What Do You Do With The Drunken Sailors?

After a lengthy visit from customs and immigrations officials, all of seven of them, (I was surprised they didn't also bring their children and pet dog), we were finally clear to set foot on Costa Rican soil. We waved goodbye to all the staring Costa Rican pen-pushers and I pretended not to notice that one guy was surreptitiously taking photos of me on his phone, which was angled suspiciously low to be a mug shot. I raised a dubious eyebrow as if to say, "What? Never seen a girl in a bikini top before?" However I maintained a sunny facade. This was neither the time nor the place to upset foreign government officials over matters of female exploitation. Particularly the kind that are keeping your passport overnight.

We ventured out into the marina, and were impressed by the selection of disgustingly lavish fishing power boats, almost entirely American-owned. At sunset the owners could be found for the most part drinking cold beers in the nearby bars. They were an easy species to spot. Ruddy mahogany tans offset by greying or bleach blonde hair, some carefully groomed beer bellies, and a propensity to wink and postulate at passing females while congratulating each other loudly on the size of their engines, catch, stock investments, or all of the above.

We stumbled across a launch party for a fishing tournament, and crashed it as we heard that the alcohol was complimentary. We wasted no time at all getting stuck into the free bar, occasionally nodding sagely at other party goers who were discussing the odds for tomorrow's competition. I made particularly tiltillating conversation with one American man with a tan to rival David Hasselhoff's.

Him: "Are you following the tournament?"
Me: "Oh, yes, I love fish. I had a big one yesterday actually."
Him: "What was the size?"
(I gesture approximately 20 cm)
Me: "Delicious with chips and tartar sauce."



We continued to mercilously guzzle the free booze and found ourselves filled with the spirit of adventure, exploration, and well...er....vodka. This inevitably was destined to lead us down a dark and slippery path, in this case a bar called Beatle Bar which an American captain reliably informed me was the the local hotspot to find your friendly neighbourhood prostitute. It did not disappoint. Ladies of the night stood around the sides of the room in a very non-wall flower kind of way, against a backdrop of American road-house decor and framed rock trivia.
This place was hot and busy, and we decided to move on fairly rapidly to another bar more suited to our tastes and entertainment requirements. Monkey Bar, while it failed to deliver any genuine monkeys, it did offer some excellent music and a stylish cool interior. Feeling re-energised we set about our drinking mission with gusto, and were delighted to discover a table football game in the back. I ordered some tequila slammers to celebrate and we had a dramatic and highly skilled tournament with a local costa rican guy. My tactics came from years of training and mostly involved spinning all the handles round as fast as possible while jumping up and down on the spot and squealing like a pig. Naturally, with my talent we couldn't fail to lose and we celebrated our success with some vodka tonics.

The rest of the night is a little blurry, however I definitely remember enjoying some delicious BBQ chicken on a stick before our taxi back to the marina. In fact I may have eaten several. Later, singing, giggling, and the sweet oblivion of a drunken sleep.