Kiwi Trail

Hippie Lodging, Alcoholic Flasks and Exchange Rates

junglejane — Tue, 16 Jun 2015 02:16:00 GMT

June 8 - Islas de Ometepe

Goodbye Granada! After living there for almost three months, we finally packed our bags and left for the pacific coast where we spent four nights in the beach town of San Juan del Sur. We are now in Isla de Ometepe. To get here, we took an hour long chicken bus ride, a taxi and then a boat to the destination whose name means: The island with two mountains (they are actually volcanoes). We are staying at a lodge called El Zopilote. The place seems to cater to hippies with cell phones, munching on granola and organic yogurt while surfing the slow_but_working59876355 Internet. El Zopilote is a finca, the place practices permaculture, they have a free yoga class every morning, instead of flushing you throw rice shells into the compost toilet, and the showers are outdoors because "it makes you feel closer to earth".

Our cabaña hut is made of a palapa thatched roof, bamboo windows and there is a sexy violet mosquito net that hovers over our bed at night. To get to the restaurant/reception, to the toilet, showers or a sports bar, you have to hike a bit. Volunteer opportunities to help out in the farm abound.

The place is a great idea and I'm happy to have spent two full days here. For $18 bucks a night! It was one of the most idyllic places I've ever stayed at but I am over it. It helps to point out that rain poured during our first night here, making the roads muddy and that nixed our plans to rent a motorcycle and explore the island the next days. As I type this, torrential rain continues to fall with random bursts of thunder. Boom!

Some popular activities here include: horseback riding on the Santo Domingo beach, swimming inside the jungle like pools near the big town of Altagracia, venturing Altagracia, hiking up one of the two volcanoes and hiking to a waterfall. We did none of that. Our spirit to prance around the island was lost with the expensive gas prices, meaning that flagging down a cab was next to impossible. So we stayed in, I took the yoga class and ate the rest of my book. James and I put in about two hours of work (I have a remote job as well which I'll describe later), then we had lunch and did a quick walk to the petroglyphs. We watched the Playoff games at a bar called Little Morgans, got some free beers and rum shots for being Cavs fans, then made the hour long hike back to our lodge in the rainy and very dark stormy night. Side note: there were two friendly Australians who worked there and were pleased to learn that Dellavedova is an Aussie as well. If cell phones didn't have built-in flashlights, I don't know how we would've made it back without bumping into a snake, a frog or a wild pig. Actually, we walked right over a harmless snake during that stormy night. But HOW did you know the snake was harmless? I don't know, it was small. Look ma, no bites! And earlier that day, James got to pet a wild horse and a wild pig within 30 seconds of each other. It looked like James and the horse had an understanding; the pig hated it.

Quick Trip Advisor review for El Zopilote:

You're on your own here. If it rains, they won't sell you a poncho. If you go out and return really late, then they won't warn you about how dark the hike back will be. The bus schedule posted on the wall is off by an hour but there is no sign of that anywhere. All of this can seem frustrating or typical for a backpacker but for me it added to the allure of the 360 degree view of fields of green type of environment.

They have a stone brick oven so for breakfast, try the fresh bread with their homemade peanut butter. The Nica staff can seem unhelpful but they understand enough English so just speak up if you need anything. BRING A FLASHLIGHT AND A PONCHO.

4 stars

Continuing:

After five and a half months, James and I still have plans to travel for a year, perhaps longer. Yes, our savings account is dwindling and it was at a fast rate during the first couple of months. As it turns out, my gig as a bartender in Granada did not break us even. Some of the reasons for that include: eating out once a week and splurging on Mondays at pub quiz i.e., drinking. So a few days ago, we sat down and discussed how to make the money stretch. Words like cooking! Couch surfing! Flasks and sandwiches sprung up... The following will discuss cooking.

I love to cook and I love garlic! Especially when married with onions. They're the perfect match. I love garlic and onions! Could that be the secret to Peruvian cuisine? But wait, there is also chile. Ahh so it's a three-way.

Okay! When traveling for a long time, cooking your own meals will make a difference in your budget. The cheapest meal we found was for $3 a plate, this includes rice, beans, a piece of meat, fried plantains and maybe even a disgusting slab of salty fried cheese. Now if I make my carrot pasta sauce (inspired by my mom) with canned mushrooms and throw in two avocados (because I can) plus the ménage a trios I will get three meals out of it and each plate will have cost $1.50. That's a huge difference!

Now with work, many of James's friend's are lawyers and a couple of them need help with marketing their business via SEO and social media. Since I have experience with the latter, he's handed that to me. James is also doing some grant writing. All said and done, he's putting in four hours of work a day, I'm putting in two. Until I get another writing gig on Elance or a bartending job (which will happen when we get to Colombia), I will cook, contact people on Couch Surf, and figure out this thing called Travel Hacking. I've done it before and got a free RT flight to South America.

Alcohol! Giving it up has not been an option. We like having a few beers once or twice a week. And the rum in Nicaragua has been exceptional. A rum and coke (here it's called a Nica Libre) cost about $1.50 at most places but a can of coke is under a dollar. Take a flask and that can of coke will yield you 4-6 drinks.

"The flask was a great idea," James said. Yes! It was my idea to purchase the party flask at Bevmo a few nights before my flight to Cancun; we've since upgraded to packing a 32 ounce water bottle with our favorite Flor de Caña 7 years rum (that was his idea). Working remotely, eating in and drinking out is how we will save.

Right now, we are foolishly waiting for the rain to stop so that we can leave Nicaragua, somehow, but it looks like we will have to tough it out and make the grueling hike down and out of El Zopilote to catch the bus to the ferry. We have on big backpacks and we look like tortoises. Here we go.

Mom, dad, grandma, I've translated this to Spanish to the best of my abilities. I hope you enjoy it! Les quiero mucho!

---

Update: Living in Nicaragua and Stumbling Upon Happiness

junglejane — Mon, 18 May 2015 11:35:00 GMT

I love Granada but I am looking forward to leaving soon. James and I have been here since mid-March and the town and people have treated us well but the weather is chasing us away. A first time visitor will equate a walk down a block to a hike up a steep mountain due to the hot, humid, weather. Expats will tell you that your body will adjust. My body has adjusted and I keep a red handkerchief in my back pocket to wipe the sweat off my face every few seconds. Face sunscreen is a joke! One of the most annoying routines everyday is applying face sunscreen because it sweats off immediately and I've given up on make-up altogether.

I told James that if I had known that it would be this hot, I would've rented our place for less time.

"But then you wouldn't have all the opportunities that you got."

Good point.

I was slated to be Local Director for a tour operation in March but when I learned that the tour was in shambles, I quit and began my own tour–same idea and everything but with a different owner. We worked hard to make the idea work but marketing it was a challenge and after a few weeks, we revisited the reason for our decision to travel Latin America for a year and realized that we were missing the point. The point was to get away as far as possible from the 9 to 5 job and do everything we wanted to do but couldn't do in San Diego. Aside from exploring new countries, we wanted time to read and exercise more. James wanted to focus on his writing and learn Spanish. My goal was to create a habit of meditating every day; I also wanted to read in Spanish, experiment with my cooking skills and watch Seinfeld. We were doing none of that so we decided to take a break from traveling, look for jobs instead and live in Granada for a few months. So what if we got paid substantially less, if it's enough to pay for the groceries and some alcohol, sign me up! We found a furnished room with private bath, shared outside kitchen and swimming pool for $350 a month. The rent includes cleaning service once a week, all utilities and petting access to the dog and three well behaved kids who we share this big home with. For a Nicaraguan, $350 is expensive but for us who lived in Hillcrest, it was a steal so we slapped down $700. So what if we didn't have jobs, we'll figure it out because we're a team! I'll ask around, I'll show off my bilingual skills and the photo I took of my BA diploma from UCSD (I could find a job teaching English!), I'll check the workaway website and work at a restaurant for tips. The latter made me laugh because I had been a waitress twice before and twice I failed. I recalled my friend Theresa from Toastmasters telling me how much she made on tips by working part-time as a waitress, she's been doing it for more than 10 years and she loves it! She said:

You would shine at it!

That's what I thought but the last two times I tried, once I got fired, the second time, they downgraded me to a host and then a busboy. A busboy! I asked to be called a busgirl but they said they don't have those there.

Anyway, back in Nicaragua, my landlord offers me a part-time job as a bartender/waitress at one of her restaurants. She said that it's real chill and that I would be working the bar and talking to people who will want to know, "What the hell is an American doing living in Nicaragua?"

My qualifications were: an upbeat personality and good bilingual skills so that I could communicate and joke with the cooks in Spanish and switch back to English for the customers. I accepted the job but my misqualifications haunted me for a week and I hated the guy I worked with because he did not smile and he was always on his phone. I'm going to call this him Facial Paralysis guy. I didn't want to lose it so I increased my sitting time saying, "om" from 15 to 20 minutes. That helped. But then my patience wavered and I ceased the friendly chit-chat one Saturday afternoon after waiting two tables with 13 people who asked for separate checks. I told Facial Paralysis guy, "You don't help out, you expect me to run drinks and wait tables by myself, you don't smile, you're always on your phone, and then you get mad AT ME when someone walks away on their bill? The only thing you're good at is pissing people off."

He was stunned. I wonder how often women talk to guys like that in this country? That was the last thing I said to him and it was the last time he worked there. He's Nicaraguan and I feel that his main challenge was taking orders from women.

On a side note, the machismo here isn't as bad as some places like Honduras but it's there. If you're a girl then guys will hiss at you. Also, almost every Nicaraguan women I know here is a single mother, has been divorced once or twice (a common reason is that the guy cheated on her) and has at least two kids.

A few weeks later my boss offered to pay me three weeks worth of pay if I could create a Customer Service seminar and train her waiters for a week. I accepted the challenge. And that's the second opportunity I got for having stayed here this long.

Meanwhile, James has started doing legal work for one of his friends in New York and it has been great. We're making it work! We plan on spending a week in the San Juan del Sur beach next. My boss knows many people there so who knows, perhaps I'll get a gig there and if not, I know someone who could use my help at their bar. After that it's Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Ecuador and Peru. Then we'll fly home for a month, then back. The plan is to visit every country in the Latin American continents. The plan is subject to change of course depending on income. That means that if we run out of money next month, we could be coming home sooner. But since we need so little to get by it seems like we will make it work.

I will return to the states eventually, but what's the rush? I am young! I don't have kids, I don't have a mortgage, I don't even have a pet. I don't have any stakes in the ground! I am from California so my life will not ends at a certain age if I don't get a career or have kids. I am traveling, I am meditating every day, I am reading, I'm cooking, I'm writing, I'm working and I am waking up every morning (whenever I want) next to my best-friend, my partner in life, el amor de mi vida, James Miller. I've never been this happy in my life.

Mr. Mysterious Man

junglejane — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 06:32:00 GMT

He was standing next to me holding a drink in one hand. He wasn't the typical average 5'10" guy, he is much shorter than that but anyone standing next to a 5 foot chaparita like me (5'1" in the morning), it's just a bigger world for me. His shoulder stood a few inches above mine. His arm hit the back of my forearm but when I looked up to see who the Mysterious Man was he looked away. Must've been the motion of the salsa dancers that made him do it. It was not intentional. Too bad because the effects of my Starbucks concoction—tall ice coffee with 4 pumps of chai and whole milk—had just kicked in and I wanted to dance.

Colorful lights bounced off the wooden dance floor and pranced across the semi-crowded nightclub. Bartenders served their usual watered-down neon green Tokyo Ice teas and the promoter roared, “Salsa and bachata, every Monday night here in La Jolla!” into the microphone as Romeo’s bachata song, “Promise” blasted through the stereo. It was my favorite song and I was itching to dance.

A tall man with leather brown skin, curly eye lashes and a Crest white smile lead a mousy, fair woman to the floor. The woman had moves but what is most impressive about her is that her limbs are made of steel. She may look frail but when a man spins her a 1000 times per second, she'll stop on the right beat with flawless composure. She reminds me of Charlize Theron's secret superhero character in that Will Smih movie. I can't remember the name!

A second man, a very short man pranced across the room to the 40-year-old curvaceous yoga instructor, he took her hand and she took his. They danced and I wanted to dance too.

All at once, the sway of dancers gliding their feet across the floor rippled across the sidelines. My shoulder nudged against the Mysterious Man, Mr. MM, and again he looked away. His short black hair and brown Latino looks were familiar to me; perhaps I had danced with him before. Not wanting to miss the opportunity to dance to one of my favorite songs, I purposely nudged my arm against Mr. MM a little harder and he finally looked at me and asked, “Hey, how have you been?”

My hope dwindled and I said, “Good, and you?”
He asked me, “Do you come here a lot?”

I said, “Yes. I haven't seen you in a while, how have you been?"

He extended his arm and I politely took his as he led me to the floor.

He smiled and I smiled back. Romeo sang his bachata ballad, the song went into full swing as Mr. MM gave me the slightest push or pull, I didn’t know if it was a push, a pull or a nudge—I couldn’t find his rhythm. I panicked because if I can't find his rhythm then I can't feel the music. He didn't have a pattern. I pressed my palm hard against his to create resistance. He moved to the right, 1, 2, 3, 4 and he moved to the left, 1,2,3,4. Left and right, left and right. I felt like a pendulum that was off by 5 seconds, sometimes 10.

Alas, he spun me. To add variety, he spun me again for a total of three times. It was really exciting.

The Starbucks concoction had kicked in the worst time ever, I became exuberant, I wanted to style, I wanted to express my creativity but as a follower, I was limited to his lead. Since I couldn't find his rhythm, it was like being on a light rollercoaster without a seat belt. I breathed in and out long Ojai breaths, the breath of yoga. The song is almost over Jane, you can make it! I looked deep into his eyes, trying my best to find the slightest trace of electricity.

I wanted to tell him, “Yes you are the man of the club, now if only you could relax and not apologize so much for stepping on my feet.”

I wanted to tell him, “I don't care how good or bad you are as long as you’re having fun because then, I might have some fun too!”

In salsa it is the man’s job to lead but Mr. MM was trying to follow me. Perhaps I looked like a man so I told him in my sexiest huskiest feminine voice, “You know, it’s actually the man’s job to lead, not the girl’s.”

He yelled above the music, “What?”

I said, “This is my favorite song!”

He yelled, “Mine too!”

When the song finally ended I thanked him for the dance and disappeared into the crowd. I grabbed the shortest dude in the club, I acknowledged the 40-year-old yoga teacher and she smiled back, it’s my turn. No more mysterious men for me.

Crossing to Argentina

junglejane — Sun, 1 May 2011 11:27:00 GMT

Crossing from Bolivia to Argentina – May 01, 2011

It was 5:30 in the morning in the cold, scantily lit border town of Villazón in Bolivia, about 40 degrees F, maybe less. The night bus from La Paz to Villazón was almost as bad as the Greyhound. At least Greyhound has some regulations in regards to, uh, cleanliness? Whatever, the bus ride to Argentina was a nightmare because someone had left their window up all night—or it could’ve been broken, a baby had cried through most of the night and I had woken up twice to check if my toes were still there not because It was freezing out there. It was because I wasn’t prepared for the weather to drop that low. Which made me hiss, “you idiot” under my breath half a dozen times.

This was a nine-hour bus ride!

When the bus finally arrived at its destination, I jumped out of my seat and scuffled into a line with the other passengers heading for the exit door. And before I could take both of my legs off the bus, a man yelled into my face, “Buenos Aires!!!” About three men yelled this into my face because they were recruiting passengers to fill their bus. Their shouts left a visible white fog in the thin atmosphere. And yet, that doesn’t begin to describe how cold it was.

Outside, I clutched the grey pashmina around my neck with both hands, feeling the icy gravel puncture through the cardboard soles of my dinky sneakers. I cursed myself for ditching my three pound blue sweater, I cursed myself for not packing extra socks, and I cursed myself for not buying hiking boots when I had the chance!

I stood there for a minute watching the conductor pass out luggage and when I spotted my razor blue, four foot by two (almost my height) backpack, the conductor helped me fasten it around my waist. I thanked him and waddled to the bus terminal’s waiting area where I gathered information about the exit procedure for Americans.

Traveling with an American passport has its cons, I learned this a while ago when I made plans to travel to Brazil and learned that there is a special $100 entry fee for US passport holders. The case is similar for Americans heading to Argentina, Bolivia and Chile. This is bad karma and a courtesy derived from the inhumane and ridiculous time consuming scrutiny that the Transportation “Security” Administration (TSA) sets on anyone—citizen and non-citizen—who just so happened to fly into an airport in the United States.

I heard plenty of horror stories from fellow American travelers who paid hefty visa prices and additional “city clean up” fees. I heard one story from a writer from Colorado who waited in Paraguay for five days because the Bolivian Embassy wouldn’t give him a visa. And sometimes, border patrol can hassle you for money when you try to leave the country. This is why it’s good to do your research before you travel. That is something I need to work on.

I had 500 Bolivianos (Bolivian currency) and it might be enough to buy a ticket from the bordertown Juliaca in Argentina to my final destination: Buenos Aires. My main concern was: will the Bolivian border office charge me a fee for leaving the country? And will the Argentinean border officer waive the $140 entry fee that they demand for air travelers? I asked my cab driver this and he had no clue.

As my cab driver drove the four blocks to the Bolivian Migration Office—I got a cab because it was too cold—I marveled at the Bolivian women carrying loads of fruit baskets, blankets and clothes on their backs. Thick leggings with a pattern of brown, pink, yellow and green stripes concealed their legs. Long fluffy skirts bounced below their knees as they walked in their black Mary Jane shoes and tall black bowler hats.

My cheeks flushed when I compared their stamina against mine: seeing how I had to pay someone to drive me for a measly four blocks because I couldn’t stand the cold, my energy was zilch! These women are Eskimos adapted in their own Antarctic.

My driver pulled in next to the Bolivian migration office, I paid him 4 Bolivianos and scurried into the office—it was like walking barefoot onto an ice-skating rink. Inside the small office there was: an outdated calendar taped to a wall, a tall portrait of the president Evo Morales and a brown table with scratches. Sitting next to the table was your typical blue-eyed American. His feet were tucked under his life-sized backpack and his shivering arms were crossed. He had been waiting there since 5 am; it was now 6:30.

I sat on the scratched table and began the usual conversation with the encounter. Where are you from? Boston but I live in Buenos Aires now. Is that where you’re headed? No, I’m going to Tucuman for vacation, what about you?

His name was Justin and he had taken up a job in Buenos Aires teaching English shortly after graduating from college. He told me about the culture and people in Argentina. Nothing new really and definitely not something that I was looking forward to, just the same old: Argentineans are snobby, don’t expect to be greeted warmly, they consider themselves European and less Latino.

After some time, someone else stepped into the office. He was the receptionist and the first thing he said to me was, “Do you have any respect? Get off the table.”

I said, “Well señor, maybe if there were more chairs this table wouldn’t bare all the scratches from the poor people who have nowhere else to sit”.

He ignored me and disappeared into his office.

Justin and I did not see anyone else for another half an hour and around 7:30 we huddled in front of the ¨Exit Bolivia¨ window so to block the people who tried to cut us. The same man who rebuked me for sitting on the table reappeared at 8 o’clock and finally opened his window to stamp our passports. It was quick and there was no exit fee, they didn’t even charge us for sitting inside their office! (They do this at bus terminals throughout Bolivia and Peru).

I stepped outside the Migration office and embraced the sun, it had made its full rise and yet it was still freaking cold. I waved at the throng of sleepy Americans, Israelis, Europeans, Argentineans and Bolivians forming a line. I suddenly became antsy, my instinctive morning can of Red Bull had kicked and no weather could stop me from doing what I was about to do next. I sauntered the 10-meter long dusty road that lead to my final destination.

The first sign that I was in Argentina was the tall, white police officer wearing an army green jumpsuit. He looked young, handsome, with blue eyes and was incredibly tall for a Latin American. He gave me a flirtatious smile, I blushed because it has been 24 hours since I last combed my hair.

I asked him, ¨La oficina de immigracion?¨

He gestured his right arm over my head, ¨Asha¨.

He said, over there. In all of Latin America, the way we say “over there” is: aya. With the exception of Argentina where they pronounce it with a shh sound: asha. When this incredibly handsome man said, asha instead of aya, I did not expect my head to float into a pink cloud. It was like a sweet welcome. Once the pink cloud disappeared, I returned my focus the Migration of Office of Argentina.

The Argentinean man who stamped my passport was also tall and didn’t look bad either. He didn’t ask me anything; he just smiled and quickly skimmed through my passport.

Next, security check, an equally tall and white Argentinean man asked me about the contents on my backpack.

I said, “Trapos y ropa sucia”. Clothes and dirty laundry.

I gave him permission to open my daypack, which he carelessly ran his hand through. He said, “listo”. Ready.

Crossing over to Argentina was effortless! I frolicked the extra 200 meters to the bus terminal in Juliaca but my exuberance came to a halt when I learned that all the buses to Buenos Aires would leave at 2 pm meaning that I would have to miss the first day of class. Had I purchased the bus ticket in Villazón, it would’ve been cheaper and the bus would’ve left sooner. But I didn’t feel comfortable buying a ticket from a guy who yelled, “Buenos Aires” to my face. As a result, I had four hours to kill. Maybe it was meant to be because during those four hours, I met Dave and Sam; two guys who were searching for a deck of playing cards and alcohol. Their plan was to get drunk and pass out during the 24-hour bus trip.

Photos: Give Lima a chance!

junglejane — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 16:05:00 GMT

Photos: Guanujuato II

junglejane — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 11:31:00 GMT

Photos: Guanajuato

junglejane — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 15:25:00 GMT

Las Mommias, Mummys y las Minas

Photos: Guanajuato, Mexico 2009

junglejane — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 19:45:00 GMT

BBQ & X-Mas dinner

Famous Janes

junglejane — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 12:00:00 GMT

Cambodia’s landscape echoes a chilling past. The rural flat country with its rustic paved roads played a roll in one of the worse genocides in the history of the world. Think about it, if you were a victim where would you run? Where would you hide? There are no mountains or dense patches of forest that could have aided victims in their escape.

The story goes like this: Once upon a time a guy named Pol Pot visited Communist China and became so inspired by Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution that he came up with his own non compos mentis, that is, a set of mentally incompetent ideas for an agrarian utopia.

Then in 1969 Pol Pot became ousted from Cambodia but with the military assistance from the Democratic kingpin of the world, The United States of America, the Cambodian Hitler returned and thus began the Khmer Rouge and their mass genocide from 1975 to 1979: Millions of Cambodians were forced into labor camps known as the “Killing Fields” and many were killed at gunpoint. According to my wonderful Geography teacher from community college, Pol Pot was so fixated on creating an agrarian society that he executed lawyers, teachers, Buddhist monks, former government officials, police, doctors, wealthy people and anyone who was suspected of being smart. So if you wore glasses, you were a dead man.

A quarter of the Cambodian population died as a result of the Khmer Rouge regime, that’s two million deaths!

Today the “Killing Fields” where the Khmer Rouge practiced genocide is a horrifying tourist attraction. Piles of skulls and bones frame the place. Signs like “Killing Tree Against Which Executioners Beat Children” make it a dead silent observation pit stop. I watched the 1984 film, “The Killing Fields” before visiting and for that reason, the only thing I heard that afternoon as I walked through the site were the helpless cries of innocent kids.

Another tragedy was the mass execution that occurred in the Tuol Sleng School where people were tortured into giving false confessions. Today that school still stands; it’s another tour stop in Phom Penh one that I hesitated to visit. Inside, the walls are covered with the black and white portraits of the twenty thousand terrified and hopeless victims.

My Canadian friend who I’ve been traveling with for the past two weeks asked me, “How could they kill that many people in four years?”

I said, “I don’t know, guns?”

Not so fast Jane. Cambodia is a round and flat country; the poor victims probably had nowhere to hide. If you look at the country today, it’s still flat for miles. Actually, from a traveler’s point of view Cambodia’s landscape makes it an ideal place for wanderlust souls to carve out their own adventure. As long as you don’t step outside the paved roads, you probably won’t stumble on anything more than a turtle or a rock. Step outside of the roads and a land mine may blow you up into smithereens.

I explained this to my Canadian friend and later that evening at dinner, he announced that he would be renting a motorcycle. He said that instead of taking the usual bus or boat to voyage the mother of all temples, Angkor Watt; he would drive there instead! That’s a 184-mile trip. Now that is what you call going off the beaten road! Or taking the road less traveled, Robert Frost, etcetera, etcetera.

I asked him, “Is the seat big enough for two people?”

Hint, hint.

He said, “Uh the motorcycle I was looking at is sort of small and it’s probably not safe for girls anyway.”

I felt like he just pulled the rug from under my feet. Does he not know whom he was talking to? Does he not know that he just insulted the great Jungle Jane? Does he not know that few females are given this name due to its association with craziness? e.g. Mary Jane, Calamity Jane, Jane Goodall.

Then you have your actresses: Jane Krakowski, actress from 30 Rock; Jane Kaczmarek from Malcom in the Middle and Jane Lynch from Glee.

Ouch, ouch. This shouldn’t hurt. I’ll show him! I don’t know how to drive a motorcycle but that doesn’t mean that I can’t learn. The only thing that I can drive on two wheels is a bicycle. That’s right a bicycle. That is actually not a bad idea.

Disclaimer: The settings on my camera were off and stamped the photo with the wrong date

U Turn

junglejane — Tue, 2 Jan 2007 15:11:00 GMT

Location: South East Costa Rica

Destination: San Jose, Costa Rica

I checked my back pocket, I checked the front pocket of my backpack then shoved my hands inside all five-pocket jeans for the third time—it’s not there, my passport! I emerged from the back seat of the bus and yelled, “Para el autobús!” Stop the bus!

Panic set in, my mind raced, where? Where could it be and why? Why now? After being careful for 60 days and guarding my passport like a Giga pet. How could I lose it the day before my flight back to Los Angeles?

“It must’ve fallen out of my back pocket at our last bathroom stop,” I told the chauffer. Our last bathroom stop wasn’t far, just a couple of miles from the border town Paso Canoas.

The chauffer looked empathetic but really—standing in front of a bus with more than 30 passengers—what could he do? Back track? Of course not! Instead, he suggested that I go to the US embassy in San Jose to report that my passport got lost. But I was optimistic and wanted to run back to the tiny, smelly, narrow bathroom stall. My passport was probably lying behind a toilet soaked in urine but I didn’t care! When I told the chauffer to drop me off, the passengers began to whisper among themselves. I felt a petite woman stare up at me, when I caught her gaze her chin tilted and her eyebrows burrowed against her forehead. She kissed her daughter.

The chauffer refunded half my bus fare and dropped me off on the most desolated turf of the Pan-American Highway. He wished me luck and told me to be careful.

I ditched the bus and the first thing I did was that I stood in place with my hands planted on my hips. I stared at the cows grazing in the meadow in front of me. I stared at them for a good five minutes and created a mantra: Cows graze in the south, trees grow in the north; forget where you are and you may be toast.

I recited this a few times and began to walk east and rose my thumb out whenever I saw a car, a truck or another bus heading east. It didn’t take long before two big sturdy men stopped in their red pickup truck.

¿A donde vas?

I said, “I’m going to the nearest bathroom stop, it’s on route to Paso Canoas.”

The driver gestured me to hop onto the truck bed and I did.

I’m sure that it was a scenic ride. The weather was already humid and warm so having the wind rush against my face was a gift and I would’ve enjoyed it had it not been for my passport.

A thousand what ifs ran through my mind. What if someone finds my passport and sells it? Passports can be worth a fortune. I met a couple from Montana who extended their vacation after they had sold their passports for a few hundred dollars.

What if I don’t find it at all? Oh the horror! I met a woman in Tegucigalpa, Honduras who couldn’t leave the country for two weeks because she had lost her passport. Two weeks? I had to be in New Zealand in five days! At least that woman xeroxed her passport, I didn’t. It’s the first rule in the book: make copies of your passport and important documents or better yet, scan them and email them to yourself that way you won’t have to rely on holding it in your backpack which itself can be lost or stolen.

I tried to enjoy the ride for a minute, I tried to focus on the cows grazing the meadow, and I tried to live the present by feeling my hair unravel from my sticky, greasy forehead. But unlike other times where I had found myself in similar situations that felt impulsive, risky and euphorically brazen, all I could think about in that very moment was my passport.

It wasn’t the first time that I hitchhiked but it was the first time that I hitchhiked alone. I was sitting on the truck bed with four crates of hens: one crate per hen. They looked so happy that even PETA would have nothing to protest about. No wonder chicken taste good in Costa Rica (or anywhere else but the US for that matter), those hens were enjoying a bountiful release of endorphins before going into the fryer.

After 20 or 30 some minutes, the red pick truck stopped next to a restroom to let me out. I thanked the guy and offered him a tip but he waived it off and pulled away.

I made a pact with God and it went like this: If someone finds my passport I will reward this person with $5 which, in Costa Rica is really like $10 or $12. I’ll probably read this journal years later and call myself a tacaña, a stingy goat. But Jane, you didn’t have enough cash left in your hands, you still had to buy another bus ticket and you hadn’t seen an ATM for miles.

I ran into the tiny, smelly, narrow bathroom stall and nothing! I walked back out feeling lightheaded. The stumpy lady who had been passing out wads of toilet paper for change asked me what happened, I said, “Mi passaporte!”

The lady said: ¿Oh erés Ha-ne?

Are you Ha-ne?*

She pronounced my English name in Spanish by replacing the English "j" sound with Spanish which sounds like "ha". Then, she drew out a flimsy, navy blue passport and pointed to my name. It was me alright and I threw my arms around her. Sí, sí, sí! Ay dios mío. Someone found my passport!

Gracias, mil gracias señora. I said, “A thousand thanks!" I was so happy that I wanted to cry. I reached for the five dollars which I had ready in my back pocket. I offered it to her but she genuinely did not want to accept it, yet, I hugged one of her hands between both of my palms and told her about my deal with God. She would have to accept it and with that, I placed the small note in her hand.

—Bueno, como usted mande—she said. If you say so.

I then asked her about the chances of me getting a ride to San Jose and she looked past me at the long white bus pulling in. Everybody immediately swarmed to the bus like a colony of red ants. The lady answered my question and said:

—Es muy difícil a ésta hora—

It’s very hard.