March 10, 2005
10:00 AM
Sta. Elena, Costa Rica
Directly out of my travelogue:
The standoff is over. The papers read: 9 dead, 17 injured.
At our hostel, the Pension Sta. Elena (very nice place and conveniently located), smooth jazz tries to touch some part of the mind that has not been poisoned by the events of the past 36 hours. Perhaps the DJ feels the mood will be brightened, even slightly, by such happy melodies. But I say BEWARE.
Beware of the jazz; the music that can turn on you faster than you can say Charlie Parker. Jazz is a musical storm of mixed emotions, taking you to the highest high and then, almost instantly, and before you know it, dropping you down into the dirtiest, sad low. I honestly don’t see how this will help, although I suppose it is more appropriate then Eminem singing about Jessica Simpson’s ass. And, besides that, the music must come on again sometime.
The standoff is over, but the painful reminders are seen everywhere: riding on the backs of ATV’s, sobbing, clutching tightly to the driver – not for safety, but because they may be all that is left; are marked with ominous placards on the streets; are the still closed cafes, restaurants, laundry services (where all my clothes happen to be – worse things have happened); are the pock-marked buildings that took, aside from human lives, the brunt of the wildly fired bullets. Yellow ribbon reminders are rolled up in the trashcans reading, “DO NOT CROSS LINE.” The mood and the talk are reminders enough.
Slowly, the town will regroup, re-open and continue on because they can. We will stay. I think it is a poor time and a poor reason to choose to leave at this point. A lot of tourists have already abandoned the good people who depend on them. Some of the locals are right back to work while others still sit on corners, or stand aimlessly, in disbelief; still surveying the remains of a violent and deadly 36 hours. Jokes are cracked here and there, and why not?
A new age Hunter Thompson (less writer, more photographer), who I first saw in the bar we took refuge in when the standoff was still in its infancy and getting into our hostel (a small parking lot away from the bank) was completely out of the question, has always turned up with his dirty vest, gator boots, ripped jeans, Imperial hat and vintage yellow-tinted glasses. He usually toted a digital SLR camera and an opened beer, or two (thank goodness for carrying straps on cameras).
Apparently the proprietor of an advertising/marketing company in town, and, as I just now overheard, a former marine who has seen “worse,” the new Hunter’s concerns seemed to lie with getting the dirty shots and then following them up with a celebratory beer whenever possible. “I just got some crazy fuckin’ shots, man. Let’s go have a beer.” Yes, he was, in his mind, ‘the Shit.’ I heard him gloating about bullets flying past his head as he lay low on a rooftop adjacent the bank, where a number of hostages had been kept in the vault: some shot, some released in exchange for ‘Super Pollo.’ He joked, mostly to his own amusement, about shooting right back with mega pixels. How clever.
This guy was a real piece of work, as they say, but I doubt he will be anything more than a small fish in an overflowing pond, forever gesturing the act of licking another female photographers asshole and using his camera as his, clearly overblown and disproportioned, penis as he simulated ‘giving IT to her.’ Yes, I watched him do this while the innocent lady trying to do her job continued on as having no idea what was happening behind her, or simply just ignoring the shithead.
I’m sure the long-faced, traumatized locals really appreciate somebody like this, an American no less, living in their town and gloating about the violence that he has glorified with his phallic prosthetic.
I was finally able to pick up my laundry, which the nice expatriate woman gave to me free of charge. I was stunned at such a simple act of kindness (the price was $2 – not out of my budget by any means) during such difficult times. I really felt for these people, for this small and usually peaceful town in the clouds. I offered, very sincerely, any help I could to the nice woman that gave me my clean and folded laundry, but she just smiled and thanked me and walked away.
What could I do? These people had been through a catastrophe – they needed time to heal. The next day we left Sta. Elena. As the bus pulled onto the road I could see shopkeepers opening up for the first time in days, making the first order of business to replace the white bows that adorned their windows and doors (used to show support of a water treatment system) with the new black bows that I could only assume were for the victims of the shootout.
Adios, Santa Elena. ¡Buena Suerte!
hey, i was looking for this summers norseman dates when i seen winternorseman link and i had to check it out. I was laughing really hard at the series of pictures u put up.. the ol man is george wilson i beleive.. and the sink in the men's bathroom cracked me up.. and in the background with the girl giving the finger it looks like my friend peg standing there and lol to bad u never snuck in to the womens bathroom .i laughed at the foresrty road pics as i have very similar ones i been walkimn that road for many years and i love that road.. i don't know if u are aware that the snake pit closed its doors nov 1. rumour has it that they may re-open in the spring. I so hope that it does...being curious about u lead me to ur blog.. that i plan to read fully.. i wish u a nice life and who knows maybe one day i will see u in red lake walking along that good ol forestry road.... keep on blogggin.... bye for now
Posted by: lina | January 11, 2006 at 07:35 AM