San Jose Costa Rica - I’m in the middle of another liquid lunch at El Patio when the waiter checks in.

“Listo senor?”

“No, traigame otra cuba libre por favor.” I tell him.

My table’s near the street. An odd assortment of mostly light-skinned people pass by: gringos, ticos, bums, old men hustling Cubans.

I have mixed feelings about San Jose. There’s danger and filth on every street corner. Still, it feels good to be back. The air is cool, the women stunning, and I’ve just found “Ask The Dust,” over at Mora Books.

I caress the worn paper cover as if it was an old lover. It cost me 3000 colones. That’s about $7. Cheap here. But in Nicaragua I could get a bottle of Flor de Cana, and still have enough cash left over to rent Daniel Ortega’s stepdaughter for the night.

As silly as it sounds, I need this book, and all the rum. It’s keeping me from getting angry with the dark-skinned Nica who’s holding up my lunch.

When she finally arrives, Nita’s bristling with energy. She drapes a leather pouch over the chair, takes off her wrap-around stripper shades, sits, and folds her arms across her chest.

“You’ve changed.” she says

She sneers at the book, as if she’s just caught me in bed with a Mexican whore.

I’ve changed? The words swim in my head. No one’s ever accused me of that before.

“All you care about is books. You always read, and write on computer. Ella es tu amante.”

“I like to think rum’s my mistress. The computer’s for work.”

“Talk to me. Why you no talk to me?”

I lean back in my seat, and watch a gecko chase insects on the bamboo ceiling. A shaft of sunlight stabs at me from the street.

“What did you want to talk about?” I finally say.

“There’s no sex. You no want me anymore.”

“We had sex the day before yesterday.”

“Not like before. You don’t want me like before.”

“You mean when you were a stripper?”

I let that hang there while I finish my drink and flag down the waiter. I really don’t want to have this conversation. I just want to read, and enjoy my time here.

“Is it because I’m fat?”

“Fat?”

This is something many men fail to consider when they lure a stripper off the pole. Stripping is very physical, it keeps women lean, and financially independent. I’ve known women who gave up the life, a year later I almost couldn’t recognize them. They were 50 lbs heavier, and broke.

“Other men tell me I’m not fat”

“Then it’s settled. You’re not fat.”

“That’s why I started the gym” she says.

“You’re not fat” I say. And she isn’t. Not even close. She’s just gone from a perfect 95lbs to a healthy 125lbs. Most gringas would kill for that.

But this is not about other women, or weight. It’s the whole deal. The I can’t find a job, stay fit, entertain myself, do anything without the stupid gringo’s help deal. Right now I despise her. I despise myself.

When we first met Nita was poor and just over from Nicaragua. Almost 50% of the population lives in poverty in Nicaragua. Many of them end up in Costa Rica looking for work.

It was a mutual attraction. I asked for nothing Nita didn’t already have. Be yourself I said. I’m easy. You don’t need to clean or cook for me. Just do what makes you happy.

And I was honest. I told her I was a writer. I told her how I was, and what I liked. I never asked her to stop working. In fact, I advised against it.

And now to learn that what I do is not enough. That I need to sex her up 3 times a day like before, instead of 3 times a week, that the time I spend writing, and reading is somehow a betrayal.

It’s too much. A man tells you what’s expected. You say cool, or fuck off. There’s nothing workable in between.

So we go back to our room in Bario Amon and fuck. Outside of a marriage proposal, or tossing her into the street, it’s the only way to shut her up.

When we finish Nita sprawls on the damp sheet and surfs the channels on the TV. She’s happy now that she’s cum. As if an orgasm could really change anything.

I crack open a bottle of cold Imperial from the mini fridge, and go back to my book. I’m happy now that I have something more to write about.

As if my writing could really mean anything.

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Via Reuters

San Jose Costa Rica 4/23 - search parties found Costa Rica’s missing energy and environment minister Saturday suffering from a nasty bite by a wild tapir after he got lost in a jungle reserve two days earlier.

While no one’s willing to go on record and talk openly about the smug tapir in our living room, there appears to be mounting evidence that highly-placed government officials are being targeted in these vicious attacks.

This year alone there have been numerous reports of alleged animal mayhem: former Justice Minister Olga Golcher of Panama, (smeared with howler monkey feces), former Colombian Justice Minister Alberto Santofimio (thrown off an angry burro and nearly buggered to death in the streets of Cartagena), The Nicaraguan Minister of Agriculture and Forestry Mario A. De Franco (skinned, and made into a handsome set of luggage by a vengeful crocodile).

Police report they are investigating other possible attacks: Health Minister Carlos Vallejos of Peru, (head-butted by a llama on his way home from a brothel), Costa Rica’s Planning Minister, Kevin Casas Zamora (suffered broken legs when he was ambushed by a leatherback turtle), Roberto Dobles, Costa Rica’s Environment Minister (had his toes eaten off by an iguana after he passed out from too much guaro), and Panama’s Minister of Tourism and Salsa, Rubén Blades (dragged out to sea by a bottle nose dolphin while skinny dipping off Bocas Del Toro).

Word is officials will immediately begin installing security cameras in all national parks. Later plans include hiring naturalist bodyguards for all government officials until Central and South America’s dangerous national parks can be sanitized (clear cut and burned), and all the animals rounded up and put into zoos where they belong.

“I am here for a reason, these moments run into pages, the seamy side of life.” Arturo Bandini

San Jose Costa Rica - I was alone then. What the hell I said. I was turning 50. And I was running out of days.

Tonight my little friend has locked herself in the hotel bathroom. Sweet Alex, out of service, guts churning, making the horrible rumble of a diseased organ about to shut down. Serves you right girl. You’re a native. You should know better than to buy food from a Tico in the street. Read the rest of this entry »