quelonios, unembittered.

(My favourite project, despite the thievery.)

Dirt constantly under finger nails from so much scratching, so much digging in the weeds. So much sand and salt expelling from pores, always. It`s hard to feel clean anywhere here, tangled up in the mangrove of wetlands. It`s sickly sticky, sour from the sweat. Try to clean it, wash it all away but it`s already permeated. Already a part of that intangible thing that will become the new you, somehow.

Tired, constantly, despite the hours upon hours of attempted sleep on those rough wooden slats and that slight piece of foam that presses into your one sore hip sharply. Struggling to stay asleep under that fallen mosquito net while the sea crashes deep just over yonder and small Spanish voices speak and poach turtle eggs down by the break.

It´s painfully beautiful on that island, lead to by endless water ways with uprooted trees guarding secrets and making cages for all the things that creep in the dark. Shades of every green shine in the sun and are dotted by the spiky red flower who`s name I never know. When there is red here, it is exquisite, intangled in all the green.

Here, the ocean moves pale grey in every direction and makes awkward swimming, standing. Everything about it is an opposite to it`s sweet sister down the coast that sways slowly with white sands and cristalline green waves.

At night the sea creatures crawl upon the sand like ancient things. Those leatherbacks, heaving and hawling all of themselves out of the surf to nest. They labour over the sand, digging into it for ages. Making it perfect. Making it sweet. And when the work is done, 100 eggs lay in the coolness below. Hoping for new life... on that island called Quelonios.

it`s tuesday somewhere.

Here is the part I`m at: the things that I have the hardest time forgetting always happen on idle Thursdays. Broken hearts, bad news, insolent dreams.

The days keep melting into each other in a very disconcerting way. Like just around the corner, time is going to bear it`s teeth and gnash at my burnt skin and that will be the end. I`ll be scarred by all those spent days.

I can`t keep track. That`s really the problem.

Right now, I`m going backwards in a thin attempt to remind myself why I want to continue going forward.

Costa Rica got to me. That`s the plain truth. Admist the tangles of mangroves and salty sea air, in the clear mountains, or in the dampness of those wetlands I could never quite find a connection. It felt edgy, in a way that made you keep your things close, or argue with taxi drivers trying to overcharge, negotiate the price of a mango, or talk back to those leering boys. It felt, exhausting. And in the end it doesn`t matter because if they want your stuff, they`ll go into your room and get it while you`re relocating a nest of turtle eggs at 3 a.m. on an idle Thursday, somewhere on that remote island called Quelonios.

And that`s how Costa Rica became erased. It vanished along with all those woven bracelets, and sweet shell pendants from Montezuma, and my favourite pen. It went along with my camera and wallet and 2gbs of memory and all those beautiful shots of friends and beaches and homes for the small time they were all mine.

All I can hope is that my stuff fed someone in need.(Though I doubt my favourite pen could buy a grain of sand.)

I`m still a little bitter.

Mostly because of the law of 3`s. Hopefully this is it. Either way, I`m outta stuff. Clearly. So I`m thinking of having a t-shirt made that says:¨No Tengo Nada¨, so the next guy is at least warned. Though I assume that would only attract more leers. Cultural differences abound..

(One day I`ll tell you about the day I wore my I heart Panama shirt.)

So.

Right now, I`m going backwards in a thin attempt to remind myself why I want to continue going forward. I came back to Bocas, to a family and friends and town that are familiar. To happy hour at Mondo Taitu and that electro 80´s night. To the Columbian vendors across from the Iguana that drink boxed wine with me and tell me how beautiful and safe their country is. To that special place with the hammocks and tents where so many hours have been spent and that I always carry in my heart.

And here, I`ve been stuck. In Bocas. Because that`s what happens here. People stay. The searing heat, and golden sun, and sweet air make everything slow, easy. Like being stuck in a vat of syrup. Delicious and hard to escape from.

But I know I have to move on. I have to find those other places where my spanish is more necessary. Where I can find those friends that moved on ages ago to places like Columbia, Peru. I need to pull at the thread and tear away...Panama City, going backwards. Mañana, talvez.

xoxo