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Mr. XAre these characters real, or is it just my imagination? You be the judge. Tranquil, conservative Granada, home of Nicaragua’s finest. Hospedaje Central, with its artistic, relaxing vibe, recommended for all who should sojourn through Central America. Reunion with an old friend not seen for months, Mr. Jack Daniels if you please. Joined at the bar by an older fellow, in Nicaragua just long enough to get his visa renewed so that he can return to his finca in the Costa Rican highlands. Ex Army intelligence and CIA contract agent…we will refer to him as Mr. X, “X” being for X-rated. As the whiskey flowed, so did the conversation, myself mostly listening as small talk quickly descended into a barrage of hilarity that I would be embarrassed to recount for even my raunchiest college drinking buddies (you know who you are!), and since my grandmother reads this stuff, I won’t recount it here. Sufficed to say that the degree of raunch and filth well exceeded anything to have ever before entered the apparatus of my ears…it was in a category unto its own. But then, let us not judge. Mr. X began to complain of his agony brought on by debilitating migraines and general bodily pain which had been afflicting him for some weeks, often confining him to his bed for days. “Do you drink diet drinks?” I asked him. “Why yes I do,” he replied. “Stop.” “Why?” “They’re loaded with aspartame.” “What’s that?” “Look it up on the internet.” “I’m not real good on the internet. Can you show me how?” he asked. “But of course.” So the next morning we moseyed, that’s right, moseyed, to the internet café and I explained the following advanced research technique:
Mr. X spent the entire day reading, jaw agape, printing his findings, and sending emails to his US doctors. He stopped ingesting aspartame immediately, and by the next day, his symptoms had begun to subside. After several days, he was able to move about freely, no longer confined to his bed for any length of time, experiencing less frequent headaches and reduced pain throughout his body. As a gesture of thanks, he invited us to visit his finca when we reached Costa Rica. We met him later in San Jose for a day’s excursion to his finca. It had been several weeks and virtually all his symptoms had disappeared, save for a bit of pain in the joints of his hands. He felt like a new man he said. The finca was nothing short of paradise. He had been cultivating it for 25 years, growing timber for his home which was now under construction, all manner of fruits and vegetables, and a host of decorative and experimental plants. He employed totally organic, ecologically intelligent farming methods, after he had calculated the economics and determined that the entire notion of using pesticides and chemicals is a “scam” perpetrated by the huge agro-multinationals, and that after the costs of their “products”, it was harder to make a profit than it was by simply hiring men to pull weeds and eliminate pests. Mr. X hated Costa Ricans and referred to them as thieves, cheats, liars, whores, and snakes. We tried not to be tainted by his opinion, but continually met others who had lived, not “eco-traveled”, in Costa Rica, who voiced identical sentiments, and indeed, we found this to be a fair description of Costa Ricans, although, of course, there were many exceptions to the rule. Still, for the first time in Central America, the rule of generalities and exceptions had flip-flopped in Costa Rica, at least in our experience. As we toured his finca, I asked if there were any snakes on the property. “Yeah, they walk upright on two legs,” was his response. His Costa Rican neighbor had tied him up in litigation for years, trying to “steal” a portion of his land and had burned his crops more than once. “I thought about eliminating him, but he has a son, so I’d have to eliminate him too. Too much trouble.” He had served in Vietnam under many of its highest profile actors and laughed at the corruption and flagrant falsity of the entire operation. He had served ex-presidents personally and told story after hilarious story of their idiocy. He had served dictators, which he said was the most honest work he’d ever done, other than farming. He had entered bunkers full of rotting corpses and slit throats, puking from the stench. He had turned Soviet spies during the cold war. He didn’t like his children, nor his ex-wives, and I’m not sure he really liked his current girlfriend. But as he showed us around his finca, explaining his plants, farming methods and plans for the future, he was at total peace, with nary a negative word from his mouth, unless I provoked it, which was so tempting to do because his jaded views on all things were so interesting and so hilariously unpredictable. I know, I’m bad. As his finca manager cooked a delicious meal of the finca’s organic vegetables and mutton in an outdoor shelter, the skies went black and unleashed torrential rainfall…it was after all, rainy season. As we ate, a thunder clap crashed around us and he came completely out of his seat, sweating and shaking. “Nam,” he said, “never goes away.” As I sat down to write this, I was going to include all the hilarious stories that were suitable for print, but as I write, I realize that it would be unfair to Mr. X, as we are all affected by our individual paths, and that his path has led him into some very dark places. So I will end here, emphasizing that he was as colorful a character as I’ve met thus far, and that the many colorful characters I’ve met on the road have been my favorite part of this insane journey. May I be so lucky to meet many more. So, my love to you Mr. X. May the remainder of your journey bring healing, peace and happiness, and may you deal with as few Costa Ricans as possible! With love to you all, Eric |