Costa Rica– Drinking Guaro.
Costa Rica Travel
Costa Rica– Introducing Guaro.
Like a flag, every country waves the bottle of their own unique liquor high for all to see.
In Costa Rica, the libation of choice is Guaro.
There is pride that goes along with claiming an alcoholic beverage as your nations own. Mexico and tequila goes hand in hand. In Russia Vodka is a way of life. Breaking plates is fun after a few shots of Ouzo in Greece. Aquavit in Sweden is a mystery.
Costa Rica is party central when the Guaro comes out.
Depending on which bartender you speak to, Guaro is either a mind bending alcoholic drink or an energy drink on steroids.
Guaro is the national beverage of Costa Rica.
Costa Rica Travel would not be complete without a heavy dose of Guaro.
Several of us were hanging out in the beach town of Carrillo just enjoying the peacful evening after another day in the sun. Carrillo is a fishing town with plenty of great surf spots close by. Not much different than Tamarindo, but without the overbearing ex-pat influence. Carrillo is perfect for relaxation…In other words NOTHING much to do at night. extremely tame at night.
As always happens when a group of travelers congregate, we sat in the quiet cafe swapping tales of waves that had doubled in size over the course of the previous ten days. The bartender could tell we were getting restless and a bit bored. He approached with a tray of shots.
“On me.” He said as he passed the shots around. “Guaro. You have before?”
Only one of the group nodded and smiled. The rest of us were happy for something new.
A bowl of limes was placed in the center of the table. The veteran Guaro drinker picked a lime and a shot like he was preparing for the traditional Tequila ritual.
There were a few sniffs and gimaces….a silent count of three and the shots slid down without a toast. Squinted eyes and pursed lips sucked on limes all around the table.
Not too bad…
The familiar warm feeling of alcohol took over. Why not another?
That was the beginning. The beginning of what we may never know. The volume of voices rose, the travelers became more animated. The party had begun.
The quiet town of Carillo, Costa Rica got loud that night. The music echoed through the quiet streets and the party went where we went. There were new faces in our little group that must have joined along the way.
With all of the extra energy Guaro seems to give, a release was needed. In hindsight it was foolish but never the less we went night surfing. The party raged on at the beach and we had the time of our lives.
The 1929 stock market had nothing on the crash just before dawn. With the energy spent and the remnents of alcohol demons left in the brain, the hangover was miserable. All plans for the day were cancelled. Only the sound of the rattling fan in the hotel airconditioner was a signal I was still alive. And perhaps the thought that even hell could not be this bad. The sun rose and fell, tracked by the sliver of waning light between the drapes. The maid had given up after three angry shouts of “GO AWAY”
10 PM rolled around and hunger took over. I made my way down to the hotel poolside bar and grill. Most of the others seemed to have had the same afliction. Gray faces sat quietly around the plastic table. I joined them for a late night snack of fried fish.
With similar stories of misery we all began to feel a bit better. Some were even having a beer. By midnight it happened.
“Guaro?” asked one of the masochists.
A few shrugs, a few stares and one verbalized “Why not?” was all it took.
Read MoreKrakow – the city of sex and business?
Krakow – the city of sex and business?
By Chloe Johnson
An icy chill smacks me in the face as I step out of Poland’s Krakow Airport which is freakishly quiet and surprisingly lacking human life.
Goosebumps blanket my body which is shivering as it tries to adjust to the 4 degrees Celsius weather, but my mind is soon distracted when a young local man springs up behind us.
‘Where you want to go?’
His enthusiasm to help bursts out of his body like a teenager on ecstasy for the first time as he races around trying to find a bus that will take us to our hostel in Pawia Street.
‘Yes, it’s this one you need,” he says pointing to a dark lonely bus.
He kisses his two fingers and shouts “welcome to the city of sex and business” before fleeing, leaving us gasping thank you under our breaths as we try to comprehend what had just happened in the last 30 seconds.
While I like to visit cities with little expectations I must admit that wasn’t the first sentence I expected to hear from a Pole, and it certainly wasn’t my impression of Krakow –home to one of the largest Nazi concentration camps, Auschwitz.
I take in what he has said with a grain of salt and hop on the dark, dingy bus.
Facing my fears at Auschwitz
The next morning I wake in a sombre mood in preparation for the grim day ahead visiting Auschwitz.
It’s my first visit to a concentration camp and to be honest my tummy is doing little flips and I’m quite nervous about what I am going to see and hear. The camp is on the top of my list of things to see but it is also on the bottom.
For the last seven years I have tried to stay clear of anything that explores deaths and grim discoveries after my mother put herself through torture and ended her life one morning while I was at school.
But I am at a stage in the grieving process where I feel ready to face my fears and the desire to learn about the history of WW11 is stronger than the urge to keep hiding from reality.
My mind is quickly distracted as Mandy and I frantically try to find our way through the Galleria shopping mall to the entrance of the bus station.
“Down and right,” one shop assistant says.
“Up and left” another directs us.
Like two lost characters on the amazing race, we run left and right asking people along the way “autobus?, autobus?”
With the help of a wrinkled, grey-haired man sporting a cheese cutter hat and dirty work overalls, we finally find the bus to Auschwitz.
“Gdzie jest ten …” a man in the bus line attempts to speak to us, but we cut him off “sorry we don’t speak Polish.”
“Ah okay, so where are you from?” he asks, sounding extremely happy to hear English speakers.
We step onto the bus while saying “New Zealand, and you?”
Our country always works in our favour and almost works like a gate which foreigners consider open for conversation and friendships. It’s true, we Kiwis are a friendly bunch.
“New Zealand, wow” he says.
“I’m from Spain. What are your names?”
While he’s happy to hear our English my attention elevates when I hear the word Spain as I have been studying Spanish for the last five weeks.
“Me Llamas Chloe,” I proudly say in Spanish.
The walls which separate strangers have completely crumbled as our new friend, Arcadio, takes a seat in front of us. He turns and faces Mandy and I to continue chatting for the next 90 minutes.
His eyes are friendly, his laugh is contagious and his mind is deep in thought. Arcadio has been living in Poland for the last three years studying architecture as an adult student. He explains how Krakow became lodged in his mind after a family holiday as a child and today he is on his way to Babice to take photos of Polish country houses.
Conversation flows as we share stories of travels, our countries, and in particular, New Zealand Maoris. Arcadio has never heard of Maoris and is quite fascinated to learn NZ has a native race and language.
The chit chat thickens as we enter deep and meaningful conversations about relationships and the cycle of life. His views on life and the laws of attraction hold my entire attention like a little girl listening to her favourite bedtime story.
“This is Auschwitz museum, we are at Auschwitz museum” the bus driver says interrupting my deep thoughts.
On arrival we book a guided tour and are given a headset so we can listen to our guide who is wrapped up from head to toe in scarves, jackets, gloves and thick boots – a slight indication to the icy temperatures we may experience.
Her jet-black hair is cropped short and shapes around her dark sunglasses releasing a first impression of hardness and seriousness. But her voice is soft and I find myself zoning out to her voice which is making me sleepy.
The skies are blue and the sun is shining but the air is crisp and cold. A sharp burst of wind pierces through my jacket while I stand at the entrance of the world’s largest concentration camp which reads “Arbeit Macht Frei” meaning “Work results in Freedom”.
We are guided down empty paths and through brick prisoner blocks which are labelled with numbers stamped onto brown signs at the entrance.
The barracks are enclosed by barbwire fences, which sadly, spark a reaction for photo opportunities, rather than a saddened emotion as expected.
It’s not until we enter the blocks that I am faced with images of starvation and children being separated from their mothers. Stained white and blue striped clothing of prisoners hang behind a glass case and the cold wooden rooms where they slept at night (if they made it) were blocked off by wrought iron doors for us to peep through.
Emotions thicken as we exit one block and enter another, each with their own disturbing sections revealing the pain and suffering that innocent families were put through.
Although there are some emotions floating around my body, I am feeling guilty at my lack of genuine sadness as I struggle to comprehend what really happened in the 1940s. I’m frustrated because the images of live skeletons are staring at me, the prison cells and gas chambers are right in front of me but it isn’t pulling on my heart strings.
Then, I enter Block 4 where there is a room filled with decaying human hair which was cut from around 140,000 women to use when making blankets and mats. The mass of golden-grey matted hair, some still plaited in pony-tails, triggers my reflux and I am forced to take deep breaths to stop myself from vomiting.
Turning the corner, there are more rooms but this time filled with children’s shoes. They are worn, they are leather and they are generally black and brown. Although, one weathered white shoe sits on the top of the pile with its laces undone and for some reason I am drawn to this one shoe.
Block 4 not only triggers emotions but it lodges in my photographic memory wiping out my effort during the last 7 years to avoid death and grim visions.
I then realise, maybe I wasn’t quite ready.
The other side of Krakow
The next night it isn’t the icy chill that smacks me in the face but cigarette smoke which suffocates restaurants and clubs. It appears it is still legal to smoke indoors.
After walking around Krakow’s Old Town searching for somewhere to have a quiet drink we soon learn that quiet drinks don’t really exist and the Polish are all about immersing themselves in hard house music, even at 7.30pm.
We eventually stumble across a neon lit club where Katy Perry and Michael Jackson echo onto the street.
We cringe with hesitation but we are thirsty and don’t know where else to go so we walk up the stairs, pass through an ID check and enter yet another smoke-filled room.
I ignore my tingling nose and stinging eyes while attempting to order a Malibu and pineapple before heading to the lounge area.
Within minutes we attract our first enemies.
Two men start ranting at us but become silent after realising we don’t speak Polish. They start using Mr Bean gestures in an attempt to say “piss off, you’re in our seats”.
It’s quite humorous to us but their bulging facial veins give me the impression it’s time to move, so we pack up our things and head to the dance floor where it seems there is less anger.
Although there is no anger there is certainly aggression as the Poles’ dominate the dance floor with moves that put John Travolta to shame.
A tall, thin attractive blonde woman dressed in white knee high boots and a cropped white top stands out from the crowd as she loses herself in the music. She flicks her hair back and forth in sync with large hip swings and booty shakes. She definitely has our attention but it seems the local boys aren’t overly impressed.
Couples grind up on each other, while some are happy grinding by themselves oozing sex appeal and releasing potent pheromones.
A vivid image of the decaying hair at Auschwitz flashes in my mind and I begin to feel guilty for having a good time.
It’s at that moment I realise Krakow’s brutal history is just that – history. A respected, recognised and important past which shapes the city I am standing in. But right now, it seems Krakow is a city brimming with young people who just want to party.
Who knows, one day it might knock Amsterdam off the radar and become the ‘city of sex and business.’
Chloe is a journalist from New Zealand who fled the news desk to live the travel writing dream. At 25 years old she has already lived in America, NZ, Australia and the UK and has stepped on the soil of more than 16 countries, with many more to discover. You can read more of Chloe’s travel stories at Backpacking Journalist and follow her on Facebook and Twitter.
Links
Website: www.backpackingjournalist.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Backpacking-Journalist/153782031319776
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Read MoreTravel Writing Contest Winner: Circle Line Pub Crawl
Circle Line Pub Crawl
by Caz Makepeace
We spilled out of the pub doors almost as rowdily as we entered the previous pub- on our knees in a line, rowing into the bar, All conversations stopped as well over a hundred heads turned to see what all the commotion was and who the drunken louts were that arrived to spoil their Friday evening drink.
Now, as we stood on the pavement outside pub No 13 we slowly began to unveil what we had managed to bring out with us as a memento of the evening. There were the usual things that an inebriated person will smuggle out of a pub, a glass, a drink menu, a Guinness bar towel and a couple of coasters.
With each share, Antone’s smirk grew wider and wider and his feet started dancing the jig in a semi-circle. “Ha Ha, ain’t none of you have someting that can compare to what I took. He He. I won I won I won”
“C’mon then Irish show us. If it’s that great what are you hiding it for?” a voice from the group shouted out.
“I’m goin wait to ye all show first, I don’t want to steal no ones tunder now. He He”
Anton’s perfect scene was set. All eyes were on him as he had carefully and expertly wound us up in anticipation. Only Anton could have pulled off something as big as he was making it out to be. My mind cast back to only a few weeks before when we were walking home from our friend’s house after a few beers and some videos.
“What’s the one thing, that would piss ye off the most, if someone took it from ye house and ye didn’t know where it was?”
“Your keys”
“Not even close.”
“Your wallet”
“Nah- see ye could get that back and so it wouldn’t boter you as much. There’s someting that would irritate the fook out of ye more.”
“Oh, we give up Antone just tells us”
He walked on ahead of us and ceremoniously raised his prize in the air and spun around.
“The remote!” Bales of screeching laughter erupted from him. “I took their fookin remote. They are going to be so pissed when they can’t find it. Can’t ye just picture ‘em looking under the couch and blaming each other? Ye can’t change the channel without it”
He ignored our requests to return the remote with a “Yeah, Yeah. later. Let ‘em sweat first,” and we could not help but laugh at another one of his famous antics.
Now here he was again.
“Ye are never going to guess what I stole from the pub.” Hopping from foot to foot he began to giggle like a gleeful leprachaun. “This is so good. No one has done better than me, I tell ye”
And then out from his trousers he whipped them up into the air, the unmistakable jingling sound instantly alerting us to what he had stolen.
We all breathed in at the same time, our eyes widened in disbelief
“No!”
“Yes! I stole the keys to the fookin’ pub man. Woooo! The keys to the pub.” The crazy leprechaun now began circling around us all, his jigs jumping higher into the air.
“Oh my God Anton. How did you get them?”
“They were just left behind the bar. And when no one was looking I snuck behind, grabbed them and put them in my pants. Your girl servin’ the beers kept lookin’ at me knowin’ I was up to someting but not knowin’ what I did. Someone in that bar is going to be in deep shit tonight. He He! Yeah man! And ye all think you can win one over de Irish!”
“Anton,” we screamed in unison “You have to take them back.” Our shocked pleads did little to cover our laughter.
It was all part of our silly circle line pub-crawl. We had 35 stops on our list to make. A stop for each station on the Circle Line tube in London- the yellow line that loops around the city. The Circle Line pub-crawl is a popular London evening out for working holiday travelers. We even had white shirts with our circle line pub-crawl-boasting statement printed on them, especially made for the evening to mark this rite of passage.
Just drinking a half pint of beer at each one wasn’t enough for us. We had to spice it up with a list of tasks to complete- 1 for each pub. Stealing something was listed at about pub no 13, when we knew we would all be full of enough cups of courage to walk out of the bar with a souvenir. We never thought we’d be walking out with the keys to the pub.
“C’mon Antone. You’ve got to get a girl to kiss you at the next pub- the task list says so. That’s worth returning the keys so we can move on.” I gave his back a gentle shove toward the door.
“Ye spoil all the fun”. Head down, he Leprachaun stomped his way back into the bar. I cannot remember how he returned them or what he said. I’m not even sure if he managed to get a kiss at the next bar either. It all turned a bit blurry after pub 13.
Meet Caz and Craig of yTravelBlog. Living and empowered life of world travel together with their daughter. Make sure to check out their blog at http://ytravelblog.com and if you are a fellow blogger stop by Facebook to pick up a free copy of their latest free eBook.
Read MoreWriting Contest Video
Want Exposure?
If you are a new writer you know that getting traffic to your blog is a little tricky at first. Even seasoned writers need readers. This contest will be ongoing on a weekly basis.
Here is how it works.
Write an original piece on any travel related topic between 350 and 500 words.
I will choose one post per week and add it to the featured content section of Exotic Visitors Travel Blog.
The selected post will remain on the featured section for one week and then remain under the appropriate category permanently.
The selected post will also be promoted through social media.
In addition to the blog post you will also get a 125×125 ad for your blog placed in the side bar under the heading “Travel Blog of the Week”. The ad will remain for a month along with three other winners for that month.
Requirements:
- Must be original unpublished work.
- Include at least one photo with attribution information.
- Include a short author bio with a link to your blog.
Send submissions to Mike@ExoticVisitors.com with Blog Contest in the subject line
Read MoreCaptain Keiff on Cliff Island Maine
Like an heirloom quilt the fog covered Casco Bay, heavy and sated with reminiscent smells. Salt, fish and iodine sat steady in the air. Sound seemed to be tethered to its source. No echoes lingering. The normal sea sounds were there, but finite. Like a decision made with no room for question, every noise ended in a dull thud the instant it happened.
Perhaps this is the reason fog seems so mysterious. It takes the normal environment and attacks the senses in an unfamiliar way. For a young boy on a newly built dory, alone on an adventure, fog is the bone in a mystery soup.
I couldn’t see much past the end of the boat, and the top of the little mast was barely visible. But I knew where I was. The white and green lobster buoys bumping the hull as I slowly drifted pass told me that I was no more than 50 yards from the shore of Cliff Island. I knew those buoys well, I painted many of them for Walter over the winter to help pay for the lumber of the dory I was now sailing.
I couldn’t see Cliff Island but I knew the 60 year round residents were all huddled up in their homes, sitting by kitchen woodstoves playing cribbage or talking about going to the mainland to see the new movie, Bad News Bears.
Cliff Island is one of the smallest year round islands in Maine. Though no one will admit it, the fear of Captain Kieff will keep it that way. While I may have been bursting with childhood imagination, I believe I saw the swinging lantern traversing the shoreline as I got within rock throwing distance of the craggy waterline.
Captain Keiff was not your typical pirate. More of a murderous hermit, Captain Keiff was a salvager of no moral character. On foggy and stormy nights the greedy old man would tie a lantern around the neck of his horse and ride the trail along the coast of this little island. Sailors seeking safe harbor would mistake the light as guidance and wreck on the rocks. Captain Keiff paddled his skiff quickly to the wreck and steal anything worth taking. Survivors would be captured and murdered in cold blood.
Captain Keiff buried the bodies in a grassy meadow known as Keiff’s Garden. To this very day Keiff’s Garden sits tended on this rocky little Island in Casco Bay Maine. Also buried on the island is much of the treasure the old captain horded.
Visitors may find gold and silver on the island. A better treasure is found in the mystique of this small village. Foggy days on the coast with glimpses of a lantern swinging from the neck a slope backed horse is the mother lode.
If you are interested in old style wooden boats, there is a free 250 Page eBook of wooden boats at http://newboatplans.com
Read MoreMackworth Island: Horror and Faeries remain.
When it comes to gathering grist for the literary mill, it is no wonder Stephen King calls Maine home. The city of Derry and small town of Castle Rock may be creations in the mind of America’s most loved horror novelist, but there is no shortage of eerie hamlets and island villages shrouded with mist and terror.
The film industry often shows tourists escaping to the rocky shores of Maine to bask in the hallmark like ambience of a bygone era where antique shops line Main Street, the ice cream shops make their own, every town has a white steeple and the distant sound of the light house foghorn plays bass for the chorus of gulls.
The movie goer never seems to notice the odd behavior and knowing looks between the local residents until it is too late. The consistent elements of the story always contain a quaint village, outsiders and a not so forgotten historical horror.
A stereotype? Perhaps. But isn’t it said that stereotypes come from some element of truth?
Off the coast of Portland sits a small island steeped in mystery, wrapped in beauty and cursed with horror. In 1957 Governor Baxter deeded his summer home on Mackworth Island to become the Baxter School for The Deaf, formerly the Maine School for The Deaf.
Dr. Robert Kelly ruled the school as headmaster with an iron claw. From the early 1960’s until his resignation in 1981 the 100 acre island was a place of horrific torture and abuse. Kelly was not alone in his evil deeds. Superintendant Joseph Youngs was Kelly’s boss as well as his accomplice.
The Attorney General’s report shows that Dr. Kelly would often call children into his old farmhouse at night to “teach them about sex for the future”. Countless photographs were taken of these poor deaf children to shame them into submitting to this evil man’s will. If a child resisted they would be tied naked to a large tree and left outside the entire night. As a constant reminder of his power over the children, Kelly used a small gesture of sign language as he walked by the classroom windows outside. He would slowly lower is thumb onto his closed fist to indicate that he had them under his thumb.
Superintendant Youngs favored beatings. He is reported to have stabbed a small child in the thigh with a pen to get the boy’s attention. Broken bones and bruises were reported to parents as accidents. If there was fear that the child would complain, Youngs and Kelly would tell the parents before-hand that the child was having difficulty adjusting and making up wild stories for attention.
For more than 20 years this reign of terror continued on this isolated island. No patrolling police cars or the safety of outside help kept the children quiet until the evidence piled up so high that it could no longer be ignored.
People were outraged and demanded justice. Then the Attorney General made his announcement. “Because many of the incidents uncovered by the State investigators were beyond the statute of limitations, and other incidents were not clearly criminal violations under the current language of the Maine Criminal Code, and because of considerations for the emotional well-being of the victims, no criminal indictments will be sought by the State as a result of evidence compiled to date by this office.” Attorney General James E. Tierney
Justice would not be found.
Following the typical horror story plot, the area was purged of evil, but evil escapes and lives on in another unsuspecting town. Dr. Kelly is said to live in Port St. Lucie, Florida.
The tree of terror was cut down, unknown persons burned down Kelly’s farmhouse and the locals give hushed and knowing looks about a terrible history. Visitors come and hike the paths along the rocky shore. Lovers hold hands and watch the misty grey surf,and children build faerie houses for the faeries who are believed to live in the woods.
