Escape from the Vortex. A true tale of rock n roll and debauchery in a Caribbean Paradise.
Chapter 1
Discovery of the Vortex
I turn the corner, to what I now know as Black Beach, on my motorcycle for the first time. I have my digital patterned camouflage backpack. My Honda 400cc dual sport motorcycle comes to a purr. My eyes wide, under the glass of my shades and wind screen. I feel the energy, almost instantly. For the record, I don't even believe in energy mumbo jumbo bullshit. That said, I could feel it, it was a "cross roads". It was a vortex of creative, free thinking, artistic, like minded people. I didn't realize the strength or gravity of the Vortex upon arrival. This realization comes much later. At this first meeting, with Puerto Viejo, I go looking for a place called “Swingin G's”. When I was traveling around Costa Rica fellow Vagabonds and partiers all said, "Loveless, you need to go to Puerto Viejo. It's crazy there." So I did.
I'd been working as an ultralight aircraft pilot on the Pacific side of Costa Rica, but the economy crashed and the business just wasn't there to support me or the business. My finances were running thin, and I needed to find a way to survive outside of the United States. I wasn't sure what my next move was going to be. I decided to find a new path and a new way to make some money. I quit my job, flying airplanes, and started traveling around Costa Rica for a new place to call home. Everything I owned fit in my back pack. I stopped in several cool surf villages and gringo party towns. Nothing quite felt right. I asked lots of questions and followed lots of misguided advice from fellow travelers. I made a complete loop of Costa Rica on my motorcycle. There was this one place that seemed like it might be right. A place people told me about in everyplace I stopped. It was my last destination before entering into Panama, and it was my last stop on my exploration of Costa Rica. My tourist Visa was going to expire in four days. I made my way South down the Caribbean Coast.
Almost to Puerto Viejo, I come to a town called Limon. This was a disappointing sight. I started to make my way through this dirty town. Shipping containers stacked ten high and ten wide passed on either side of me. Giant trucks hauling bananas, and other tropical fruits made traffic a painful crawl. There was trash everywhere. I kept thinking "this is what people told me I'd like? What the fuck do they think I like?" I continued on through Limon. At the final turn out of Limon, toward Puerto Viejo, there was a dead dog bloated and covered with flies right in the middle of the cross walk. I sat in idle at the stop light. I watched as the locals stepped over and around it as if it were a natural, daily thing to see dead dogs lying in busy intersections. I was about ready to skip Puerto Viejo at this moment, but it was going to be dark soon, and I try and avoid nighttime travel on a motorcycle. Reluctantly, I proceeded in the direction of the Vortex.
I start traveling the last forty kilometers, of my journey, toward the Vortex. The road was complete shit, riddled with hundreds of potholes. Cars swerved in and out of my path, as I swerved in and out of theirs. It consumed all of my concentration and energy traveling this road. Once the road got nicer, I started thoroughly enjoying the view on my left. Wow! Spectacular palm lined beaches, with the occasional wooden shack here and there. About twenty kilometers away from Puerto Viejo, the jungle thickened around me. It was a gorgeous carpet of dense vegetation and wildlife. The beach disappeared. The road was weaving casually with long swooping curves through the jungle paradise. Finally, the beach comes into view directly in front of me. The sun was attempting its descent as I rounded the corner. I stopped for second to ask someone, if I was in Puerto Viejo yet? They pointed down the black sand beach, toward the lights twinkling in the late afternoon twilight. "Puerto is right over there." I gave a nod and continued the final two kilometers into Puerto Viejo.
I crossed the first bridge into town and took an immediate left. This bridge was surrounded by Rastas and crazy wide eyed black women strutting to and fro, talking crazy. I pulled to the side, lifted up my face shield and asked a Rasta man, who resembled the lion from Wizard of OZ, for a hammock hostel called "Swingin G's". He pointed in the direction of the infamous hostel and muttered some words that I couldn't understand. I confirmed, "So this way then?" He nodded. I rolled through town toward the direction of my destination. I saw sexy Latina, Black and white women swinging their bikini wrapped asses back and forth. There were over loaded tourists wandering everywhere wide eyed and tired. Black boys were playing basketball. Four wheelers, motorcycles, and bicycles whizzed by in every direction. The smell of marijuana and fried chicken was in the air. I started to smile as I made my way slowly forward. Finally, I see this hostel I've heard so much about come into view. I figured this was the place since, a steady stream, of backpackers were filing in like soldiers returning to camp from war. The entrance is flanked by two giant dragons made from welded rebar. I pulled into the lot, unloaded my gear and headed in. The folks, at the restaurant, hollered out, "Yo! Dude... reception is that way.”
I wandered inward, completely overwhelmed by mosaic tile and colorful works of art. The reception area has a three story ceiling shaped like a pyramid. I was over stimulated. I dropped my trusty backpack at my feet, and made a complete three hundred and sixty degree rotation of my head and body. The hostel was gorgeous. No walls, hammocks everywhere, beautiful women everywhere, and the smell of weed everywhere. Everything there sparkled with an essence of magic. They asked me, "hammock or tent?" It took me a second to answer. I was completely over whelmed by this first encounter. "A hammock, I guess." They gave me my locker and hammock number. I stored my things and plopped my ass down in my assigned hammock. It was the first hammock in an open air atrium of about fifty or so hammocks. I just lay there, smoking a joint gently rocking back and forth. There was a constant stream of half-naked, gorgeous women from all corners of the globe. There were old hippies with canes wandering about. Kids were playing guitars and banging on drums all over campus. I just sat there rocking in my hammock, smiling ear to ear, watching the circus of sex, drugs and rock n roll circling me.
I kept noticing this slightly manic character, with tattoos and a Mohawk. He kept cat calling out to the guests "Happy Hour, All Day Every Day!" Immediately, I assumed this must be Rocking
J. As my hunger set in, I made my way to the restaurant in the front of the hostel. I sat down and ordered a chicken burrito and a whiskey on the rocks, with a squeeze of lime. I asked the Mohawked madman behind the bar, "Are you Swingin G?"
He replied, "No, I'm Swingin G's younger brother Erik. I own the bar."
We carried on small talk back and forth for a bit, but it was difficult to carry on a steady stream of conversation with Erik. He kept yelling, "It's Happy Hour, All Day, Every Day." Or, he'd run out into the dining room, which was the entrance to the Hostel. He headed off weary travelers with offers of culinary specials and greeted every beautiful girl with a charming and mischievous grin. Most of the time, that I was at the Hostel, people just assumed that he was Swingin G. He was the showman, the front man, and the muscle behind the Hostel. Every night, Erik would throw an epic party at Swingin G's. I referred to him as the master of Mayhem. It was hard to leave this little Hostel.
J. As my hunger set in, I made my way to the restaurant in the front of the hostel. I sat down and ordered a chicken burrito and a whiskey on the rocks, with a squeeze of lime. I asked the Mohawked madman behind the bar, "Are you Swingin G?"
He replied, "No, I'm Swingin G's younger brother Erik. I own the bar."
We carried on small talk back and forth for a bit, but it was difficult to carry on a steady stream of conversation with Erik. He kept yelling, "It's Happy Hour, All Day, Every Day." Or, he'd run out into the dining room, which was the entrance to the Hostel. He headed off weary travelers with offers of culinary specials and greeted every beautiful girl with a charming and mischievous grin. Most of the time, that I was at the Hostel, people just assumed that he was Swingin G. He was the showman, the front man, and the muscle behind the Hostel. Every night, Erik would throw an epic party at Swingin G's. I referred to him as the master of Mayhem. It was hard to leave this little Hostel.
The first week, I never really spoke with Swingin G, because I didn't have titties or a vagina. I'd occasionally see him stroll through his small kingdom with a girl on each arm and a joint behind his ear. He greeted guests with a "Hey Rock star. Welcome to Swingin G's." He was a consummate ladies’ man. The ladies under his arms rotated daily, never the same face, and always the most beautiful girls in the Hostel. I lay in my hammock there, the first few days. I wondered, “how was I going to be able, to leave such a paradise. I'd lay there and smoke weed in my hammock all day. I’d just watch the parade of beautiful bikini clad women. Occasionally, I'd get up to wander around the Hostel or take a shower. The place was magical. Pretty much every square inch was covered in mosaic tile artwork. There were greetings, left by previous guests, in the walls and on the floors. Lots of peace, love and drug references. There were also theses amazing bathroom doors. These doors really caught my eyes on that first encounter, beautiful pieces of art on every bathroom door. My favorite was the door that faced the ocean. It said "APE SHIT" in big letters and had a cartoon ape dude sitting on the toilet. You can sit in this bathroom and peer out of this tiny peep hole at the beach as guests come and go, while you popped your squat.
I mentioned that my tourist Visa, for Costa Rica, expired in three or four days. I barely left the hostel campus for forty five days! I let my Visa expire and just left my ideas of reality at the front gate. While I was laying in that first hammock, in the main open air atrium, I began meeting an incredible group of people. Travelers, from all over the world, would pour in every day. They were all on their way to somewhere interesting, coming from somewhere interesting. They'd usually lock up their backpacks, pull down their hammocks and start smoking a joint or asking if anyone knew where they could get one. We'd start telling stories of our travels to each other. I'd tell them about my stay so far at Swingin G's and how I couldn't really seem to escape it. This is when I coined the term "Vortex". I'd tell them all, "Be careful this place is a fucking Vortex." Many of these folks had trouble leaving this little paradise as well. Some of them, like me, would extend their stay from three days to three weeks. There is even a sign in the reception area that states, "No stay longer than three months!" It was difficult to pull yourself away from the twenty four hour drug fueled party. There were even more reminders in the signs around the Hostel that this place is dangerous. My favorite, "All guests must shower DAILY!" If it weren't for these reminders of reality, I'd have to forgotten to shower even more than I already did.
I finally managed to pull my sorry ass out of that hammock and finally made my way to Panama. I got my Visa stamped and pondered my situation. Short on funds, not wanting to tap into my reserves, I decided to return to the states to refill my coffer. I rode my motorcycle back to Samara on the Pacific side of Costa Rica. Sold all my belongings and headed stateside, the whole while I had this sense of regret that I had not discovered Puerto Viejo sooner on my travels.
