Phaseolus Vulgaris—Costa Rican Mr. Bean: A cyclist was overtaking me on the up-hill through the jungle. A grown man on a child’s bicycle with banana seat, monkey bars, no gears and no oil on the chain, was passing my fancy new mountain bike. The Costa Rican local in a pristine white dress shirt, ball-breaking white jeans (that would have been the envy of a matador), and black leather dress shoes, was unconcerned that his knees were hitting his ears. He casually smoked, one hand lightly on the monkey bars and the other flamboyantly holding his cigarette. He left me in a cloud of extra-strength no filter as he squeaked and rattled by. He crested the hill in a puff of smoke and was gone.
Children from the nearby village laughed at me. It was humiliating. How did he do that? I was fit. Maybe it was like an episode of Costa Rican Mr Bean, which meant Señor Pinto would be on the other side of the hill, lying in the foliage, having a heart attack from faking lack-of-effort on the incline.
I panted over the summit. He was nowhere.
Sometimes I fantasize that Señor Pinto was devoured by a toucan. Foo Foo (in the above photo) terrorized me at Las Orquideas Inn, stole my breakfast, and bit my bum through a deckchair. I deserved to be bitten for wearing those tights (in photo on right) which were a gift.
By Kirsten Koza