We had breakfast at the new cafe, after surfing. A group of young men were playing football on the beach. The line up filled in with the tides. Saturday. Saturday in February. We sat at the cafe in the air conditioning eating breakfast burritos and talking about the current and imminent changes to our small town.
Our small town…. We are foreigners here. The culture, the climate, the culinary staples, the landscape, the sun and the dirt are not mine. We are visitors here. Long time visitors, yes, but still agents in a foreign land. Surviving and occasionally assimilating. Will this ever be home? Does it work like that? I often wonder, and do not know.
On the dusty beach road there is construction. Substantial. It is all coming. This morning over breakfast we are resolve. Accepting the inevitable. Plotting our relationship with a greater trafficked. future landscape. Shipwrecked in paradise, watching the coconut trees get bulldozed. The Canadian women is opening a new real estate office. Make your dreams come true in paradise, the marketing tag line reads. It is happening. The breakfast burritos are good. The tide is filling in. A puff of offshore wind. A strong undertow. Under a coconut tree the boys talk barrels and Asian women. Sandy feet. Decades of ritual.
At breakfast the conversation shifts between land prices and line ups. Travel plans. The cost of empty waves. Far away private islands. Ruined expectations. The price of a breakfast down south versus here. Luxury surf concierge services. Jack Dorsey on a rented boat. Black Range Rovers with tinted windows. $100,000 for a week in jungle luxury. Relative riff raft and consummate predictions. The town is changing.
On the front porch watching a variety of traffic pass. The flatbed trucks direct from the hardware store transporting cinder blocks and rebar. The clean white rental cars ferrying tourists to the beach. The low riding local cars and askew pick up trucks. A dump truck filled with dirt. A backhoe with the driver speaking into a cell phone. Two young women on a dirt bike riding towards the small town center. New Hilux trucks with surfboards spilling out the rear. Solemn day laborers slowly walk past on their way to a job site. The chickens roam the front yard with careless abandon.
Shipwrecked. Speculation. Heraclitus said “there is nothing permanent without change.” The trees out front are so dry without rainwater yet somehow getting taller.
That lucky old sun….. On the front porch watching the traffic pass, sipping coffee, Sarah Vaughn on the record player, we ate burritos and paid the bill with a debit card. Then drove home in silence. Fleetwood Mac on the radio. Tomorrow the tide shifts and the tools are different. The truck doesn’t lock. The radio is working today. You have to turn the key three times for the engine to start. There is a shift in the vibe today. It might be permanent.
This morning I went to the local farmers market in San Juanillo and was so inspired.
The market has recently moved from a small cafe to the larger community salon just west of the football field. The space, while old and damp and requiring ceiling repairs, is larger than the previous market location, and the added space makes the whole experience more fun. More space for the vendors to spread out and generous social areas for shoppers to convene — weekly catch ups, abbreviated gossip sessions. In these small towns, especially this time of the year with the rains, we all see each other far less, often cocooned in the house or busy running errands along bad roads. So these Saturday mornings provide an invitation to touch and smile and converse and are all sorts of precious.
We all see each other less, it feels. Sure the climate in October is challenging. Sure the cloudy days ware on a person. Sure there is very much a shortage of public commercial spaces to meet or sit and watch humanity stroll by. We are far from the grand boulevards of Mexico City or Manhattan. The culture here is less contrived towards connection and more inclined towards survival. The beach in the morning brings a few people. Perhaps a quick conversation at the local shop in town. A head nod and wave along the road while driving past each other. I find it all very isolating, actually. For as close as we can be here, especially in the village, we are also at a great personal distance.
The tables at the new market location are set up further apart, which is ironically more inviting, I think. My conversation with the gentleman who makes the hand carved cutting boards out of Guanacaste wood is leisurely. He just had a big sale so the air conditioner in his bedroom can finally be replaced. Fifteen years of cool air service until the unit died on a humid night in September. He fills the deep cracks in the cutting boards with colored resin, then polishes accordingly. Bright oranges and turquoise swirls perfectly embedded in the natural yellow colored wood. The work is thoughtful, clean and elegant.
I love making these, he says.
The women who sells beach clothes and rattan bags with thin leather handles is talking on the phone when we hug.
How are you doing? She asks.
Am alright, I reply. Work is slow but steady. Busy enough making things.
She smiles. Her bright pink lipstick lights up the room.
Sure, she says slyly.
I like your new haircut, I tell her. An undercut — very cool.
Thank you.
The line for fresh vegetables is short this week. Short this time of year. A long table with foldable metal legs is set up on the north end of the hall and filled with boxes and baskets of vegetables trucked in from a farm on the other side of Ohancha. By 11am the display is mostly empty. But now the greens are abundant and the fruits are well stacked. In front of the table is a small island of potted flowers in cute plastic containers. Golden Marigolds slightly drooping from the long morning drive. Red leafed tropical plants well placed around the Marigolds like an offensive line. Plastic stakes set amongst the arrangements to display prices. I buy a large healthy broccoli and cauliflower. A box of Papayas sits on the floor in front of the register. I feel for a firm one and add to my haul of veggies. The seated farmer is stationed at the end of the table. All roads lead here, weighing and adding my selections.
How are the Marigolds in the full sunshine? I ask.
They are fine, he answers. But rain will hurt the flower. They are delicate. It rains hard here.
At the exit I cannot resist and buy a bean and cheese empanada. The seller lives in town. The fried empanada is noticeably greasy. An unexpected breakfast when I get to work. Usually I do not love these local delicacies, but I enjoy supporting these little markets, and the money spent in these small towns usually stays in these small towns, providing an economy for these local entrepreneurs that pays the rent and bills and hopefully puts some food on the tables and keeps the kids off the streets and older sons away from the drugs that are easily accessible here.
There is nothing I see overtly processed at the market this morning. No sugary temptations or name brand packages. It’s actually local and natural, with real people in front of you — a face and a life and a vibe and you have to interact and be somebody. Own up to whatever views or comments or opinions you have. At the market we are all just up in it and the convenience of our tech laden walls come down. We are who we say we are. So old school……
This morning I’ve been obsessing on Zadie Smith. Specifically a photo in British Vogue to accompany her essay on glamor. Zadie in short yellow pumps and a low cut long brown dress with white and blue lines vertically down the front. Her hands taughtly bent into fists, confidently placed on her wide hips. She stands above a white shag carpet with an obedient white pug dog laying down, looking up at her. The queen. The whole image stuffed into a small space next to a bold headline
Can you be serious and seriously glamorous? The essay asks.
I soon discovered there are no Clive Bells in Lower Manhattan, she writes. You really have to push the boat out to get as much as a head turn from anyone at all.
Else where on the internet I search up her quotes.
You must live life with the full knowledge that your actions will remain. We are creatures of consequence, she writes.
Supporting these small business market sellers at these local markets remain crucial to the economic eco system of these jungle villages. The money spent here joins an economic river that irrigates all the homes I pass on my way from here to there, quickly in the style of my North American culture.
Strolling among these tables and driving these roads I consider the intimate nature of this lifestyle here, with over grown plants and swelling rivers and foreign landscapes. As a foreigner in this country my access and roots only go so deep. Often it feels that my economic connection is the sole tether to a larger community which welcomes me, tolerates me, but ultimately calculates my contributions in numbers. I accept this. A sort of pay to play existence. My ongoing fee for entrance into this tropical milieu. This country supplies a certain lesson in simplicity, access to nature, an opportunity for adventure, and in return my dollars are re invested into these tightly knit towns which no matter how much time I spend amongst them will always be foreign to me, and me forever an outsider to their populace.
This entire cycle is very human to human. In all our generous flaws and eager failures. Walking between the tables sampling the wares and dropping a bit of cash is how we communicate. What is money if not, in some way, a substitute for language. I like this thing that you’ve made so I give you money to show my enthusiasm and appreciation. Is retail not love? And then perhaps these rural centers for commerce are valuable third spaces to show our love for each other. Two dollars for a head of broccoli. Seventy dollars for an artisanal cutting board. Just numbers to translate intension. If I am fortunate enough to have a bit of cash in pocket is it not then my responsibility to spread that wealth amongst my neighbors in an effort to make us all more connected. Is that horribly capitalistic and shallow? Maybe. But everybody needs to eat.
How we spend our time, our money, our love……. The things to ponder on a Saturday morning.
Someday my time here will end. No idea how far along that might be. But maybe at the end, if in peace, there will be a moment of introspection, an induced long view, like looking from a high perch above a wide valley at all the trees and buildings settled below. Maybe these dots along the horizon might represent an accumulation of my actions and their consequences. I hope the valley is beautiful, colorful, rich and full, like the Hudson Valley in the Fall, or the Costa Rican jungle after months of rain.
That lady and her empanadas, that woman with her pink lipstick, the wood seller and the bread seller and the hot sauce seller and the vegetable merchant — all of us huddled around this salon on a dry Saturday morning navigating the days and years and each other — these are moments I might remember, and perhaps, hopefully, the fortunate accumulation of my simple dreams realized.
This is the second time that my little surf shop in Costa Rica has flooded. The second time in three months. Perhaps a sign.
Perhaps this low lying house in an open field in a quiet Central American jungle town is not the entre of art and style I’ve imagined and thoughtfully willed it to be. Perhaps the thick layer of damp mud and the pools of water generously collected in the central showroom are a crack at my humility and endurance. From the comical heavens these cocky puppet masters of destiny are laughing and tossing peanut shells at my laboring front door.
They giggle and point and spit and sleep late and nap often and gossip much. The fiddlers of my future reminiscing about gentle lovers and lazily nodding while the rivers over flow and the waters deluge the shop, again.
In a way we are all hiding out here. We are siloed in this mid 20th century jungle existence. We are negotiating roads with massive holes and over flowing rivers. Barefoot over sand and mounds of ants. Watching the clouds arrive from the temperamental eastern mountain ranges, full and grey, intertwined and foreboding. This time of year….. September and October are reliably wet. All months are precursors to this opera of rain and mud. Climate appetizers.
All these previous weather cycles have lulled us into relative comfort. Daily observance of the dark river that borders the southern portion of Marbella, this quizzical simplicity, commenting how low the water levels seem this year; how odd for the river banks to be so bare this late in the season.
Then, with a celestial confidence the low pressure in the Atlantic and the Pacific, these twin oceans with divergent characters, awake from their atmospheric slumber and cough up hurricanes and squalls like a drunk party of clouds cavorting across this narrow country. Stumbling with ambitions of water and destruction. Absolute negligence like the roaring 20’s on hydrologics.
The further I drive from the international the airport the greater the rural simplicity. A directional reverse in time and convenience. Leagues away from AI destinies and robots. The technological revolutions of this country still nearer to the ox and cart. Cowboys without the propaganda. Cattle without the tourism. Kilometers closer to madness.
Negotiating tight turns past open fields and thick jungle ferns, the street signs disappear and the pavement ends and the cracks in the road appear impressively. Every embankment a tale of a flood recently drained. The usual downed trees and misplaced earth. Freshly cut limbs from the chainsaws of local men intent on re opening the roads to traffic. Amazing how quickly the people and the land here rebounds. Disaster quickly becomes a distant memory while these people of great self sufficiency rise and rearrange their flooded homes and simple lifestyles. A durable character pervades these rural jungle areas that is fascinating to my American comfort and expectation. The locals here employ an iron regiment of acceptance capped by continuance. Forged by the lack of choices and absence of pity or alternative. Horrifically wonderful. Light years from uptown Manhattan.
In the late afternoon I use a garden hose to spray down the shop. The water collects in the center of the room where the tile floor slopes inwards. I spray into the corners and around the edges first then work inwards towards the collective center. My used Timberland books slosh across the giant puddle that is my shop now. Once critical mass is reached I exit through the back door off the workshop room and turn off the spiget. Then I re enter with a broom and begin the repetitive task of pushing the mud and collected water out the front door, past the front porch, and into the waiting yard, where the dirt will collect the dirty rainwater and return all the droplets to their respective homes. The cycle of life in full motion here.
This process continues for the next few hours. The room fills up with water from the outdoor hose and I sweep the dirty water out the front door. An almost zen submission to retail scrubbing. Sisyphus cleaning a surf shop floor……. Geese plays steadily from a small JBL speaker positioned on the coffee bar. I’m scared to turn on the full soundsystem till the shop is fully clean again. As if all the dirt and mire and mud could by osmosis kill the delicate audio system I’ve coupled together. The combination of the system not working on top of the flooded conditions would be too much disaster for me to digest at the moment, and I might simply walk out the front door, like a dazed philanderer, and never return. Take the surfboards and the leashes and the coffee bags and the fins and the t shirts, I’m done with this ridiculous affair. Such privledge…….
The next day reinforcements arrive and we continue the exercise of wet and sweep. The additional help allows the job to move faster, though we still toil for hours, mastering the simple repetition. It dawns on me that this routine comes to represent further insight into the world of forced simplicity that governs this country. Again faced with reconciling my New York expectations with this Costa Rican reality. Again I am sweaty and tired and working with my body to accomplish some task so outside the protocols of my upper west side birth. Again I am connected with near strangers, alternative cultures, gentle faces and easy spirits, laughing and gossiping while pushing mud and bacteria. Again the Gods in their ultimate wisdom humble my arrogant tendencies with floods and cleaning.
By mid day the shop looks almost regular again. I pay my flood relief accomplices in cash and express some sincere gratitude for their arriving to my rescue — another soft gringo in need of a tow. Oddly I get used to it. Incredible what one can get used to. This country and her climates and terrains and unpredictable waters forever pushes the boundaries of sensibilities and perceived acceptance — the daily goals always demanding a little more grief and inconvenience, subservient to some unassuming master. Surprisingly I am an absolute slave to her rambunctious wills and tropical outrages.
The relief this shop provides is like grasping onto metaphorical ropes of sanity. Tether me to the cleats and steady this daily existence. Blessed in the sunlight and drenched by the rains, a constant cascade of water that drives the turbines of this insane yet persistent existence.
Days later the winds pick up and the sky clouds and I wonder if will rain again. Of course it will.
In the course of a year there are inevitably ups and downs. 365 days covers a lot of territory. There is sunshine, then rain showers, occasional thunderstorms, sometimes wind. That seems to be the entire cycle here in Guanacaste. Not much to go on…… Some days the Municipality works on the roads, sometimes the winds are off shore, the waves get big, the barrels clean, the tides rise and fall with the moons. Someone has a birthday, throws a dinner party, invites you for fish tacos. Maybe there is a pizza pop up. Friends visit from out of town, departed from invariably busy places, searching for a modicum of relief. But for the most part this simple life employs a lot of quiet monotony.
There is value in this. Less distractions. The days present plenty of space for work (whatever that may be), often at a pace that is more nourishing then hustling. The slow push of the jungle, like honey rolling downhill, has its own unique sounds and stresses. But around here there is not always a new restaurant to try, or cafe to sample, or exhibit to see, so absent the crush of time, without the epidemic of FOMO, social anxiety is mild.
To spend these slow jungle days on creative endeavours and coffee is an absolute gift. The golden intersection of vision and good fortune. There are some days when the solitary dread of creation prevails, and others when the scales are better balanced, and the voices of positive validation are better served. Working to create an object, or describe an image for the first time, is uniquely human. Whom and where we surround ourselves with matters. The undaunted freshness of trees and salt water. The humor of friends and strangers. The inspiring talents of others. This organic stew shapes the course of a day, and the years which follow.
Speaking of good fortunes, yesterday was lovely. A charming Sunday in the jungle, loaded with the satiating ingredients that initially inspired this little shop.
There was an early conversation, IRL, about technology and our disrupted connection with each other. Concluding that the lack of friction in our handheld convenient lives is literally altering our humanism. There were demo tracks of acoustic devotional music by a pair of absolute angles resplendent in their love of Jesus and slide guitars. There was a surfboard being shaped by fresh young hands, newly exploring the devices and vehicles and programs that bring surfboards to life. There were four bar blues licks and simple chords strum by recluse rogues and social media aspirants. A messy jam session with freestyle lyrics in the softest harmony. There were young Hasidic Jews from Crown Heights buying coffee and chatting neighborhoods. Plenty of dogs lounging around. Plenty of fresh bananas and 180 gram vinyl records. A closing dose of Bonnie Rait and Alison Kraus and Ladysmith Black Mambazo. A menu of good vibes and simple living under a vaulted wooden roof with spider webs and a barreling ceiling fan. Some days the pieces all come together. For plunderous moments we are transported out of the jungle, yet entrenched deeper into the jungle. All things happening all at once….
It is always the people. Sure it’s selling surfboards and coffee beans and wax and keeping the lights on and the rent paid and accounts balanced. But ultimately the people make it. Some people arrive and bring their talents and excitement and experience and open minded bravado and just sit down or lean in, naturally lending fuel to the little fire of small business. I am so grateful for them. For these gorgeous souls that light up a room and bring talent and questions and courage. These diamonds. These avant guard blonde champions. It’s not a big party or a bunch of screaming people or a live streamed villa dj set (nothing against any of those events, of course). Today is just a few unique humans in the shop making surfboards and playing music and comparing books.
These are all just vehicles for connection. This shop and this work and these surfboards and this freshly poured over coffee. These vinyl records and these social media posts. All just modern excuses for curating connection. Recently I read an interview with the owner of Pilgrim Surf Shop in Brooklyn and he said ‘you can have the coolest records but if you don’t have the people it won’t work.’ That means a lot to me. I love my budding record collection, and love making these surfboards here in the back shaping room, but without the people to spice up the days and weeks and years there is less meaning. No lyrics to the chords. Waves unridden.
We had a lovely Sunday and I am grateful for the visitors. This experiment in the jungle continues.
Guitars and bazas my dreams look like you. Feral. With style. A complete city block. All my wasted time off key to a variety of tempos, foot stomping and unaware of economy or children or home equity or progress rolling down hill with hammers and thunder. The heavy machinery is coming soon. The cranes and dozers and dynamite.
Dozers and dynamite.
Dozers and dynamite as prologue to a long song for you. Slowed by manoghomy and astrophysics; punched in the face and spun around and bent over and brave enough to invite sailors home and whisper lies to lovers and eat pizza with strangers and arrive naive for waves and sand and destiny and marvelous neighbors whom are imperfect but now represent forever.
Bazzas on a clear day at Scarr Reaf fast down the line holding a guitar and unrecognizable from this angle. There must be something wrong. Tearing at stone and concrete to make a statement about taxes and government authority and geographical providence – this is power, you say. This is how you eat well and sleep deeply and expect applause. This is the penthouse, the golden escalator, the black stretch limo and the pricey smoothie; this is good food at the airport, private check in, helicopters out of downtown Manhattan, facial brand recognition, air conditioned villas on the cliff, bad breath and cigarette smoke, small rooms with a fan and paperwork, budget allocation and Russian hookers; this is my kind of town, southern France, Ibiza, networking from a yacht, drones above Positano, honeymoons in Venice, short stories conceived on the Bukit, children born to teenage mothers out of wedlock; this is the new fancy cruising down Fifth with a baseball bat and a signed document. Kelly is crying. These are actual peoples lives we are fucking with.
Cool is dead. The convertible is dead. The drop top is dead. The beach is rubble. There are continuous heartbreaks and small talk yet everybody knows. You keep fucking around and someone gets shot. This whole town is dead.
Anniversaries and open casket warning shots; the inactivity and acid rain is harmful. What ever happened to acid rain? You ask. Old, unc, pervert, monochromatic and fancy, walked by The Ritz but we did not go inside. Infatuated with Place de Vendome is the sole memory, but did not touch it, did not approach. Scared. Always scared. Open squares and cobblestone stages make for soft landings. We sit on the steps at Monmarte. So far from bazzas. So far from jungle pinches and Asian butterflies. The smells are different. The faces are slim and serious, with books and coffee and ideas. The pebbles along the garden walkways thicker than grains of sand. High heels and ambitious. Looking around nervous. Walking next to him anxious. Do not fuck up. No telephones or safety nets. In the cafes writing postcards – this is you showing me what is important in life.
My phone number is nothing and my password is zero. Bazzas at dawn just the flowers watching. Bazzas with holy strangers born from troubles and arriving with nothing. Brazzas as family with rusty strings and strange rhythm. Pick up trucks and rain approaches. Bazzas at dawn sauntering down the stairs telling stories with nostalgia and whimsy. Permission to kiss and touch and care and envy; holding hands with my new love same as the old love walking past cotton fields and construction sights discussing the weather and who takes the kids to school. My love in a fortress with cannons and spikes. Everyday we try to kill each other.
Dozers and dynamite as a song for you screamed from the second floor in Rome where the destruction starts. A parade of nymphs dressed in red guarantees trouble, with candles and letter openers. Here come the police and the young men with hammers. It’s always young men with hammers……. Always the young men with hammers. Let’s be heartbroken but not surprised. Today it might rain. Tomorrow an earthquake. Later a suntan. A fine Sunday to bury a past and pay taxes. If possible they will take it from you. Dozers and dynamite for two, a quiet table in the back, away from the kitchen. Bazzas and lunatics get a late reservation. Raise a glass, we toast the death of priceless. For the final time never again. But then the hammers dutifully swing.
The official court date to decide the fate of Bingin beach is July 22. But the government has posted that July 21 is the final day of private ownership. That means on July 21 the government will reclaim the land at Bingin beach and all the businesses and residencies there will be confiscated and demolished. What will come afterwards has not been announced, but there are rumors and hints, mostly revolving around rich foreign investment and beach clubs.
Bingin beach means so much to a great many people. Some of the finest people I’ve ever met convened around this beach and along the surrounding cliffs. A few of the best waves I ever rode were caught here at this perfect break. Many stories. Many late nights and early mornings. Many courageous, nomadic, unique individuals huddling in the shade. Lovers in inexpensive Warungs with the windows open and a view of the wave breaking in front. An absolute surfers paradise. An absolute vortex in the finest and most human definition of that vague word. We were all so fortunate to spend time here and be together here and grow from here.
The news of this government take over is horrible and disconcerting. The affects on the local families there will be severe. Some of these people have spent their entire lives building their small business at Bingin beach, catering to tourists and locals alike, cultivating a welcoming atmosphere that has made Bingin such a special destination. For those who have spent longer periods of time at Bingin these Indonesian angels are priceless and irreplaceable. While the work is not glamorous and the money is not high these local men and women have enduring pride in their work and their island and their beach. The Warung and cafe owners preparing salads and smoothies; the women in the parking lot shuttling bags; the jewelry sellers and sarong vendors; the ding repair gurus; the home stay savants. All legendary.
There are individuals here whom I absolutely love. People directly responsible for who I am today, and the work I do. These sweet souls are little giants. Absolute legends. Selfless saviors and bottomless in generosity and kindness. When looking out at this messy world in 2025 I am forever grateful for the times we had at Bingin and the people I met there. My heart was constructed and broken along this little beach many times over. There will be no substitute.
The surfboard builder Bob Mctavish wisely said that “nostalgia is poison,” and I try to subscribe to this wise maxim. Those Bingin days are behind us all, and will live in the friendships and stories we talk and write. Years roll along and the future constantly arrives quickly. I accept the inevitabilities of change. Yet this feels like a wrecking ball taken to an entire culture that is inherently local to this beachside village. There is a stench of rape and inequality to this current land grab. A practice of displacement old as humanity and so common through the crooked ages of time.
Ultimately this tragedy of development and progress is about the people at Bingin. The helpless loss. My heart truly goes out to them all.
After 10 consecutive seasons in Bali I have not been back since 2020, and my friends tell me so much has changed since then. They say I would not recognize it. They say it is hectic. I’m sure this is all true. I hold the dearest memories of this place. But they also say that vibe on this magical island remains unique. That the energy is still like no where else. That the Gods watch over Bali still. I wonder what the Gods currently have in store for Bingin beach. What complicated agendas are at play. What struggles of tradition versus modernity manifest. What karma has led to this.
But mostly I wonder what the local people will do. Where they will work and how they will make money and support the multiple generations that often toil together in Bali. These people who have invested their lives in building and creating and maintaining business there, on the land which has been theirs for decades – what becomes of them now that the government strolls in and demands it all back?
Winston Churchill once wrote that “the inherent vice of capitalism is the unequal sharing of blessings.” Bingin beach has been an absolute blessing to myself and many others who walked down those steep and narrow stairs to find a tiny bubble of friendship and freedom on the sides of those limestone cliffs. To now see this all crumble under the treads of bulldozers and cranes, at the hands of politicians and investors, is surreal and heartbreaking.
Somehow that which is special, ideal, utopian, actually can exist, and for so long did exist, in the casual loves and life long friends and curling salt water and perfect reef and generous sands of Bingin beach. We had it so good for long, and these memories and relationships live on, stretched across the globe and connected by a recognition of time spent and times had. Game knows game.
In these days leading up to the court case I pray for Bingin, and for all these epicenters of community and cool that seem to be fading away.
Last night a friend invited me to a small art exhibit in Marbella. My friend, a shaggy local restaurant owner is a lovable hero. This man with his erratic opening schedule and fantastic barbecue is often a joy to be around. I’ve come to his impromptu punk rock shows and had long dinners at his restaurant with my mother and surfed fabulous waves in the glorious sunshine with this rogue. So I took the invitation seriously.
On a whim I forwarded the invite to a women who resides in the area and has been my genuine friend for over a decade. She quickly responded “why not.” Now, if all else went sideways, I could still roll around with N, who is always a dependably weird and fun time. She makes me look good no matter what room we walk into. Some people are gifted with charm and beauty. N carries both in her back pocket, along with courage and a no bullshit attitude that has served her well, surviving in this harsh jungle wasteland for almost two decades.
N is a very good driver, and this means a lot. I’ve been raised to think that all manner of a person’s character can be derived from their driving ability. If you are a good driver then so many of your other faults can be overlooked. Top of the food chain. You are invited aboard the arc and we will certainly find something for you to do. Your skills are obviously vast. Where as the opposite is also disastrously true. If you are a bad driver then I will just assume that most other activities you attempt are of low standards, hence you are not dependable both in this car and when the greater zombie take over occurs, and we gotta hunker down and figure shit out.
As we speed down these narrow jungle roads towards an unsure destination I am giddy and so relieved to be in the passenger seat. Our destination is just a red pin on a glowing screen in a dark car. Across the street from the high school, the only directions given. Upon arrival we slow down yet see no cars nor illuminated houses that might be hosting a party. We ascend a prolonged. driveway past the school, make a u turn in the middle of a dark hill (impressive), and navigate back towards the glowing location pin.
Let’s try here, N says.
We take a sharp right and drive back a ways along a muddy road till we round a corner and see lights strung along the front of a small house and three cars parked in the driveway.
This might be it, I tell her.
She parks directly in front of the entranceway.
Fast getaway, just in case, she says.
The host meets us at the front door with a wise smile and a beautiful low cut dress. Around her neck is a long, over sized chain link style necklace. This accessory screams bohemian artist in the jungle. She is special, and the obvious center of this immediate universe we have walked into.
A separate universe it is. When we enter the house it is apparent that all furniture and domestic necessities have been removed from the large room, which I assume in normal times is a living and dinning room. The furniture and personal affects have been replaced by a well curated gallery space. The open footprint allows us to move freely between the ten or so paintings that line the white walls. In the middle of the room is a small wooden table filled with finger food. Filling a quarter of the space is an eccentric collection of wires and orbs arranged into a configuration that resembles a mobile of the universe connecting stars and planets and potential pathways between them. Thin and simple and spacious. Vast and bold. A highlight.
The art is consistent and lovely. A show inspired by the ocean and water. Light blue and sunset orange hues, subtle lines and easy going gradients on canvas. Acrylic fish and waves and kelp and harmonious sunsets and landscapes. The show is about connection. Connection of all things. Connection between the many houses of nature. Connection between us misfit humans and the indifferent ocean. Connection between us town residents wandering between the silent paintings. A definitive vibe of empathetic oneness that these canvases employ, and ultimately demand. The whole collection is soft and subtle, yet courageous, as a hopeful voice on a dark stage, an optimistic love letter to a hardened spouse, a confident attempt at dialogue. But we are not talking. The space is not for talking. Surrounded by this wholly original art we just drift and wander. Quiet and meditative. Inside of the work. Inside of this intentional space. Transported. And this transcendence is the rare and priceless value of such an experience here in Marbella.
This portion of Costa Rica is historically known for its farmlands. Open pastures with clumps of jungle is the landscape. Cattle and horses dot the scenic sprawl of this area. Part of the season lush green, the other half burnt yellows and dry. The onset of tourism slowly transforms this simple place. The developments and the up tick in traffic and the slow introduction of small businesses are the inevitable harbinger of modern progress. The reviews are mostly mixed. So having a singularly creative experience in this small town is special. Very valuable. Appreciated. Like a thirsty mam sipping water. This landscape is rough and the inhabitants often indifferent and rugged, so this mirage of soft excellence in such a diabolically earthy story supplies a welcomed waft of sophistication and care. To produce such beautiful art one needs to care greatly. Deeply. Heroically. This place is many different things to many people, but art has the unique ability to bring people together. To heal and plod forward.
N and I lingered for quite a while. On a small couch just off the open kitchen a tight group of friends played vinyl records on an old turntable. Simon and Garfunkel. Miles Davis. Tears for Fears. N and i sat on a large terrace just off the lounge and chatted about fame and parasites. Our restaurateur friend came and we discussed rare vinyl records. Nirvana unplugged. The Ramones. Beautiful people converging around a singular event to share stories and ideas; to momentarily lose our concerns in the transcendent grace of the canvases displayed, and the warm hospitality of the artist who so finely curated this event.
These sorts of gatherings are rare in my little adopted town. It’s often more rodeo then Rodin. But this brave artist pulls us from our sweaty enclaves. We are embraced by her poetic generosity and exit with an intangible optimism that art inspires. I don’t think the artist knows exactly how much we need her. How we gasp for beautiful objectivity. How we inevitably lunge towards creativity.
N backs the car out of the driveway with such skill. The reverberations of grace can be found everywhere. We drive in silence for a short time, satiated by our evening. How wonderful to have an art exhibit here in Marbella, we comment to each other. How wonderful to spend an evening in the presence of original paintings and kind folks. When we dream of our daily lives we hope that such invitations find us. We are deep in the jungle yet still tethered to a warm civility that balances out the dirt and mud and cowboy boots. A simple space for friends and art and connection. Art transcending the confines of canvas and perhaps, maybe, lifting us all up, town and all.
Relationships are difficult. This is a universal maxim that anyone remotely swallowed up in any sort of relationship would probably agree with.
Relationships with people at work can be a blurry tirade of boundaries and judgements. Relationships with your kids are likely a constant volley of love versus absolute frustration, glazed with constant undertones of fear and concern. Relationships with one’s partner or significant other or spouse is a revolving buffet of challenges and traumas mixed with problem solving and compassion and hopeful repair. Heavy lifting. With relationships it seems like the only constant is that nothing comes cheap or easy. Nothing remains the same and all plans are fluid. Emotions are a bucket of wet cement that never dries. Someone is always wrong and there are no instructions.
While recently walking along a local stretch of road that runs parallel to the beach I stopped and watched the waves and considered what the ocean was doing this morning and wondered “what is my relationship with the ocean?”
The ocean is a lot. Vast and mysterious and cryptic. I can stand on the beach and look out into the horizon and catch the repetitive machine of waves crashing into the beach and even though I’ve witnessed this action a million times I can still be absolutely transfixed and in complete awe of this mesmerizing practice. So natural and so perfect. Even though proven to be scientifically sound this churning of water into an aquatic tube and sent plummeting into any random beach is an absolute daily miracle that solicites a bounty of unresolved emotions from me.
The ocean is a lot. How that kinetic energy travels thousands of miles across the vast geography of oceans, over many kilometers of depth and canyons and fauna and life to eventually arrive at a singular point of static land is an absolute marvel that still I am not comfortable with. Still it is mind blowing. Still the relentless energy and stubborn pursuit. Still the wet indifference. Still the separation. Still the mystery. The ocean is a lot. A daily around the clock miracle of water and pirates and devotees. And some people surf these waves.
And some people surf these waves.
In my flawed estimation the ocean is a furious landscape. It is not surprising that many cultures and myths consider the ocean unkind and dangerous. Even people surrounded by ocean (and perhaps because of this forced proximity) have a complex relationship with the ocean. A great unknown. If life is difficult and survival is a challenge and goods are sparse then why gamble with the great silent blue and whatever lurks inside it? Often cultures will employ a dual reality of reverence and caution.
“The Balinese recognize the oceans dual nature. It’s a source of sustenance and fertility but also a force that can cause natural disasters and take lives.” This quote from Ava Hull and her study of the ocean in Balinese culture. This complicated connection to nature as both provider and abuser is such the archetype for so many passionate relationships.
If you want to know the depths of hurt try falling in love.
If you want to know ecstasy and suffering fall in love with the ocean and don’t look back. Do not expect answers and do not expect sympathy and for sure wait for the hammer and the claws and the long kiss while being smashed and held down and pushed back and sucked out.
From the beach you cannot see much. The surface is a friendly mirage. A spectator can sit and watch the salt water arrive and rise up on cue. All that energy born from either Poles rammed into a solid mound of sand or a hard shelf of reef. The majesty of it all. The momentary relationship. Watching that singular explosive moment that will never happen again, yet is constantly happening. How far had that wave traveled? Now gone. The beach always wins.
The beach always wins.
It is beyond frightening. The violence is so real. The drama is so real. This absolute mass of water constantly moving. (The ocean is never still. Consider that…….). A cryptic language of tides and currents and swells. What is my relationship with this giant bucket of salt water, arrived from some unknown location and delivered to this exotic country? How do we feel about each other?
How do we feel about each other? How do we really feel about each other? Cause I love you madly but you also scare me a bit. Like often. And often during your tirades I don’t know what you are going to do or say or act. Cause often in the morning I don’t know what to expect. Sometimes you are kind and loving and soft. Other times you are isolated and cryptic and inaccessible. Some days we connect. Others we do not.
Are we broken? Without merit or future? Or is this simply the trajectory of all long term relationships? When I think about you I am helpless. And this weakened posture demands that I submit to you, and I hate that, and so ironically sometimes I hate you. You, this parcel to which I’ve given so much, and continue to do so, and I’ve no escape plan or alternative options; and I’ve no side hustles or secrets; and I’ve no faith in plans or motives or devices; and this submission is a dysfunctional bond yet perhaps all bonds are dysfunctional. Me standing here staring helplessly at you because I’ve no words of honest substance for you; because whatever shallow excuse or battered verse of poetry I relate is just further evidence of my weakened state while around you, and this admission makes me feel small and vulnerable, and if we are being truly honest then this vulnerability is my attempt at intimacy yet I feel that I am the only one talking in this relationship, while you just sit there like a wet sphinx and stare back at me with those crazy eyes, and I swear I notice a smirk on your lips, and this admission infuriates me, yet I am helpless to respond.
There is no way to win.
This relationship is fixed and tragic. I will forever come to you and you will arrogantly accept my overtures yet say nothing. Me with all my neurotic words and hours of therapy and practice. Me with my trainings and readings and revelations. Me with my friends and support and strategies. Me on the beach looking at you with wonder and hope and despair. Me shorter and fatter and younger and less wise. Me secretly hoping for grace and exit. This long dance simply wondering if the music ever ends.
Bagaimana ombak?
Somedays I love her. Other days I just cannot figure out how to. Is there something wrong with me…..?
At the moment Nashville Skyline is on sale for $49.95. Springsteen live at the Hammersmith Odeon is $77. I’ve been buying almost exclusively jazz records until recent purchases of two Wilco albums and Paul Simon’s Graceland. Such a pleasure. The double pink Idles in Paris album is still perhaps my favorite in the collection. I wish I had a cleaner copy of Bringing it all back Home. Currently on the wishlist. Maybe end of the summer purchase…….
Bill Evans live at The Village Vanguard has become the current go to. Green colored vinyl, single album, so smooth and subtle and beautiful. Light piano and a strong bass. Just oozes class and simplicity and craft. Craft….. These musicians honing their craft. These jazz greats fully immersed in their instrument. Evans is one with piano. Miles bound to the trumpet. John and the sax…..
Tracy Chapman came with the initial haul of vinyl that was gifted to me by Sara. Chapman recently reissued this album, her only album available on vinyl……. but the old vinyl from Sara’s collection still holds up. Now, a new 180 gram, remastered and clean for sure is perfect and wonderful. Also on the wishlist…. But not yet. Side B is amazing. Away from the hits, just raw and emotional and honest. Side B of this album simply kills.
The Allman Brothers Live at the Fillmore East from 1971 is also high on the wish list currently. 1971……. Duane is still alive. The Fillmore is a mecca. Tearing through the blues. Young and full of life and raging across the country living on fast food and guitars and girls. Tour buses and cowboy hats. Flared jeans and comfy pearl button down shirts. Stubble. Mustaches. Sleepless tour managers and loyal roadies. 1971!
1971 when the surfboards were long and the girls all smiled. Hawaiian shirts and convertibles. Black leather gloves and polished corvettes. Cheap concert tickets and nobody in the water. Walking around Topanga Canyon looking for Neil Young. Just bring me vinyl and I’ll serve the coffee and plug in the amps.
Just bring me vinyl, is what I tell anyone who asks what we need. We also need blanks and cloth and resin and tools and affordable taco trucks and a reliable breakfast burrito, but that is for another essay.
Just bring me vinyl and we can chat. and listen to music and dream about Indonesia and clean waves and friendly Texas girls who shoot guns and brighten up the shaping room. Just bring vinyl and you get free pour overs for the month. Resh brought down Kind of Blue and Blue Train and Thelonious Monk, purchased at the old Earwax Records shop in Williamsburg. Just bring me vinyl, I asked her, and this absolute legend brought the staples and everything (everything!) is built upon the backs of these initial tittles. The entire new collection starts there.
Let it Be was on sale but I don’t listen to it much. Abbey Road was bought locally in San Jose, in a continued effort to support the local shops, and the album is clean but definitely not the greatest pressing and somehow the quality reverberates and I listen occasionally but only occasionally. Side B is one of the greatest album runs ever. Just constant brilliance.
Was in a deep Mingus phase last month, so went there.
It is a long rainy season. Some mornings the sun is out. Some it ain’t. A steady diet of vinyl and pour overs. Ground me Jesus. The world spins so fast and the people argue and crash but somehow in here with the records and the guitar case open and the boards polished and new and lining a small space along the back wall there is hope and simplicity and actual care – somehow in this tiny house the bass solos are epic and the piano tracks are perfect and the guitar riffs are infinite. Just bring me vinyl and watch the cows wander around the back pasture and the sunshine push through the slowly ascending afternoon clouds, moving steadily west from their daily origins behind the low mountain range east of town. Just bring us vinyl and pray to this dirt road hub, this Central American surf Mecca, this delusional expat renaissance, this odd location tucked away along Calle Frijolar so far from Bleeker Street and Prince Street and Ludlow Street and Bushwick in general. You can have peace or you can have action. Hard to manage both.
You can have peace or you can have action. Hard to manage both.
I heard a great line this morning while running through the hills.
“The plains are littered with dead pioneers,” said Kara Swisher.
In our little casa of surfboards, steady making things at the jungly borders of society, steady making these wild symmetrical objects for the kids and their parents; at the junction of adventure and lunacy making surfboards and listening to a fine selection of vinyl records all morning. Perhaps it is just this. Perhaps this is the brand capsule. The Paris catwalk. The long goodbye. Next is LCD Soundsystem then Neil Young then Dexter Gordon then Billie Holiday. Bring me more vinyl and I will support your dreams and rave about your hobbies and carry you fears. Everyone is flawed. We are all trying.
By 6pm the extreme heat of the day had mellowed with the setting sun and people began to earnestly drift in. They gracefully walked up the small hill that led to the vendors lot on the north side of The El Pueblo campus in Nosara. Dressed in florals and monotone shorts and wavy sandals, a battalion of tan and good looking people entered the festival with a bemused smile, and began to browse.
There are some lovely people who have moved to this area and are currently populating the new scene in Nosara. They are intelligent and savvy. They are migrating from the cities and bringing a stylish curation with them. These people, both white and tan, from above the borders of North America and the more proximate hubs of San Jose and Buenos Aires, have quickly established a new default for style in Nosara. There are demands for quality, and expectations upon promise. They move with a nimble grace that wealth and confidence often affords. I watch them peruse the vendors set up around me, and wait for them to eventually visit my humble tent, and talk surfboards.
Recently, speaking with a photographer friend, who asked how I liked the changes along this small stretch of tropical coastline, I admitted there are positives and negatives. In a particularly optimistic mood that morning I commented that while the jungle mostly remains in tact, the waves of change have brought a surprising diversity. In years past there were few options for food or socializing. The same Thursday night live music performance followed by dancing at The Tropicana then cocaine options holds fond memories. A revolving cast of embedded jungle characters fueled by the exciting recklessness of tourism, released for another attempt at debauchery and escapism. Familiar head nods and handshakes that screamed ‘here we go again! Good luck!’
The crowds I see milling around this well planned music festival are decidedly different. Looking at the new faces whom I’ve never scene I am quickly reminded of how fast and far things have flourished in this little town. Granted, due to my sudden domesticity, I’m rarely out and about these days, book ended between a small business and a small family, yet the old days of the same faces and the same familiar smiles and the same familiar goals and the same hunt for good times and new adventures have certainly given away (in mass) to the new wave of family fortunes and private schools and the inevitable taboos of age and development. Yes, here we are.
People can be lovely. When you get out amongst them, in a small town fundraiser/festival scene like this, people are beautiful and elegant and kind and curious. This optimistic view is not a constant, and certainly I occasionally drown in a sophisticated despair like everyone else; but on this evening, looking out from a shaded beach chair next to a displayed surfboard I’ve crafted, representing this little brand of hope and foam, watching the people smile and pass, the general wheels of humanity appear to be spinning smoothly towards a grand intersection of culture and commerce, in a parking lot amongst the palm trees and dust and sunshine.
Having people stop into my little booth and look at the displayed surfboard or chat construction or materials and process was truly lovely. Like the shop on wheels….. I am so grateful for all the people who have supported this surfboard building effort over the years. Like family coming over and chatting their experiences, recalling a memory in the water, remembering their surfboard colors and styles, or meeting new people who have the most fantastic stories and are really exceptional humans. From the artists to the finance geniuses to the older surf instructors, and all the misfit characters in between. Very grateful to all of them for taking the time and expressing interest in this work.
Ultimately, it is always the people and their experiences that fuel this whole crazy endeavor.
