A quick vignette from Costa Rica
I crouched over the cheap plastic blue bucket (my former garbage can) in front of my cabina in the jungle. A sprinkling of white detergent had churned up as foam under the outdoor shower spigot. I threw in a pair of shorts, a thin cottony dress, a tank top and a skirt made of sweatpant material. Squatting in a bikini, dripping wet from the shower, I began to churn the water with my fist, trying to replicate the motion I'd seen in a washing machine. Immediately the water began to darken brown, satisfyingly, and I continued scrunching and rubbing, kneading the clothes like dough.
To my right on the plastic chair sat my iPhone, amplifying tinny versions of a mix I had made the night before. Including some of my favorites songs from: eighties art punk icons Gang of Four, the Talking Heads and the Pixies, edgier punks the X-Ray Spex, Stiff Little Fingers and Husker Du, country-influenced folksters Sarah White and Langhorne Slim, beautiful storytelling from Townes Van Zandt and an underground hip-hop anthem from the Streets. Hipster garage rock from The White Stripes. A ballad from Andrew Bird and one from Iggy Pop. All dedicated to my contradictory and occasionally teen-anguished feelings on love and romance. The same as almost every mix I have ever made. And you can't find a more abundant theme in rock'n'roll lyrics.
I've only hand-washed my clothes a handful of times in my life. Having only about 10 articles of clothing with me on this trip, washing is not a time-consuming task and I welcomed a wet activity in the midday heat. The novelty of the work transformed it from chore to vacation activity: I became a laundry tourist.
There are washing machines on the grounds here, but they are often in use by the cleaning staff and I didn't want to ask. I could walk into town and pay $5 for one load, like I did the first week. But that's just silly. It's faster and more economical to just do it here in a bucket, at my temporary home.
An older Tica woman who does the housekeeping passes by my cabina with a steady stream of laundry to and from the lines in the garden I look out onto. Some of it is obviously connected to her housecleaning work, things like sheets and towels, but some of it is clothing. Maybe you can pay her to do your laundry as well. She often says "Buenas" or "Hola" to me as she passes by, but there seems to be no space for acquaintance. I don't think she speaks English and my Spanish is miserably minima,l encompassing not even as much as a Costa Rican spanish phrase book will get you. I wish I knew that much! When she saw me washing my clothes, she began to take the drying clothes down, smiled at me and told me (in spanish) that I could hang my clothes "aqui". Maybe the sight of the vacationing surf bum doing a little work softened her.
I have found just the right mix of simple living and technological modernity to keep me happy for the moment. For a start: my cabina, which I am absolutely in love with. It is a one-room and one bathroom building standing in a semi-circle with four other identical structures. It has plaster walls and an angled wooden ceiling supporting one fan. Three large windows, one on each wall. The roof is covered by sheets of metal molded to resemble terracota tiles. I often hear the scratching of iguana feet scampering above. And the hooting of an unknown animal Mark dubbed the "chicken monkey." A lengthwise opening in the apex of the ceiling allows both light and air in as well as creating a little space outside that seems ideal for nesting.
This little home has everything I need. A fridge, gas range, coffee maker, rice maker, toaster, a small assortment of pots, pans, and dishware. A nice shower (with hot water! a luxury!) a toilet and a medium-sized metal lockbox. This last item is of special importance in a country known for its thieving.
I have no internet or phone service here. When I am home, I am home. And that is that. If I want company, I need to leave or hope that someone comes to find me, as Mark started to do in the time we were hanging out. Social interactions are thus simplified. If you say you are going to meet up, you can't text ahead to bow out. You have to show up to tell someone you can't show up. Fortunately this town is very small and all my friends, while here, were within walking distance.
My first world devices are these: a laptop computer, a fancy digital camera and a hard drive/viewer, and an iPhone whose sole use at the moment is as a music player but has been used on occasion as a camera as well. And all the power cords and firewire cables that hook tham up to each other. Add a couple of books and the occasional newspaper and I have everything I need. Still more than I _actually_ need, but tools for intellectual stimulation and creative output I consider important for mental well being. Yes, a pen and paper would do the trick, but I am not a luddite. Writing digitally expands my world. And my leanings toward living simply are not out of aesceticism or a desire for isolation, they are in fact a drive for the opposite - to be fully alive and awake in the my world now. Connected.
Add to that a bike, a surfboard, and a flashlight. A nice canteen for water. I could probably use some tools, for the bike especially. And I have an assortment of medicines and bandages just in case. And lots of sunscreen. And a bag of wax for the surfboard. I am certainly not roughing it.
Back home I feel like I am in a constant battle to rid myself of things. Such a strange and inverted way to live considering the vast poverty of so many people in the world. And it's not that I lack gratitude for all I have, but just that I am highly sensitive to the toll excessive material consumption has not only on the environment but, in multiple ways, on my own psyche. First there is the burden of ownership - having to have a place to store things, care for them and move them when you move. They literally weigh you down. And I feel too much responsiblity for these items to just throw them away where they will only end up in a dump somewhere, useless to everyone. Finding someone to give something to that you no longer want is not always the easiest of tasks. Freecycle is a good starting point. Check it out if you haven't already.
More importantly, and much more sinister, is how easy it is to slip into a lifestyle where acquiring things becomes a driving purpose. This mindset, which I have certainly experienced in the longing for any material thing, is destructive to a sense of wholeness and well being in the moment. It only reinforces a sense of not having enough, one that only seems to grow as you acquire more. Traveling lightly and spending months living out of a backpack brings a tremendous sense of relief - it reminds me how little I actually need to be fine. I am fine.
To my right on the plastic chair sat my iPhone, amplifying tinny versions of a mix I had made the night before. Including some of my favorites songs from: eighties art punk icons Gang of Four, the Talking Heads and the Pixies, edgier punks the X-Ray Spex, Stiff Little Fingers and Husker Du, country-influenced folksters Sarah White and Langhorne Slim, beautiful storytelling from Townes Van Zandt and an underground hip-hop anthem from the Streets. Hipster garage rock from The White Stripes. A ballad from Andrew Bird and one from Iggy Pop. All dedicated to my contradictory and occasionally teen-anguished feelings on love and romance. The same as almost every mix I have ever made. And you can't find a more abundant theme in rock'n'roll lyrics.
I've only hand-washed my clothes a handful of times in my life. Having only about 10 articles of clothing with me on this trip, washing is not a time-consuming task and I welcomed a wet activity in the midday heat. The novelty of the work transformed it from chore to vacation activity: I became a laundry tourist.
There are washing machines on the grounds here, but they are often in use by the cleaning staff and I didn't want to ask. I could walk into town and pay $5 for one load, like I did the first week. But that's just silly. It's faster and more economical to just do it here in a bucket, at my temporary home.
An older Tica woman who does the housekeeping passes by my cabina with a steady stream of laundry to and from the lines in the garden I look out onto. Some of it is obviously connected to her housecleaning work, things like sheets and towels, but some of it is clothing. Maybe you can pay her to do your laundry as well. She often says "Buenas" or "Hola" to me as she passes by, but there seems to be no space for acquaintance. I don't think she speaks English and my Spanish is miserably minima,l encompassing not even as much as a Costa Rican spanish phrase book will get you. I wish I knew that much! When she saw me washing my clothes, she began to take the drying clothes down, smiled at me and told me (in spanish) that I could hang my clothes "aqui". Maybe the sight of the vacationing surf bum doing a little work softened her.
I have found just the right mix of simple living and technological modernity to keep me happy for the moment. For a start: my cabina, which I am absolutely in love with. It is a one-room and one bathroom building standing in a semi-circle with four other identical structures. It has plaster walls and an angled wooden ceiling supporting one fan. Three large windows, one on each wall. The roof is covered by sheets of metal molded to resemble terracota tiles. I often hear the scratching of iguana feet scampering above. And the hooting of an unknown animal Mark dubbed the "chicken monkey." A lengthwise opening in the apex of the ceiling allows both light and air in as well as creating a little space outside that seems ideal for nesting.
This little home has everything I need. A fridge, gas range, coffee maker, rice maker, toaster, a small assortment of pots, pans, and dishware. A nice shower (with hot water! a luxury!) a toilet and a medium-sized metal lockbox. This last item is of special importance in a country known for its thieving.
I have no internet or phone service here. When I am home, I am home. And that is that. If I want company, I need to leave or hope that someone comes to find me, as Mark started to do in the time we were hanging out. Social interactions are thus simplified. If you say you are going to meet up, you can't text ahead to bow out. You have to show up to tell someone you can't show up. Fortunately this town is very small and all my friends, while here, were within walking distance.
My first world devices are these: a laptop computer, a fancy digital camera and a hard drive/viewer, and an iPhone whose sole use at the moment is as a music player but has been used on occasion as a camera as well. And all the power cords and firewire cables that hook tham up to each other. Add a couple of books and the occasional newspaper and I have everything I need. Still more than I _actually_ need, but tools for intellectual stimulation and creative output I consider important for mental well being. Yes, a pen and paper would do the trick, but I am not a luddite. Writing digitally expands my world. And my leanings toward living simply are not out of aesceticism or a desire for isolation, they are in fact a drive for the opposite - to be fully alive and awake in the my world now. Connected.
Add to that a bike, a surfboard, and a flashlight. A nice canteen for water. I could probably use some tools, for the bike especially. And I have an assortment of medicines and bandages just in case. And lots of sunscreen. And a bag of wax for the surfboard. I am certainly not roughing it.
Back home I feel like I am in a constant battle to rid myself of things. Such a strange and inverted way to live considering the vast poverty of so many people in the world. And it's not that I lack gratitude for all I have, but just that I am highly sensitive to the toll excessive material consumption has not only on the environment but, in multiple ways, on my own psyche. First there is the burden of ownership - having to have a place to store things, care for them and move them when you move. They literally weigh you down. And I feel too much responsiblity for these items to just throw them away where they will only end up in a dump somewhere, useless to everyone. Finding someone to give something to that you no longer want is not always the easiest of tasks. Freecycle is a good starting point. Check it out if you haven't already.
More importantly, and much more sinister, is how easy it is to slip into a lifestyle where acquiring things becomes a driving purpose. This mindset, which I have certainly experienced in the longing for any material thing, is destructive to a sense of wholeness and well being in the moment. It only reinforces a sense of not having enough, one that only seems to grow as you acquire more. Traveling lightly and spending months living out of a backpack brings a tremendous sense of relief - it reminds me how little I actually need to be fine. I am fine.