Thursday, November 30, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
Costa Rican memory byte #2
(Eyes open)
...You hack your way through dense impenetrable rainforest; a milieu of tangles and twists where the air hangs thick, unmoving, not interested. Not a breeze stirs and your pores leak sweat and you taste it on your lips. Green moss infatuates itself to everything. Nothing escapes; tree barks, rocks, dead spiders hanging from their webs and even the lens is covered in a layer of green fluff. You grab a hand full of moss and squeeze; it is soaked thorough with water like a sponge; perhaps why in these parts it is widely used as a dressing for wounds.
You make your way up the torturous incline, slipping on rocks, crawling on all fours, and gouging out fist sized chunks of dirt that lodge into your finger nails; laced with all sorts of critters. At the summit, sunlight greets you and also pesky nasties that buzz around your head like miniature Apache helicopters on attack sorties, poking your skin like searing hot needles. The forest is teeming with life of unimaginable diversity, yet you hear not a peep. There is the faint rumbling echo of the river down below and occasionally the silence is shattered by distant howling monkeys; deep growls that disturb the slumber. It is dark down here. Not much light reaches the forest floor, as it is intercepted by thick foliage high above that soaks up every last remnant of precious sunlight.
This place feels old. You can smell the age of the forest in the damp air and see it in the mahogany tree; tall, beautiful, proud and ancient. It rises supremely above the canopy; surveying all. This tree is older then the Costa Rican Constitution itself and has lived through World Wars and borne witness to early Spanish attempts to tame this country...
(Eyes close)
(Eyes open)
...You find yourself on a metal platform that rises vertically 200 metres above the rainforest. The view is panoramic like looking through a fisheye lens. The claustrophobia of the forest is replaced by the sprawling vistas that melt into the horizon. Mountains surround the valley but there is an opening from where you can spy the path to the Pacific Coast. Little gangs of clouds loiter above the tree line on the mountains and the vultures; Ahh! The vultures; they encircle the trees scanning for death of which there is plenty. This is not the place to be if you suffer from vertigo or for that matter if you fear death.
You attach the harness that is wrapped around your waist to the pulley. The pulley is then hoisted onto the line. The line stretches into the distance to a similar platform 750 metres away. Below, 150 metres separate you from the jungle canopy and certain death. Are you ready?
1…2…3 Push! - There is a jerk and you are propelled off the edge; suddenly you find yourself zipping along the wire at break neck speed; soaring above the rainforest, wind whistling past, below you a green blur, your face contorted and your screams trailing behind like exhaust fumes...
“Ride the wild wind
Push the envelope don’t sit on the fence
Ride the wild wind
Live life on the razors edge
Gonna ride the whirl wind
It ain’t dangerous
enough for me
Get your head down baby
we're gonna ride tonight
Your angel eyes
are shining bright
I wanna take your hand
lead you from this place
Gonna leave it all behind
Check out of this rat race
Ride the wild wind (hey hey hey)
Ride the wild wind (hey hey hey)
Gonna ride the wild wind
It ain't dangerous
enough for me!"
(Eyes close)
...You hack your way through dense impenetrable rainforest; a milieu of tangles and twists where the air hangs thick, unmoving, not interested. Not a breeze stirs and your pores leak sweat and you taste it on your lips. Green moss infatuates itself to everything. Nothing escapes; tree barks, rocks, dead spiders hanging from their webs and even the lens is covered in a layer of green fluff. You grab a hand full of moss and squeeze; it is soaked thorough with water like a sponge; perhaps why in these parts it is widely used as a dressing for wounds.
You make your way up the torturous incline, slipping on rocks, crawling on all fours, and gouging out fist sized chunks of dirt that lodge into your finger nails; laced with all sorts of critters. At the summit, sunlight greets you and also pesky nasties that buzz around your head like miniature Apache helicopters on attack sorties, poking your skin like searing hot needles. The forest is teeming with life of unimaginable diversity, yet you hear not a peep. There is the faint rumbling echo of the river down below and occasionally the silence is shattered by distant howling monkeys; deep growls that disturb the slumber. It is dark down here. Not much light reaches the forest floor, as it is intercepted by thick foliage high above that soaks up every last remnant of precious sunlight.
This place feels old. You can smell the age of the forest in the damp air and see it in the mahogany tree; tall, beautiful, proud and ancient. It rises supremely above the canopy; surveying all. This tree is older then the Costa Rican Constitution itself and has lived through World Wars and borne witness to early Spanish attempts to tame this country...
(Eyes close)
(Eyes open)
...You find yourself on a metal platform that rises vertically 200 metres above the rainforest. The view is panoramic like looking through a fisheye lens. The claustrophobia of the forest is replaced by the sprawling vistas that melt into the horizon. Mountains surround the valley but there is an opening from where you can spy the path to the Pacific Coast. Little gangs of clouds loiter above the tree line on the mountains and the vultures; Ahh! The vultures; they encircle the trees scanning for death of which there is plenty. This is not the place to be if you suffer from vertigo or for that matter if you fear death.
You attach the harness that is wrapped around your waist to the pulley. The pulley is then hoisted onto the line. The line stretches into the distance to a similar platform 750 metres away. Below, 150 metres separate you from the jungle canopy and certain death. Are you ready?
1…2…3 Push! - There is a jerk and you are propelled off the edge; suddenly you find yourself zipping along the wire at break neck speed; soaring above the rainforest, wind whistling past, below you a green blur, your face contorted and your screams trailing behind like exhaust fumes...
“Ride the wild wind
Push the envelope don’t sit on the fence
Ride the wild wind
Live life on the razors edge
Gonna ride the whirl wind
It ain’t dangerous
enough for me
Get your head down baby
we're gonna ride tonight
Your angel eyes
are shining bright
I wanna take your hand
lead you from this place
Gonna leave it all behind
Check out of this rat race
Ride the wild wind (hey hey hey)
Ride the wild wind (hey hey hey)
Gonna ride the wild wind
It ain't dangerous
enough for me!"
(Eyes close)
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Costa Rican memory byte #1
…and then you are dropped off at San Jose’s ‘Coca Cola’ bus station, or as it is more politely known as ‘pickpocketer's heaven’. This is truly the most evil place you are likely to encounter on Planet Earth. The scum and thievery that abounds here is enough to satisfy the most demanding of masochistic misanthropes. There is nothing like a great introduction to Costa Rica then the feeling of terror and hopelessness that overcome you when you step off the bus, take one look around the bus station and hear yourself say: “I’m fucked”
For you are truly fucked indeed. There are different degrees of being fucked. There’s fucked as in the traditional sense of “well it’s not too bad, but I’ll just say fuck to get some attention fucked”, there’s also “Ahh this should be interesting fucked” and finally there’s the fucked that I was feeling that day in San Jose; “I’m never going to see my mum again fucked” – for it is true what they say; that when faced with a potentially lethal situation your mum does come to mind. Well my mum was staring at me that day. A huge billboard mum, looking at me, shaking her head and wagging her fingers with a ‘I told you so’ look on her face.
Why the fit of fear you may wonder? Could it be something to do with the rough looking unsavoury characters staring at you, eyeing you up from the corner of their eyes as if you're going to to be their next meal ticket? Or perhaps the blindingly obvious fact that you are the only 'Non-Tico' within a radius of 3 miles? Or maybe even the fact that with your camera equipment, you look like a one man BBC documentary crew hell bent on some serious hardcore voyeurism in the name of artistic license. Voyeurism is good. But this. This is foolishness. This is just plain nuts...
For you are truly fucked indeed. There are different degrees of being fucked. There’s fucked as in the traditional sense of “well it’s not too bad, but I’ll just say fuck to get some attention fucked”, there’s also “Ahh this should be interesting fucked” and finally there’s the fucked that I was feeling that day in San Jose; “I’m never going to see my mum again fucked” – for it is true what they say; that when faced with a potentially lethal situation your mum does come to mind. Well my mum was staring at me that day. A huge billboard mum, looking at me, shaking her head and wagging her fingers with a ‘I told you so’ look on her face.
Why the fit of fear you may wonder? Could it be something to do with the rough looking unsavoury characters staring at you, eyeing you up from the corner of their eyes as if you're going to to be their next meal ticket? Or perhaps the blindingly obvious fact that you are the only 'Non-Tico' within a radius of 3 miles? Or maybe even the fact that with your camera equipment, you look like a one man BBC documentary crew hell bent on some serious hardcore voyeurism in the name of artistic license. Voyeurism is good. But this. This is foolishness. This is just plain nuts...
Thursday, November 02, 2006
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