, I could relate.  “But” I said, “People adapt. It’s in our DNA, just look at the thriving economy that has come to meet it here. I certainly wouldn’t like it but, but I wouldn’t let it control my life, especially in such a beautiful place.”

This thought brought me back to another talk earlier that day. As I walked around the town waiting for the bus, I decided to see another side of town, and found myself in a tourist shop that look very typical to the many I have seen in Costa Rica. Right before I decide to make my way out, the owner, a young Tico with his son, approached me. “Hablas espanol?” he asks. “A veces” (at times) I respond, they get a chuckle out of that. He tells me his name is Alberto and he is trying to learn English online. We talk about the challenges of learning a new language and about his son and their future in Monteverde. When he asks me what I’m doing in Costa Rica, his eyes light up and I ask “estas feliz?”

He tells me he is very happy. Why? “En Monteverde, hay no problemas y vida es tranquila.” (There are no problems in Monteverde and life is relaxed, easy.). Then his friend walks in, Juan. “This guy is researching happiness in Costa Rica” Alberto says. “No way! Hey man, I’m happy, you want to know why?” I like the sound of this. “In this area of Costa Rica, happiness depends on three things” he held out his closed palm, “physical, one, mental, two, spiritual, three”. Nearly an hour later we have touched on religion, spirituality, the self, and of course, happiness. My Spanish got an ego boost in the last couple of hours, although I’m mostly just listening. Juan grew up in a religious, catholic, household like many other TIco’s he tells me. “Then one day, I decided you should decide for yourself if you want to be religious. So I stopped going to church.” He continued “then I really thought about it and saw I needed god in my life, and that we all need god. We all need someone to talk to, during the good and the bad, and every night I talk with him.” In Costa Rica they often refer to Jesus as El or simply, him. So I ask him “how do you know everyone has to know god?” “Well, how do you know yourself then?” He asks “Where do you start? Who do you ask?” “Myself” I say and point at my chest.
“Who?”

“Me”

“Who?”

“Me. How can I know anybody else if I don’t know myself first?” I decided to elaborate a little more, pushing my Spanish. “If I can ask myself the hard questions, I can be happy for simply being alive and taking on problems by myself.”

“Ok then” he says “that’s great”

Happiness really is relative, the more I travel the country the more I can see that. Now I sit poolside in Potrero. Just a couple of days ago there was a crisis here and the house sitters were asked to leave. Trust is important, I see again. The sun has poked its head out the last couple of days and I have fully accepted the relaxed Tico lifestyle; lounging in the pool and ocean, writing and being simply happy. But I can’t stop thinking about the mystery of traveling. It is great to have both; times to wake up with the rest of the day open to any adventure and others to process and reflect. I am fascinated by the contrasts I see in the different parts of a country no bigger than West Virginia. What do the other parts I have not trekked hold? What about the Carribean? Are they happy there, and why? A topic with this much breadth needs to be walked from many shoes, talked by many voices.