In my first week at Flamingo Beach, I probably met fifty characters, but for me, Mr. Gilligan stands out the most. He is not tall, but certainly an impressive sight. He has what I would call a compact body, and both men and women are impressed with his muscular form. I understand that he has never owned a car, so he usually walks everywhere. His body is proof that he is into exercise and physical fitness. He likes to walk, but never refuses a ride if it is offered. On many occasions, I have seen him jogging effortlessly on the beach, and it did not take me long to come to respect him. I decided that I would even try to emulate certain aspects of his lifestyle.

Gilligan can be seen almost anywhere at any time in and around the beach area. He loves to swim and I think that it is fair to say that he is an accomplished body surfer. He is for sure far better than I am. He has never held a steady job and mostly gets by on the kindness of others. He is a lady’s man–the proof of that is evident everywhere in the community. On more than one occasion I have been introduced to one of his offspring with; “This is one of Gilligan’s kids.” What is surprising to me is that most people point to that fact with pride. I think that if I had been the one with such a reputation it would have been hard for me to hold my head high when I walked through town–not so for Mr. Gilligan. He has a certain look of pride in his eyes when someone confronts him about his questionable exploits. You have to admire him. Maybe I’ve just missed something in my own life.

Gilligan is truly a party animal. He always knows exactly where to go, and it seems as if he has a preset schedule of events planned for each day. It is usually breakfast at Marie’s Restaurant, and then off to the beach to check out the new crop of tourists. If the pickin’s are good he will hang around there usually trying to impress the ladies with his great body surfing ability. If he is lucky, he will curry the favor of some “friendly” lady. The rest I’ll leave to your imagination.

Often after the beach scene played itself out he would return to Marie’s for some lunch, or go over to the house of his good friend Jenny Crissman. She is always kind to him and is seldom judgmental about his activities. He knows how to keep the welcome mat out at several places. Jenny is the cook at Tio’s bar and restaurant, and when she is heading off to work he will usually go with her. If it is a good beach day he will go back to the beach for a while then walk to Tio’s later. In any case, he never seems to miss a day at Tio’s.

If Tio’s is happening he will try to get someone to play softball with him. Of course, there is always the “big” softball game every Sunday, but during the week he will usually settle for a game of “catch” or maybe just shag a few balls for one of the players during batting practice. It is almost impossible to get a ground ball past him.

Evenings usually find Gilligan at Tio’s, but when the weekend rolls around he often likes to go to Amberes to check out the live music, and of course, the ladies. He is always as welcome there as anywhere in this beach community. On a good night, he will hang around and close the place. That usually happens around three or four o’clock in the morning. Sometimes he’ll have a snack, but often he is just plain exhausted from the events of the day, and he will lay down anywhere he can find a spot. He isn’t that particular about where he sleeps.

I like Gillian, and on more than one occasion I have told him so. I do have a strong sense that he feels the same way about me. However, he has never actually told me, or anyone else for that matter. Should he ever actually tell me that he likes me then I’ll probably leave Flamingo Beach as fast as I can. You see Mr. Gilligan is a Labrador Retriever, and I’m not yet ready for a talking dog, not even Mr. Gilligan. 

Jim Sayers
August 1993

In December of 1993,  Mr. Gilligan was chosen as “Story of the Year” by the Tico Times of San Jose, Costa Rica

The morning sun filters down through the trees to create a neatly woven patchwork of light and shadows on the forest floor. The rushing sound of a nearby brook invades my consciousness as I try to rub the sleep from my eyes. Today I will break camp and return to “civilization.” Before I crawl out of my sleeping bag, I stretch and do my best to sound like a bear. Last night I heard the bears thrashing about making similar groaning sounds, so it does seem appropriate for me to do so as well while I am in their “house.”

When I backpack I usually pack in more than enough food for the number of days I expect to be out on the trail, but on this trip, I was too conservative. I discover that the only food that I have left is a single can of noodle soup. I had some leftovers yesterday, but last night I did not hang my bag of food in the trees. so the bears were the beneficiaries of my laziness. As I walk over to the brook to wash my face, I wonder why I didn’t do the right thing last night.

The brook looks pure and inviting, but the onslaught of humanity in Yosemite Park has affected the water quality. I know that I must purify any water I care to drink. I fill my canteen with the crystal liquid then drop in one of the purification tablets. The directions are specific; shake vigorously for 5 minutes then let stand for 15 minutes before drinking. I follow the directions to the letter then when the time has expired, I drink deeply of the chemically altered water. It seems a shame that I had to ruin the taste of nature’s finest water with an iodine purification tablet.

After I pack up the tent, I light my propane camp stove and heat the last of my food. It is delicious and the extra salt found in most canned soups gives me a burst of energy. Eating my remaining food now seems like a great idea because that means that my backpack will be lighter by one can of soup. However, later in the day, I wish that I had waited longer to consume my remaining stores. If I am ever again faced with similar circumstances I will choose to wait before I consume the last of my food.

The heat of the day is now in full swing as I labor up the hill with my backpack. Another lesson that I learned on this excursion into the wild is that when one goes camping in a mountainous area then one should choose a path to start that goes up so that when one comes back out then one is going downhill—not up! Until this trip, that is the rule that I always followed.

I know that I have to make my water last so I take small sips as I make my way up the seemingly endless path. I also chew gum and that not only helps me feel a little less thirsty, and it neutralizes the aftertaste of the iodine-treated water from my canteen. Unfortunately, it also makes me feel hungrier. Hmmm… why had I been so generous last night with the bears? Bears have to eat too I suppose, but I wish that I had just one more can of soup stashed away in my pack.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity to me, a large meadow comes into my view and my goal is finally in sight. I can see cars on a distant road, and I experience a renewed burst of energy upon seeing that I am close. However, I am aware that my car is still a fair distance away. When I come upon at a dirt road it occurs to me that I can lay my burden down, and finish the trip to the car without my pack. Whew, that is literally a load of my back.

I walk the rest of the way to the car minus the pack. It really does feel good to be rid of it. Once in my car, I drive to a nearby general store, but I still have a problem. I only have a few cents with me and ATMs have not yet arrived in this part of the universe. To make matters worse, my stomach is telegraphing my brain that it is being severely neglected. This is a somewhat sticky situation because I must drive for almost two hours before I will arrive at a place that will take a credit card for food. I will just have to console myself with some water from a nearby drinking fountain.

I pull up to a drinking fountain. A man is just leaving. He is licking an ice cream cone and I clearly envy his situation. I climb out of the car and in a slightly weakened condition walk to the fountain to drink my fill of the pure water. While I am drinking, I wonder how I am going to drive for almost two hours on a severely empty stomach. I hear voices behind me so I take a few more quick gulps of the precious water then turn to offer the fountain to whoever is behind me. There is no one there, but in the distance, I see a young couple that had apparently walked past while I was drinking. I go back to drinking my fill.

My thirst finally satisfied, I turn and start back to the car. As I do an object on the ground catches my eye. For a split second, I look at it in disbelief, but then I bend down and pick it up. It is too good to be true! It is a ten-dollar bill. Here I stand, hungry and very tired with only 33 cents in my pocket, and seemingly, out of nowhere, I am presented with a wonderful gift…but from who or from where?

I quickly look around to locate the young couple that passed about a minute ago, but they have vanished into the woods. In fact, there is nobody anywhere near me. I am a bit in shock about my good fortune and confused about it as well. Nonetheless, I am thankful. When I walked from the car, I opened the door and strode directly to the fountain. Because I was tired, my head was hanging a bit and I was staring down at the ground. Had the money been there before I would have surely seen it because it was right there on the path that I took to the fountain.

The shock of my unexplained good fortune wears off, and I head directly to the store. I buy a sandwich and a soft drink then after consuming it I walk over to the counter and buy an ice cream cone. I just had to have that Ice cream cone. Now I am energized, and I thank heaven for providing so abundantly in my “time of need.”

With my newfound energy, I drive over to where I had left my backpack. I put it in the trunk of my car and set off down the mountain to a place where I can get a motel room and a nice dinner. While I drive, I ponder how, and why the ten dollars seemed to appear from nowhere. I never did figure it out, but the memory will stick with me for a very long time.

I am still not sure if I have ever actually encountered an angel in the physical sense, but I believe that there is something extraordinary at work around us all the time that often seems to defy explanation by ordinary means. Moreover, I cannot always define the extraordinary things that from time-to-time that seem to happen to me. I may not always understand it, but like the ten-dollar bill, I recognize it whenever I see it.

Jim Sayers
January 2002

The soft rays of the morning sun strike the land below the vintage DC-3 airplane to allow my first look at the countryside of southwestern Costa Rica. From up here, the densely wooded mountains stretch out as far as my eyes can see, and the fields flaunt a carpet of green that reminds me of the countryside of Ireland. Five hours ago I was looking at a dreary mantle of white on the snow-covered fields of Michigan, so the deep green below is candy for my eyes.

Today I am on my way to a new Ecotourist Resort Hotel called Lapa Rios. It is located in a remote area of Costa Rica called The Osa Peninsula. To get there from North America I must fly on three different airplanes, each one smaller than the one before. I left the United States aboard a very modern “Jumbo Jet.” In San Jose, I boarded an ancient, but well-maintained Douglas DC-3. It is a true adventure flying over the mountains in a plane that is vintage 1930’s. When I arrive in the old “Banana Republic” town of Golfito I board, or shall I say, climb into a small single-engine Cessna. Four other travelers from North America are crammed into this little air machine along with our luggage, and the pilot. One of my fellow passengers nervously wonders aloud if this tiny little craft will even fly with such a load. I decide not to speculate about our chances but to just keep my video camera rolling during the entire flight.

The flight across the gulf peninsula lasts only 7 minutes but it is very pleasant. However, given the diminishing size of the airplanes, I am extremely happy that there is not a fourth plane in my immediate future. We land on a gravel runway located in the town of Puerto Jimenez where I see a small, flatbed pickup truck. This truck, among other things, is displaying a sign that reads “taxi.” It is not at all like any taxi that I have previously known, but that’s okay with me, just as long as I do not have to fly in it.

Puerto Jimenez, the largest town on the Osa peninsula, is somewhat reminiscent of a North American frontier town complete with an interesting mix of cars and horses kicking up dust from the dirt streets. The town is only about eight square blocks long, and as we pass through, I see a couple of modern-looking houses. Everything else is made out of wood and looks as if it has been around for some time. I am not sure, but my imagination tells me that life here must be similar to what life in the western United States was in a bygone era.

We head south and bump along for about 35 minutes, occasionally driving on the wrong side of the road to avoid a “pothole.” There are holes everywhere so I am not sure why we try to miss some but go into others. I guess this is what is called “local knowledge.” The taxi driver informs me that the United States Army Corps of Engineers will be arriving soon to resurface the road and replace several of the aging bridges. This is very good because some of the bridges are damaged. We must ford several streams to get to Lapa Rios. I decide that the condition of the road simply enhances the adventure of going into a rainforest.

The incredible beauty of the countryside along the way makes the trip seem shorter than it is. I am finally beginning to feel comfortable with the road when suddenly, from over the crest of a hill; a thundering herd of cattle appears. I stare in disbelief at the rapidly approaching sea of fierce-looking bovines descending upon us. The dust cloud and the noise are intimidating to me, but the calm demeanor of the “taxi” driver reassures me that all is well. It is never a problem for us because the herd splits apart and passes around the vehicle while I get some good video footage of the entire event.

When I arrive at Lapa Rios, my senses go into overload. A truly unique resort hotel stands where a year ago only a barren 350-foot mesa existed. It is a beautiful piece of architecture and it looks like something that belongs in a rainforest.

The large main lodge is a giant “jungle hut.” Inside is a restaurant and bar with a dramatic spiral staircase that leads to an observation deck. Outside there is a swimming pool, and 14 luxury cabins spread out over the mesa. I am in awe by what has sprung from the jungle in just over a year.

The name Lapa Rios translates loosely into English as “Rivers of the Scarlet Macaw.” The Scarlet Macaw is the bright-multicolored parrot-like bird indigenous to the area. When viewed in flight from the 350-foot mesa these birds appear to be a river of moving color — thus the name Lapa Rios. Because it has just opened, the resort is not very crowded during the time of my stay, but this situation will no doubt change as word of the incredible resort spreads throughout the land.

In the past, most of the people who came to see the rain forest jungle were the adventurous backpacker-camper types who liked the idea of pitching a tent in the wilderness. That has changed now. Oh don’t worry, you can still pitch a tent and camp along the beach, but now there is another alternative. Lapa Rios was constructed to be a luxury resort in the rain forest. It is a place with 14 luxury cabins, each complete with twin queen size beds, modern lavatory facilities, a garden patio, and electricity. If that’s not enough, how about a place that also has a five-star restaurant and bar. All of this was accomplished in keeping with the principles of good rainforest ecology. In fact, during construction, not one live tree was cut from the site where the hotel now stands.

John and Karen Lewis created Lapa Rios, but it is Karen who is most responsible for the beautiful tropical gardens that adorn the complex. They contribute to the decor of each cabin. One can easily get the feeling of being in the jungle without leaving the enclosed patio of their cabin.

My days at Lapa Rios are filled with bird watching and observing the other types of wildlife including the flora and fauna. I also like to visit the nearby beach or walk along the Rio Carbonera. This river is what most people would call a large stream. It features several dazzling waterfalls and during my hike, I stop frequently to stand under the cascading water and cool off.

I walk many of the jungle trails within the rain forest, but much of what I encounter is within just a few meters of the hotel. In a single week, here I have seen an overwhelming abundance of plant and animal wildlife. The list of what I have seen includes; a family of three-toed sloths, four different types of monkeys, over 100 different species of birds, and several types of butterflies including the large “electric blue” amorphous butterflies called “morphos” by the locals. All this I see without ever leaving the hotel grounds.

Although I’m living in a tropical rainforest jungle, life is quite comfortable. The air is humid, but there always seems to be a soft fragrant breeze washing over the mesa where the Hotel Lapa Rios stands. This provides a comfortable environment in which to view the land and waters of the adjacent Golfo Dulce. (Sweet Gulf) Actually, on the Osa Peninsula, one can find an unlimited number of places that offer a sweeping view of the ocean waters.

From the beginning, it has been an effort for me to absorb the abundance of the tropical diversity that exists here, but no matter how many times I enter the rain forest I am still in awe of the beauty and tranquility that I find there. When I slip under the canopy, I encounter a different world teeming with life. Yet, for me, it is very much like being inside a giant cathedral.

One thing that I like about Costa Rica is that winter, as most North Americans know it, does not exist here. (Snow Bunnies please skip the rest of this paragraph.) There are only two seasons in Costa Rica, wet and dry. On the OSA Peninsula, that translates into “Mud or Dust.” However, there is but one temperature here all year round–HOT! January is in the dry season, but to my delight, this year there have been a couple of good tropical rain showers. I like tropical rain because it is often quite dramatic. The sky opens up and quickly the giant cumulus clouds dump millions of gallons of water onto the jungle. Then, as if by magic, the clouds vanish to permit the strong rays of the sun to reach into the dripping jungle and summon the water back to the sky. The ascending pillars of water vapor give rise to the term “steaming jungle.” If you have never been witness to this process then you have a wonderful experience awaiting you.

The rainforest in this part of Costa Rica is among the last remaining low land tropical rainforest jungle left in the world. My trip here to see it has been everything that I had expected it to be, and more.

Jim Sayers
Costa Rica February 1993

Fabiola Fabbian came to Costa Rica from her native Italy to help her boyfriend Lorenzo build a house at the edge of the rainforest. Although she has been living right next to the unique jungle for several months, she has never ventured very far inside. 

Andreas Krieger is a wilderness tour guide at a resort hotel in southwestern Costa Rica. The rain forest is a very special place to him and he has lead many groups of Eco-tourists along its familiar trails. Today he is happy to be giving his good friend Fabiola a personal tour of the jungle he knows so well; unaware that what is starting as a perfect day for a pleasant walk in the jungle will soon take an unexpected twist. 

Andreas cannot locate his machete and is slightly concerned because it is considered a good practice to carry a machete anytime one enters the jungle. However, it is an otherwise perfect day so he decides that if he and Fabiola stay on the well-groomed trails they will be safe. Without hesitation, he places his binoculars around his neck then he and Fabiola descend the steep path into the rain forest. 

Once under the jungle canopy, they begin to encounter the abundance of wildlife living within the 1200 acres of this tropical rain forest. They both have binoculars to enjoy a close-up view of the hundreds of bird species and other animals, which populate the area. At one point, they encounter a rare sight–three different types of monkeys playing in a single tree. They stop for a while to laugh at the crazy antics of the lovable primates then continue pushing deeper into the forest. Along the way, they pass several dramatic waterfalls. The cascading showers form pools of fresh cool water creating an excellent place to swim and neutralize the heat of the jungle.

The rain forest of the Osa is among the last remaining wilderness of its kind–a truly wonderful place, but it can be a place of danger as well. As they move deeper into the forest Andreas pushes, aside a small spine-covered tree for Fabiola, and one of the spines slices deep into his finger. This is an omen of things to come.

After about an hour of hiking, Andreas and Fabiola approach a large tree next to the path. Suddenly, Andreas hears a strange rustling sound in the leaves. Instinctively he steps in front of Fabiola to halt her forward progress. The jungle here is a patchwork of bright sunlight and dark shadows so at first the source of the strange sound is not evident to him. He peers intensely into the dimly lit area from where the sound is emanating and in the shadows; he sees the body of a snake. Fabiola does not see the snake, but she reacts in horror when Andreas points out the snake that is slowly moving through the leaves. It is clear that the snake is aware of them as well because it begins smashing its tail into the leaves as if to say, “go away.” 

There is no easy way for them to pass around the snake so Andreas suggests that they avoid a risky confrontation and go back the way they came. Fabiola does not wait for a second invitation and she begins retreating but Andreas stands fast, curious to see what the head of the viper looks like so that he can try to identify the species. Methodically he follows the dark black body with his eyes, but it disappears around the tree. This puzzles Andreas, but his dilemma is short-lived when he catches sight of a large serpent head rising several feet beyond the tree. The snake is over 13 feet long with a body in the shape of a triangle three and a half inches wide; a creation straight from “The Devil’s Workshop.” Whatever the species, it is larger than any snake that Andreas has seen in his previous trips into the rainforest.

Andreas stares in awe as the large serpent head slowly rises and turns toward him. Now there can be no doubt that the snake knows that he and Fabiola have invaded its territory and it is not happy about the intrusion. The unexpected close encounter has brought together two humans and a snake, each now being driven by instinct.

Andreas wants to flee, but the creature before him has mesmerized him. Experience has taught him that the simple act of leaving the area of a snake encounter will cause the viper to show little interest, but this snake seems to be the exception to the rule. His senses tell him that something is different about this snake. 

Pure instinct is directing Andreas now. He yells at Fabiola to hasten her retreat, and then he turns and begins to move away as well. Too late, the large head of the viper is facing them and the expressionless eyes have made contact with the two human forms now in retreat. Twenty-five feet separate them from the snake–normally a comfortable distance but not this time. Suddenly, as if propelled by some unnatural force, the snake accelerates to attack speed. Fabiola, already running as fast as she can, loses sight of the path where it turns and falls in the confused growth of the jungle floor. Andreas can only watch as she rolls out of control down an embankment. 

Andreas is a physical education teacher in Switzerland and a very fast runner. On one occasion, I watched him outrun a dog in a short sprint on the beach, so it is lucky that the snake continues to pursue him and shows no interest in Fabiola. However, this time Andreas is faced with formidable competition. In just seconds, the snake has eliminated the twenty-five-foot head start as well as the additional thirty feet that Andreas has managed to cover in the same time. With Fabiola down, and the heavy sound of the snake coming from behind him, Andreas knows it is here where he must turn and face the nightmare that pursues him.

For Andreas, everything now seems to be happening in slow motion. The snake is coming fast, but with his senses somehow accelerated Andreas has time to analyze the course of the attacking viper. Time itself seems expanded for him now but even so, the snake is right there only a few feet away and in full pursuit. He is experiencing the full intensity of the attack, and there is no doubt in his mind that he is the target.

With a movement that starts with the grace of a ballet dancer, Andreas spins around. As he spins his hands grasp the straps that hold the binoculars around his neck. He pulls them over his head, and then with all his strength smashes them down squarely on the head of the snake. The serpent receives the full force of the binoculars on his head and immediately falls to the ground. Andreas, his body pumped full of adrenaline, whips the binoculars around in a large arc as if returning a tennis ball. He yells at the snake as the binoculars find their target again. The force of the impact is so great that it causes the binoculars to explode into several pieces. The shoulder strap separates from what is left of the binoculars and it is all that Andreas has left in his hand. Again, the binoculars have struck the head of the serpent, which now lies completely motionless on the ground. Andreas is filled with primal fear, all of his attention is focused on the dazed creature at his feet. The events of the last few moments dominate his thinking. For him what has just taken place seems like a nightmare, but fear is a very real emotion, even in a nightmare. 

Slowly his fear begins to subside as he realizes that the snake is stunned barely moving. His fear changes to anger toward the serpent that purposely stalked and attacked him. Why was he attacked? He did not bother the snake or even go close, but by its actions, the snake defied all that Andreas had learned about snakes during his many incursions into the rainforest.

In the now silent forest, Andreas becomes aware that Fabiola is calling to him. She had fallen below the level of the path and did not witness the attack. She heard Andreas yell his rage at the snake as he struck out at it, but now there is only the silence of the rain forest and the sound of her own pounding heart. Cautiously Andreas releases his attention from the stunned viper and hurries over to aid her. She is scared and shaken, but unhurt. He reaches out to help her up, and her eyes betray the fact that she is happy and relieved that Andreas has survived the attack untouched by the snake. 

Andreas is exhausted but he wants to bring the snake back to the lodge. He picks up a nearby stick but the wood is old and full of ants; it crumbles in his hands. He uses his Swiss Army Knife to cut down a small sapling tree, then fashions a forked stick to hold the head of the snake. When he approaches the snake, the viper starts to revive and twist on the ground. It is too risky now to continue this course of action because if the snake recovers Andreas will have little defense against another attack. He decides it is best to leave the area now and return later with his machete.

Andreas and Fabiola leave the snake and return to the tree where earlier they had encountered the monkeys playing. The monkeys have long since moved on, but the two shaken humans sit under the tree to discuss their feelings and vent some of the pent-up emotion. The quiet of the jungle and the calm of the moment are exactly what they need. 

After a short rest, they start back to the lodge and continue to relive the events of the recent past. Suddenly without warning, a large light-colored snake slithers across the path just in front of them. They both recoil in terror as the serpent quickly flashes past. They stand there stunned while they watch it climb a tree just beyond the path. Now in the dim light of the forest, and the dark recesses of their imaginations, every vine becomes a snake, and there is a predator in every shadow. The once warm and friendly environment has become a forest of dangers in their minds and now they can only wonder — where might the other vipers be lurking?

Andreas walks Fabiola to her dwelling then returns to the lodge where he excitedly recounts to all in attendance the events of the unusual day. We are all captivated by the story and each of us vows to never venture into the rain forest again without a machete. When he finishes the story Andreas locates a machete and a flashlight then starts back to retrieve the snake.

When he arrives at the spot of the encounter, it is nearly dark so he approaches the area with caution. He finds the broken binoculars so he is sure that he has returned to exactly the right place. He pulls out his flashlight and scans the area, but there is no snake to be found. Could it be in hiding just beyond the tree waiting for another chance to attack him? Suddenly there is a rustling sound in the leaves. With his machete poised for action he spins around to face the danger, but what has just made his heart pound like a jackhammer is only a small harmless green lizard scampering across the leaves.

Darkness finally envelops the rain forest so reluctantly Andreas gives up the search and returns to the lodge. He would have liked to come back with the proof of his nightmare, but it is not to be. The broken binoculars will have to suffice as a symbol of the attack.

EPILOGUE:

 For some people, the physical appearance of a snake is at best, unpleasant. Many species are known to bite, and some are venomous. While it is true that not all snakes are dangerous, the thought of being stalked and attacked by a snake, poisonous or not, is for most of us, unimaginable. The snake attack did not dissuade Andreas or any of us at the lodge from enjoying the magnificent rain forest. He told me that he feels the attack was an isolated event that will never happen again. He continues to take people of all ages into the rainforest, including a woman in her nineties. Andreas has trained his body to move swiftly and gracefully. His physical conditioning and coordination were no doubt his salvation from the snake. He has now spent almost a year in the various jungles of Central America and as I hear him relate the story of the attack for a second time I am aware that if I had been there in place of him I would have had to find another way to avoid becoming a victim of that snake.

If like me, you find this story a bit scary then consider this. Every day hundreds of people walk the trails of the rain forest and never even encounter a snake. I spent months wandering the rain forest trails of the Osa Peninsula, and during that time I have only encountered three small snakes; none of which showed any interest in me–not even the one that I almost stepped on during a rare night excursion. The beauty of a rainforest filled with abundant wildlife is something that I feel everyone should experience at least once in his or her life. It is far more beautiful and much less dangerous than the streets of a big city.

Jim Sayers
First published in The Tico Times of Costa Rica in 1993

 When the customs or behavior of people in a foreign country differs from those in your native country, it is often referred to as cultural differences. Occasionally, the differences in Costa Rica are quite interesting and for me, the motivation to travel is partly due to a desire to experience some of them. Since coming to Costa Rica, I feel that I have identified a couple of unique cultural differences between The United States, my native country, and Costa Rica. Case in point:

On more than one occasion, I have needed to ask someone if I was standing in the correct location to board a particular bus. Whenever I would ask a Costa Rican person that question, the answer was often: “NO.” Granted it was always a very polite, very friendly “NO,” usually delivered with a warm smile. However, I seldom got anything more than “NO.” The bus stop may have been just a short distance from where I was standing when I asked, but for some reason, that information was never offered to me. In the USA, I would have most likely been told: “No this is not the bus stop–it’s in the next block or something to that effect–not just “NO!” In Costa Rica, the culturally correct thing to do is to simply answer the question. Okay, so maybe it is my fault. You see I failed to ask the proper question. I should have said: “Excuse me, where is the bus stop for San Pedro?” 

Now think of a shoelace–a white shoelace–a white shoelace that has just broken. Normally that situation would not pose much of a problem but I am in Costa Rica now. I tried hard to remember if I had ever seen a shoelace for sale anywhere. I could remember seeing Tee Shirts, Watches, and even high-pitched “Musical” Instruments made in the shape of animals, but I had no recollection of ever seeing shoelaces. Then again, why strain my brain? Shoelaces must be sold in shoe stores, I reason, but before I can find a pair I enter the culturally different “Shoelace Zone” where finding a shoelace will prove to be an adventure not unlike something Indiana Jones might have faced while looking for a lost treasure.

I enter a shoe store and I am politely told we sell shoes, no shoelaces.” No problem, there are five more shoe stores on this block alone so I will just go next door and get the laces. Wrong: “We sell shoes not shoelaces,” they tell me. San Jose, it seems, has more shoe stores per capita than any other city in the known universe, but for some reason, I cannot buy a stinking pair of shoelaces in any of them. It must simply be a “Cultural Difference” I am thinking.

Undaunted I move over a couple of blocks and go inside a shoe store there. The result is the same: “We sell shoes, no shoelaces.” I get the same story in store after store and I am beginning to think that there is a serious flaw in my logic. “Please, where do I go to buy a shoelace?” I wonder. 

Sometimes the most obvious solution is the one you think of last. The answer, it turns out, is quite simple. Just ask someone who lives here where to buy the laces. An elegantly dressed woman is standing on the corner so I go over and ask her. In response to my question points to a store across the street. “Go there, they sell everything!” she says in Spanish. You cannot imagine my delight upon hearing that news. I feel a little silly for not asking someone in the first place, but wait, why didn’t even one person in any of the shoe stores tell me about this store? Cultural Differences, I decide. No matter, in just a few minutes, I will have solved my problem and I will not have to “clomp” around San Jose anymore.

When I enter the store, I marvel at the thousands of items they carry. The woman was right; this place has everything. At first, I do not see the laces but I do encounter a nicely dressed sales clerk who is wearing a necktie with two leaping dolphins at the wide part. “Do you sell shoelaces?” I inquire. “No,” is all he says. “No,” I say as I look around. “I can buy a wheel for a turn of the century baby carriage, or a grill for a 1958 Edsel, why not a lousy pair of white shoelaces,” I demand.

This young man could sense that I was unhappy with the situation so he offers a solution. “Just one block south there is a store that is sure to have the laces,” he tells me. I am pleasantly surprised that he freely offered the information to me. I thank him then head for the store that is about to put an end to, what for me, is beginning to feel like the quest for the Holy Grail.

“No–we don’t sell shoelaces,” I am told yet again. “Well, who does?” I blurt out. “Just two blocks east there is a store that should sell that type of thing,” the kind salesperson tells me. “Clomp–clomp–clomp.” It was becoming my trademark sound. 

I am sorry, that is not something we carry. However, I have a cousin who works in a store one block to the north. I’m positive’ they sell shoelaces there. “Clomp–clomp–clomp.” Now I am walking the way Walter Brenen walked on the TV show “The Real McCoys.” No problem, finally I know exactly where I can buy the shoelaces and I’m closing in on ’em fast.

“What da ya mean you don’t sell shoelaces here! Your cousin Miguel said that you do,” I say in a not so calm voice. “No, not here, that was in the last place where I worked,” he tells me. “Okay, I’ll go there–where is it?” “In Cartago,” he said. CARTAGO! I repeated. Okay, I give up. I think I will just buy a new pair of shoes. After all, new shoes come with laces. No, wait a minute, this time I’m going to buy loafers,” I say aloud.

This man clearly understood that I was unhappy, and to calm me down he assures me that he knows of a store that is guaranteed to have the laces I so desperately seek. Lucky for me it was only two blocks west at the next corner. “Are you sure?” I asked in a pleading tone of voice. “Yes, everyone knows that they carry ‘everything’ there,” he said while nodding his head up and down to give more credibility to what he was saying.

I lost little time “clomping” my way over to the store that would finally put an end to the odyssey, which had now consumed most of my afternoon. The minute I entered the store I could tell that I had arrived at the end of my search. This place had everything from soup to nuts. I had no trouble locating the shoe polish so I knew I must be close to the illusive laces; I felt like a wild animal closing in for “the kill.” 

After a minute or two of looking around near the shoe polish, I do not see any laces. However, I spy a clerk stocking the shelves at the end of the aisle. I decided to spare myself anymore-needless grief and simply ask the young man to direct me to the shoelaces. As he turned to face me, I noticed that he had a pleasant smile and that he was wearing a necktie that had two leaping Dolphins at the wide part.

Now I may not be the brightest bulb on the marquee, but I quickly figure out that I am back in the store where I had started. Unknowingly, I had entered from the side entrance. The clerk immediately recognized me and asked if I had found the laces. “No, not yet,” I tell him, but then again it’s not that important after all.” What I need to know now is: “Does the bus to Pavas stop in front of the store?” “NO,” was all he said.

Jim Sayers
Published in the Tico Times of Costa Rica February 1994

In high school, I played the drums and enjoyed playing in the band. As time went by I learned to read melody notes and a metamorphosis occurred–I changed from a drummer into a percussionist. In the orchestra, I was in the company of two other percussionists, Gary and Leon. Gary could read melody notes too, but Leon had not yet ventured into that domain. In fact, at times even the rhythm notes actually seemed to confuse Leon as well. Nevertheless, he was a great guy–very good-natured and always gave his best in everything that he did.

One day our musical director and teacher, Mack Pitt, a famous man of note in his own right, came to us and told us that we were going to perform the theme from “Around the World in Eighty Days.” That was music to my ears, because I knew that it had some real meaty parts for the drummers, I mean the percussionists. We would have a chance to play instruments such as the Marimba and the chimes–instruments that actually produce melody notes.

Shortly after reviewing the musical score, we determined that there could be a slight problem for us. Since Leon did not play any of the melody instruments, that meant that Gary and I would have to share the honors in that department. It was not long before we devised a workable plan. Gary would start out on the Marimba; Leon would play the cymbals and I would be on the Tympani drums.

“Around the World in Eighty Days” starts with a roll on the Tympani’s that builds to a crescendo capped with a cymbal crash whereupon the rest of the orchestra joins the musical tour. The horns in the brass section trumpet majestically; the woodwinds create orchestral energy, and the string section softly binds it all together.

For reasons that escape me now, it was determined that after the opening crescendo I would move quickly to my right to play the chimes and Gary would take over the tympani. This should have been an easy maneuver except that Leon and the cymbals were standing between us.

At the first rehearsal, we came up with a plan to make it work. Gary would come past Leon first then I would repeat the process in the other direction. To allow us to pass, Leon would turn the cymbals sideways and hold them against his chest during the move. At the rehearsals, we perfected the drill; our timing was perfect. It should be, after all, we were drummers, I mean percussionists. On the other hand, good old Leon sometimes marched to the beat of a different drummer. (Pun clearly intended.) In fact, he had the strangest sense of timing I have ever encountered.

In those days, I was really into complicated rhythm and syncopation, but try as I might, I could not match the esoteric time signatures that Leon’s mind invented. He would occasionally stick in beats where it was hard to fathom they would fit. Conversely, he sometimes lost track of the count and would miss an important cymbal crash. Gary was mindful of this and always set a cymbal on a stand just in case Leon missed the timing while counting to four and 13/32nds or some other strange time signature. If Leon actually made the cymbal crash on time, the effect of the two cymbals resonating together made a rich stereophonic sound. If, on the other hand Leon was a tad late, this produced an echo chamber effect caused by the two crashes coming slightly out sync. Either way we seemed to be covered.

After several weeks of practice, our high school orchestra was ready to present “Around the World in Eighty Days.” In anticipation of the grand performance, we carefully setup the percussion instruments on the highest tier of the risers. As we made our final adjustments, we could hear the sounds of the audience filling the seats. Once everything was in place, we did the final run through of our movements to verify that we have it down pat. It worked like a charm. Now the three percussionists were ready for a command performance.

For most of my life, I have been pleased with that fact that I had broad shoulders. However, it gave my mother fits trying to buy clothes for her teen-age son. On the night of the performance, my large shoulders would present an unintended problem.

Finally, the big moment had arrived, the instruments were tuned, and the signal went out to open the curtain. Even before the applause died down, I received the cue to start the roll on the timpani drums. It is a powerful sound and I felt good producing the smooth roll that lead to the crescendo and the famous cymbal crash that would ignite the rest of the orchestra. At the precise moment, Gary reached over, and with a drumstick and hit the cymbal on the stand. Leon was about 11/32nds of a beat late, so in actuality there were two cymbal crashes that resulted in the echo effect of which I spoke earlier.

As you may recall, Gary and I had to change places right after the cymbal crash. Unfortunately, neither Gary nor I were aware that Leon was upset about missing the cymbal crash and was preoccupied with reliving the past four bars in his head. Consequently, he forgot to rotate the cymbals 90 degrees and pull them into his chest. Gary slipped by, but as I rushed past him, my right shoulder made a direct connection with the still outstretched cymbals. I was clearly aware of what just happened, but I could not dwell on it. I had just seconds before I had to play some important notes on the chimes, and no time to contemplate why Leon did not turn the cymbals sideways.

As I played the notes on the chimes, I looked up at the conductor. I would later regard that as mistake. He was still waving the baton, but he had a look of terror in his eyes. I did not understand his expression, and for a second I averted my eyes to the audience. I focused on the people sitting in the first couple of rows, which was also a mistake. With the exception of the young boy with blond crew cut hair, and the sly grin on his face, everyone else had the same look of terror that I saw on the face of the conductor. I finally summoned the courage to turn around and to this day, I regard that as a mistake as well.

I can honestly say that I have never before been witness to what was transpiring behind me. When I bumped the cymbals in Leon’s hands, I forced him to take a slight step back, and the heels of his shoes went over the edge of the riser. To regain his balance he was now moving his arms in big circles. At the end of each arm was of course, a heavy metallic cymbal. The resulting motion made him look like one of those big ungainly birds you see from time to time on the nature channel. You know, the ones that can’t seem to figure out how to land.

In a way, Leon was preparing for a landing of sorts, and I could already tell that it would be just about as graceful as the birds on the TV show. I thought about attempting a rescue but with those cymbals in motion I would have been risking life and limb to get anywhere close to poor Leon. Suddenly, with his arms still in full swing, Leon disappeared below the riser making contact with the floor. I am sure that the resulting cymbal crash was heard in the farthest corners of the auditorium. I was afraid to look down or even contemplate Leon’s fate, but for dear Leon this was actually a watershed moment because the cymbals crashed precisely on the beat. Leon had finally mastered the music.

The show must go on, as they say, and so it did. The conductor was still waving the baton and the band played on—sans Leon. Did I already mention that Leon had just soared almost five feet down to the floor? This may have had something to do with the moaning emanating from below. Thankfully, the sound of the music prevented the audience, indeed even the rest of orchestra from hearing Leon’s moaning. They were very involved with the wonderful rendition of Around the World in Eighty Days or as I have since dubbed it—“Leon’s song.”

Leon was up and around even before the last notes of “his” song had died out. Thankfully, he was not seriously hurt. However, I was clearly unhappy that he had taken the plunge because of my shoulders. When it was all over, Leon received more attention than ever, and as it turns out, in a way, I may have helped him become the star of the show.

It has been a very long time since that fateful performance, but I shall never forget that evening. All that is left now is to cue the cymbals one more time then fade out. “Leon’s Song” is over.

Jim Sayers

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