A Genial Parking Lot Attendant [Costa Rica]

 

 

      The magnificent Manuel Antonio National Park on the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica features a rain forest full of squirrel monkeys, howler monkeys, and capuchins, as well as toucans, potoos, and motmots, and the regional favorites, the sloths, almost out of sight in the high trees.  On Sunday, however, the park was closed, so the travelers wandered toward the Espadilla Beach.  They could watch the monkeys look for small children whom they saw as easy marks from whom they could snatch candy or chips.  They might even have the chance to glimpse a sloth in the trees near the water.  as they approached, they caught in the air the sweet smell of cannabis and looked around for the source.  It was two rather butch young women, looking after a parking lot for swimmers.  No public parking is available for the popular beach, so many nearby property owners were selling dusty spaces on their land.  The American couple made friendly signs in the direction of the smokers who kindly invited the strangers to join them.  The Americans, whose Spanish was not what it should be, used what they could in a few pleasantries, thanked their new acquaintances, loitered and indulged in a bit of smoky communion, and then proceeded beachward, now levitating a subtle half-inch over the sand.  After this fortuitous beginning, the day proved quite lovely, as they walked on shores littered with coral fragments and met the iguana’s intense gaze and did even see a sloth. 

     The following morning, they passed by the spot of the previous days’ encounter and found only one of the smokers, burning another joint as though for her time stood still.  Short and pudgy, with a shaved head, her name was Roxana.  We paused and deployed our Spanish once more, complimenting the scene, the park, the country of Costa Rica.  “Ah,” she demurred with a sigh, “pero este pais esta gobernado por los ricos.”  As it happened, Trump was president, so they told her the situation was regrettably similar in their own homeland and with probably greater untoward circumstances for the world we shared. 

     The fat and still sizable roach had gone out as the three chatted, and Roxana crossed the street to get a light from an aged man preparing to grill pinchos to sell.  Though cannabis is illegal in this country, we had been smoking openly, and she approached him without even a wry comment.  He doubtless had observed her fondness for the stuff daily. 

     Resuming the conversation, one of the Americans ventured the opinion that Trump was very like el diablo. Though probably no expert on foreign affairs, Roxana agreed whole-heartedly.  “Ese hombre es el anticristo!”  We looked into each others’ eyes and found accord.

     The sun was warm and the surf musical.  On the sand local people of all ages, usually in family groups, snacked and played and relaxed.  The two travelers and the parking lot attendant talked until the joint had been consumed and the Spanish vocabulary of the Americans had been exhausted as well.   They were departing the next day, in the ephemeral way of tourists, but they had paused long enough to enough to recognize a fellow traveler through life with whom, despite appearances, they shared more than divided them.