a spy on the wall: part 3 of 3

day 2.5: lingering goodbyes

by now it was dinner time, and everyone came downstairs clean and refreshed from the day, overdone perfume blending most dissonantly with the chef's culinary creation of Grabbyhands' catch of the day (aren't you sick of mahi by now?). i rolled napkins around silverware, priding myself in my own mini-rebellion of not wiping off the water spots on the knives before setting them on the table. i am woman, hear me roar. still semi-hungover, no one was interested in drinking, but the now-jolly giant was determined to get his hands on some weed. being the generous guy that he is, the chef hooked it up for the old man, sharing some of his own supply and loading it into the one-hitter. following brief instructions, the giant inhaled as a true giant would, and the next thing i know, he's coughing uncontrollably between exclamations of "holy shit!" and "load that thing again!". i couldn't decide whether to laugh or call an ambulance; i mean this guy is pretty old and now he's hacking up a lung. am i liable for this? fortunately(?) he survives and scarfs his banana fosters a-la-mode a little faster than the others, enjoying each bite more vocally than the one before it. monopoly mustache shares drug stories from the old days in the fraternity house - LSD, PCP, speed; he'd try anything once. Grabbyhands comments on how marijuana is much more potent now than it was back then, and everyone agrees. i recall a similar conversation i had recently with my dad and i immediately start feeling eerily uncomfortable. the good chef gifts them with a little extra something in a piece of cellophane before we leave for the night, everyone sitting around the poker table in minimal clothing.

so this was goodbye - i wouldn’t return to that same house the following night; i’d be working sushi and trying my hand bartending at a different mansion for another big-name pro-team owner. yes, i could name names, maybe embarrass these guys a little bit. but i won’t and it really doesn’t matter; they could be anyone in the end. this is every day: the players change but it’s the same old game. and it’s disturbingly normal.

and you know what the worst part is? i want to hate these guys, and i can't. i want to demonize them for embodying all that's wrong in this world, and i just can't. i can't hate them for cheating on and lying to their wives back at home, for subjecting these hired women to their repressed sexual fantasies, objectifying and subjugating them in the process, for no better reason than just because they can. for the love of god, one of them actually grabbed my Georgetown-educated, yoga-sculpted ass without even hesitating and didn't even apologize, and i still couldn't find it in my sad little heart to hate him for it. and of course i knew why. when i talk to these guys, i see them as people, not as nameless creeps with too much money and sex addictions. i look at these men and i remember hearing about my favorite uncle taking dozens of golf trips with friends to Baja over the years when i was growing up; i see my ex-boyfriends and college classmates and their countless bachelor parties and prostitute stories from when they traveled abroad; uncomfortably, these men even remind me of my own father and i feel it in the pit of my stomach and it gets even harder to hate them or convince myself that on a different day, even the men i admire most might very well find themselves in a similar scenario.

i can't dehumanize these men because they remind me of the men i love and care about in my own life, and instead of making them the enemy and singling them out as creeps, more than anything i want to understand. i want to know why this experience i observed and participated in is just the tip of the iceberg, why it happens all over the world, every single day of the week, fifty-two weeks a year. why do men with money need to buy women in foreign countries and treat them as objects - all part of the all-inclusive weekend getaway package? how do they go home to their wives with trinkets from the airport and go on living life as usual? do their foreign escapades make it easier to live a reality they despise? what is missing in your extravagant lives that this becomes so everyday, so normalized, so accepted as just the way things are? do you think about how your actions affect the lives and souls of the women you pay to sleep with you and pretend to like you while you live out the fantasy you’re too scared to explore in real life? or does what happens in Costa Rica just stay in Costa Rica forever: a distant memory of a crazy weekend with your buddies; fodder for future men-only fishing trips and golf getaways?

i think about the lives of the working women who supply the sexual and companionship services demanded by wealthy men en masse throughout the world. as long as there is demand for it, there will always be supply – sometimes the picture is pretty like Lucy and Candy and the girls who do it part-time for extra cash and seem generally in high spirits. most times it’s uglier, taking the form of human trafficking and underground prostitution rings servicing powerful government employees, corporate CEOs, diplomats immune from international prosecution for their sex crimes. hell, in our day, hookers don’t even have to be hookers to hook, especially the pretty ones can just cuddle up to a nice old gringo on a business staycation in Dakar and he’ll buy her and her extended family anything they need, as long as he’s gettin’ his when he asks for it. and no, she doesn’t love you; she is using you for your money as much as you are using her for sex and companionship - exchange value finding its most perverse expression. women selling sex is the oldest known industry on earth, so they say, and from where i’m sitting, it doesn’t look to be changing all that soon.

even harder to swallow is this overwhelming sense of powerlessness when we consider that there are no simple solutions despite the uneasy feeling we get knowing that this reality is so pervasive, recognizing that there is something ethically and socially wrong about it all, but not quite sure where to place the blame. sure, it would be nice if rich old dudes would stop paying for sex in foreign countries, perhaps slowing the cycle a bit. but where would that leave these well-paid women who rely on prostitution to support their families and livelihoods? a few local organizations have tried with limited success to convince women to get off the street, providing them with free basic skills training and connecting them with employment agencies to find other means of income. in general, these organizations’ impact has been marginal at best, especially when women are faced with the real-life decision of making minimum wage working long hours in a dead-end job or continuing to sell their bodies to the highest bidder for an hour or two of unattached if not soul-depraving sex with a faceless stranger, affording them and their families an otherwise dignified lifestyle full of the things society tells them to want. the economics of it is all too clear, and neither demand-side nor supply-side strategies have any lasting influence: trying to rein-in men’s demand for sex services or control the supply of women willing to work as prostitutes is a pipe dream when there are no viable or meaningful employment alternatives for the women involved. in a world where sex sells and women can be bought and sold as objects, they have no real choice. what else could they do that would make them as much money to support their family in the short-term? in the long-term? in plain economics, these women are better off working as prostitutes, a reality they are fully conscious of regardless of the social stigmatization they confront; a reality i also understand no matter how sick it makes me feel. and through resignation to my own utter powerlessness, all judgment turns to compassion.

in the words of Douglas Dowd, “if every thing has a price, every person has a price”. sex, and even the simulation of loving companionship, is just another commodity to be bought and sold on the market, where people and life experiences have a price just like anything else. as just one more facet of our all-encompassing consumerist society, why should women’s bodies and the sacred, intimate experiences of sex and love be exempt from the far-reaching tentacles of capitalist market exchange? we know this to be our reality, but it’s one that doesn’t let us sleep easy, and that is where our humanness sets in, sending up an ethical red flag to our consciousness: “hey, something isn’t right here…”. when what we know as sacred is treated as profane in the crudest sense, our morality responds to remind us that if the system we live in can create this type of rational behavior among so many of us in our society, there must be something inherently wrong with the system itself, for it is the system that defines and dictates our behavior within it. while we may be paralyzed to change the global capitalist system that breeds and supports the dehumanization, subjugation and objectivization of women in the sex-tourism industry, our moral radar on the subject is indeed useful for its ability to alert us to what we know in our hearts and guts to be ‘wrong’, perhaps as a first step to at least beginning to envision an alternative system in which this type of behavior would not have the slightest incentive to exist, let alone thrive as it does today.

while this experience with monopoly mustache, Grabbyhands, the gentle giant, Lucy, Candy and ‘the girls’ brought me face-to-face with one of the most uncomfortable human expressions of our diseased global system, forcing me to confront my own paralysis in a situation I know in my soul to be ‘wrong’, i come out of it with a semblance of hope and trust that as a society we can do better and that sooner or later we will. the system is crumbling on its own and new systems are emerging that offer inspiration for a renewed appreciation of universal human dignity and values-based (rather than profit-based) social relations. people living and being treated as people, rather than being bought and sold as things for sale on the market. Morris Berman calls our current transition phase “the waning of the modern ages”, referring to the dual process of “the disintegration of capitalism and the concomitant emergence of an alternative socioeconomic formation” as the central story of our time. spiritual economist Charles Eisenstein (my most recent economist crush, btw) describes our present historical moment as “the space between stories” as we wait for a new Story of the People to emerge, bringing meaning to our lives and supporting our new vision of humanity. He writes: “when a story nears its end it goes through death throes, an exaggerated semblance of life. so today we see domination, conquest, violence, and separation take on absurd extremes that hold a mirror up to what was once hidden and diffuse”. as our current collective story nears its end and we experience its ugly manifestations more frequently and more unavoidably, let us recognize them for what they are – the lingering goodbyes of a dying system now on its deathbed (DNR), croaking and gasping for air before its inevitable demise; a skeleton clearing the space for our new story to emerge.

a spy on the wall: part 2 of 3

now it’s day two: i show up to the house right on time, catching a glimpse of the sunset over the Jaco skyline, finding myself annoyed that the chef i'm working with hasn't yet arrived. i decide to wait in the car, turning up Bob Dylan's Biograph (disc five) to calm my nerves - there's no way in hell i'm going in there alone; not after what happened last night. twenty minutes later i phone my boss to find out if the chef is on his way. he reassures me that he'll be there soon, that i should go ahead inside and get set up; that "there's nothing to be afraid of. these are good guys, i talked to them this morning and made sure they know not to bother you". i exhale a sigh of relief and the Nicaraguan guard lets me in the padlocked gate.

i knock gingerly before letting myself in the double French doors, slowly peering around the corner to make sure i'm not interrupting anything i really don't want to see. i decided on the drive over that tonight i was all business: i'm just going in, doing my job and getting out. no more phony smiles or forced conversation, even if it means sacrificing what promised to be a generous tip. Dr. Grabbyhands (formerly known as the friendly one) greets me first, welcoming me back and sitting up straight on the opposite side of the bar, his hands interlaced on the granite counter-top, gripping tightly his embarrassment from the night before: a chastised schoolboy now on his best behavior. "good," i think, "he got the memo from my boss: me, human being, no touchy-feely; those other women, hookers, pay to grope at leisure. everything respectfully in its separate place as it should be". i'm grateful that the mood feels a bit more mellow tonight, the women making themselves at home and the men more relaxed and fiddling with their iPhones instead of fondling their playmates; the common loss of interest when anticipation fades to boredom as the novelty wears off, a child's Christmas toys no longer shiny and new, rejected after being played with once or twice.

he begins telling me about their hungover day on the boat: "luckily, I caught a mahi early on or we'd be going to bed hungry tonight" he gloats, sarcastically playing the austere pauper we all know he’ll never be. "these other guys only caught a couple of tiny tuna!", he slaps mustache-ride on the back with a hearty chuckle. the women scurry about in their skimpy bikinis in the background, shivering as they enter the air conditioned house after emerging wet from the pool. the two guys begin asking me about myself as if to establish a tentative truce, mano-a-mano, this time feigning interest in my chosen area of study, which i tell them is sustainable economic development at the University for Peace. i smile back at their blank stares. "so what, is there more peace in the house now that you're here?" i brush it off and reach for my silver OM necklace for moral support; i'm used to that response by now, but it still doesn't feel very good. as a wealthy builder/developer back at home, the gentle giant perks up from his whiskey-induced afternoon siesta and makes a face, yet seems surprisingly intrigued: "but is that even actually possible? i mean, how would you even go about doing that - the whole sustainable development thing?" the million dollar question in my line of work - in any other scenario i might actually care to deliver an eloquent response, going into detail about promoting human dignity through individual self-realization and community solidarity, restoring access to the commons and creating a Marxist eco-socialist utopia where the money-grubbing capitalists like him would have already been overrun by the revolutionaries. instead, we start talking about urban agriculture and i mention some man-made land bridge over an interstate i saw in a photo online somewhere, as if that defined sustainable development in a nutshell. "if we can put a pool on the roof of an apartment building", he says, "we can sure as shit plant a garden up there". problem solved, he walks away; i was really getting through to this guy.

luckily, the 'girls' come back inside to relieve me from my nightmare and all eyes zoom in on eight giant mounds of silicone. i can't help but look over there too, i mean those things are a sight to behold. after round one of hors d'oeuvres and the women showing me their randomly scattered bruises from the pole last night, most of the group disappears to shower and dress for the evening, leaving me alone with Lucy, who looks more naturally beautiful now with her auburn hair pulled back loosely and wearing minimal make-up. i find her most interesting for some reason, since i noticed last night that she wasn't "chosen" to be with any of the guys one-on-one. i wondered if that hurt her feelings, being the odd woman left out of this morally questionable equation. i pondered why she wasn't selected by the men: is it because she projects an unwavering air of confidence and sophistication, oozing a sense of class and that 'i'm gonna make you work for it' vibe that the other women haven't yet mastered? might she not seem as approachable as Candy and the others who act warmer and more inviting right off the bat, as if they really care about you and truly enjoy kissing your wrinkly old lips and love it when you offensively slap their perfect ass a little harder than they’re generally comfortable with? i liked to think that maybe that was Lucy's sly M.O. - act unavailable, unapproachable and uninterested, scare them off so you still get paid for the weekend without having to go through with the whole penetration part. i thought it was clever and it just might work. but from the guys' perspective, when you're paying for it either way, why would it even matter? wouldn't you want the false challenge of conquering the one that plays harder to get, knowing full well that you make the rules because you wield the cash? or is it still all about the game even when you're paying top dollar, and rich men are still insecure men who feel threatened by a strong, confident woman, opting to prey on the easier victims instead? Especially if they purposely make themselves a bit smaller, appealing to your desired sense of manhood, making you feel good about yourself in the process. it satisfied me to think that was why Lucy wasn't picked, even if i was justifying it for my own personal self-validation.

embracing my spy-on-the-wall opportunity to get inside the head of a real high-end hooker - a woman close to my own age, maybe a year or so younger - i call on my inner warrior and get up the courage to ask her about herself, nonchalant as i refill her Diet Coke. she tells me she's from San Jose and doesn't enjoy travelling for work as often as she does. she compliments my Spanish as we chat like girlfriends meeting for a cup of tea; i'm flattered. despite referring to her work as a burn-out industry, she expresses hope that more jobs come together this month to help pay the bills; her daughter's school is expensive and the payments are due in February. "you wouldn't believe how many women are in our line of work", she confesses, "people you would never expect. like i was in Mexico City last year, and there's my manicurist - the woman who does my nails in San Jose - there she is sitting right there in the same room as me - in Mexico City! she was as surprised as i was. you wouldn’t believe it, but i get approached by girls coming up to me looking for work all the time. i help them out when i can".

"yeah, i know what you mean," i reply in my best i'd-do-anything-to-fit-in-right-now voice (i have no idea what she means), "life's expensive, and i imagine even more so when you're a mother trying to pay the bills". she nods and pushes away her bowl of freshly caught mahi ceviche. did i actually pull it off? did i speak real life hooker to a real-life hooker? i was beaming.

it was more than that, though, and i let myself acknowledge it later. i wasn't playing a role, talking down to someone i perceived as below me in some contrived social hierarchy. it wasn't that at all. instead, i had encountered a new friend in our brief conversation, a sister on this earth just trying to make a buck to pay for her daughter's education and support the lifestyle she had come to know as her own, the lifestyle society has taught her to want at all costs, even the most unthinkable. more inescapably terrifying, i caught a glimpse of myself in her eyes and for a second I was walking at least a step or two in her stiletto-moccasins, and i yearned for that connection with this sister-stranger i wanted to take by the hand and run with, out the fucking French doors, down the elitist hill of the concrete kingdom - free at last to be women and people and not objects and servants and slaves by what they’d have us believe is our own free will. we would get all the other women, too. we'd bring Candy and the Cubana and the breast feeding mother and the manicurist. then we'd swoop by the Beatle Bar and Hotel Del Rey and just round everybody up in a revolutionary raid of the entire Costa Rican sex-tourism industry. we'd form an all-women's workers' cooperative and home-school all the former prostitutes' fatherless kids and transform this mess starting right here and now. they don't own us, with their private jets and soul-numbing fancy liquor, high-powered, high-profile jobs, solid gold wedding rings and hundred-dollar bills they throw at us to guarantee we're at their beck and call forever. we are women! powerful in our own right, strong, sophisticated, warriors, for Christ's sake! come on, Lucy, you and me girl - we could do this! ready? NOW!

i start cutting limes into perfect little half-moon slices.

a spy on the wall

you ever do something that is so not you, just to see what it feels like? maybe to remind yourself of who you really are? i jumped into that one in a hurry, especially since it meant a few extra bucks on my five-months-and-counting unemployment stint. lucky for me, rich old white dudes don't mind dropping top dollar for a three-day escape from reality, and barely getting my hands dirty serving food and drinks for two hours a night isn't exactly slave labor. little did i know, the next three days would allow me the guilty pleasure of being a fly on the wall in some very inner circle dealings of the wealthy gringo kind, an unassuming spy into the vacation lifestyle rituals of the rich and famous.

i show up to the beast of a concrete jungle mansion on the top of the hill, taking the time to explore the house, rooftop jacuzzi tub and third floor disco room with reclining leather lazy-boys and state-of-the-art stripper pole to boot: bachelor party paradise. after jokes about testing out my moves on the pole and minimal kitchen prep, the clients arrive following a few drinks at The Hook Up to take a load off after a strenuous day of travel by private plane and direct heli-pad connection. nameless dark-skinned servants take their bags to their rooms as the three men check out their rented digs, cheesy grins and full of energy, ready to get the party started. the monopoly-man-mustached one instructs me to put some ice together for his rusty knees - apparently he'd be needing them in top shape as the evening progressed. their go-to party jam blares on the stereo - Rihanna's 'Only Girl in the World'. I smile to myself, laughing at the sheer coincidence of my own now quite embarrassing inside joke. the stage is set; let the games begin.

enter: the ladies of the night - or in this case, the 'girls' of the weekend, as they were dotingly called (for example, "hey, where'd the girls go?" or "okay girls, now we're going to teach you how to play strip poker"). Lucy and Candy led the pack of four gorgeous women, with their jovial male chaperone (read: glorified pimp) in tow. Dressed to the nines, they dropped their bags at the door, introduced themselves with flirty smiles and went straight for the quality welcome spread we'd laid out prior to their arrival. Prosciutto and top-shelf liquor as they chatted amongst themselves in Spanish, the men giddy and childish in their presence, daring to fondle and compliment the lustful gifts they'd purchased themselves as a reward for their stressful lifestyle back home - bouncing between Chicago and Naples, a pair of successful property developers and a pro-sports team owner.

"santa came twice this year" laughs the tall one, his looming physical presence and loud demeanor overwhelming the room. the seemingly sincere friendly one acts the most nervous as he chats me up instead of going straight for the goodies from santa's sleigh. "you graduated from Georgetown? hey guys, did you hear that? she's a Georgetown grad. so what on earth are you doing working here and living in Costa Rica?" here we go again... on the other side of the bar, monopoly mustache gets straight to business, taking a few sips of cabernet, clapping his hands together: "okay let's do this" and leading Candy outside. Alas, inspired by his comrade's example, Mr. Friendly gets his nerve up and quickly follows suit, forgetting about Georgetown and disappearing upstairs with the young lady from Cuba. i notice the women's light and airy laughter turn subtly to a practiced resignation as they follow their clients to the bedroom. it's all fun and games, living the high life until it's actually time to do the deed. it's that same indescribably helpless look on four young faces that stays with me now, a look that brings tears to my eyes as i remember it, a look i imagine i'll never forget.

Much to my surprise, boisterous giant sticks around, more interested in kissing and snuggling up to his chosen prize, staking his claim with a declaratory "you're with me this weekend" before pouring on the compliments: "you're beautiful, did i mention that already? Tell me your name again...". he's been here forty times and he's not exaggerating, he says; almost got married twice: "it's so easy to fall in love here" (yeah, i think to myself, it's probably easy to fall in love with someone you're paying to pretend to adore you and respond to your every need - sexual, emotional, even psychological). he tells me his friend owns a mountain near the old Steve n' Lisa's on the road out of town before the crocodile bridge. I smile and nod as he tells me about it, wondering what it means to own a mountain and why that's even a possible thing to do, own a mountain. meanwhile, the show goes on as the other men return, faces flushed and seemingly more at ease, sharing high-fives and "i'm the man" head nods as i hide in the corner beside the refrigerator, trying not to throw up in my mouth. Candy comes over to the freezer and helps me freshen up the ice in a bowl for the bar. I feel awkward that she's helping me do my job when she's the client and I'm the server. "Don't be silly," she says sweetly, "we're all here doing the same thing, tending to these guys, taking care of their needs". Speechless, I grab the tongs from her hand and finish filling the bowl myself, as if I need to make sure she knows I disagree, in the process reassuring myself that there is a recognizable distance between her work and mine in this scenario. She shamelessly sacrifices her dignity and sells her body to creepy old men; I provide an innocent service of refilling drinks and serving food to wealthy clientele. Those are two very different things, Candy. I'm not so convinced.

Feeling looser now, Friendly takes it upon himself to get grabby as I reach for a plate on a high shelf in the cupboard. A playful pinch on my left butt cheek receives my immediate yet useless cry of "NO", the only word I can muster with my mouth open in shock as I spin around just in time to watch him sleeze away smirking, bouncing in a little bee-bop strut brimming with self-satisfaction. you'd think he'd have more than enough to grab on over there that i would be safe in my kitchen refuge. but then again, i remind myself, when you're at the top of the world, even too much is never enough. and when women are objects, everybody's fair game. tomorrow night i'm wearing baggy pants and long sleeves and no mascara.

Dinner is served with compliments to the chef, the women drinking minimally, the men hitting it a little harder to prepare for what's to come. Lucy comments on her excitement to try out the pole upstairs as she sips Old Parr on the rocks, glancing up seductively, her long blonde hair extensions twisted into perfect ringlets at the tips. Classy prosty, indeed. Before the chef and I take off, one of the women brings over a baby bottle full of breast milk, placing it in the fridge: "i have a little girl at home and i'm pumping this weekend, so please don't throw it out, ok?". taking a deep breath in, i assure her that her baby's milk is safe on the second shelf while pondering to myself how on earth fake breasts that large can possibly lactate let alone work with a hand pump - the sheer bio-mechanics of it all boggling my mind. plus, what must these guys think knowing that the perfectly round objects of their fantasy-life desire serve a most functional, real-life human purpose - that of mother nourishing child. won't it remind them that these hired sexual playthings are actual human beings - women, mothers - thus diminishing their worth as dehumanized temporary possessions of rich men and their unfulfilled sexual fantasies? i start worrying that she'll be fired if the men find out she's a breastfeeding mother, and i know she needs the money. good god, now i'm aiding and abetting the Costa Rican high-end prostitution circuit? or maybe i'm the self-appointed Catcher-in-the-Rye of young women willing to sell their bodies as the ultimate sacrifice to support their families? that sounds better in my mind, anyway. am i really doing all of this for a couple hundred bucks? this whole situation is against everything i stand for - what had i become? moral conundrum to say the least, i stash her baby bottle behind the leftover ceviche and get the hell outta there.

smelling like grilled mahi-mahi and packaged brownie batter, mixed feelings about it all and my head in a tizzy, i survived day one.

so while the text might be too small to make out, the headline of the article says that surfing brings in the equivalent of $800 million USD to Costa Rica each year. reading this, it's hard not to wonder where all of that money ends up. unfortunately, the vast majority of it does not reach the Costa Rican people, particularly those whose lives have changed dramatically as a result of the booming surf tourism industry and its impact on coastal communities worldwide.

here in Jaco and Playa Hermosa, the social inequality and marginalization of local populations resulting from the surf tourism boom is seen on the daily, whether we've grown accustomed to it or not. we drive past the little shack-houses lining the main road on our way to surf at the Tree and Corners; we see the people living there every day, with their chickens squawking about and toothless abuelos lounging in rocking chairs, clean laundry on the line blowing gently in our tires' dustcloud breeze as we whiz on by. Wedged between beachfront hotels, restaurants and bars owned mainly by foreigners (with a couple of new exceptions thanks to Vista Hermosa and Bowie's Point, both owned and run by Costa Ricans), these run-down shacks and their inhabitants look out of place - the endearing poverty of misfit throwbacks to a less civilized reality. we don't know these people living there and most of us barely nod in acknowledgement of their presence as we walk by to check the surf. i've personally heard a friend say something along the lines of "god i wish someone would do something about that eye sore" - the eye sore of course being the homes and lives of the remaining Hermosa locals who haven't yet succumbed to increasing pressure to sell their money-maker property to the highest profit-seeking bidder.

meanwhile, the white-skinned crowds in the water seem to grow with the tide's every ebb and flow; more and more international surfers stoked on the adopted paradise we get to call home. they come for the surf, they stay for the vacation lifestyle. and that lifestyle typically includes lodging at foreign-owned hotels, meals at foreign-owned restaurants, beers at foreign-owned bars, and grocery shopping at Mas X Menos, a local Walmart subsidiary. sure, there are exceptions and they might go to the farmer's market in Jaco on Friday or eat at Rustico a couple times for the 'cultural experience'. and the money from their three percent tourism tax does eventually make its way to the Costa Rican government - and only god knows where it goes from there... what's quite clear, however, is that while the surf tourism industry is making millions across the globe and surfers are paying top dollar to get the sickest waves of their lives in every nook and coastal cranny of the Earth, there are countless people in countless nations just like our neighbors in Hermosa who suffer the consequences and never see a penny of it.

Hermosa is but a tiny microcosm of a much larger phenomenon in globalized surf tourism where foreigners innocently 'discover' an epic wave in a small, income-poor fishing village... fast forward five years and there are a half-dozen surf hotels and a few bars and restaurants - all foreign owned - starting to swallow up the coastline. the locals look on confused with furrowed brow; a few of them dare to pick up a board and give it a go, and the rest go about their business making ends meet. in ten to fifteen years, we have a situation like Hermosa. in twenty years, we have the Jaco experience of today, a bustling touristy mini-city at the sea, where the majority of the original locals can no longer afford to live there, especially after being convinced to sell their land to a foreign realtor for dirt cheap, the same realtor who then adds a couple more zeros to the sale price and sells it to the next foreigner with dollar signs in his eyes, in the process making a nice little nest-eggy to support his own paradise-found lifestyle. Jess Ponting, Director of the Center for Surf Research at San Diego State University calls this process 'neo-colonialism'. i've also heard it called 'business as usual', allowing us to turn our heads the other way and just continue to let it happen. what we haven't yet done is face the music of just how messed up it is and start doing things differently.

when we stop to consider what Costa Rica's $800 million in surf-related income actually means, it reads more like a tragedy than an inspiring adventure tale, especially when we recognize that this is happening ALL OVER THE WORLD, where local communities find themselves in the throes of any given phase of the seemingly linear trajectory of the surf tourism boom. despite the current situation we face, the story doesn't have to have a tragic ending. as surfers who love the sea and value the places where we spend our days surfing, it's on us to acknowledge our impact and start making some important changes. adjusting our own surf tourism practices - shopping, eating, sharing local - is a start, but it will take bigger moves to turn this thing around. surfer philanthropists in places like Lobitos, Peru (Waves for Development) and Gigante, Nicaragua (Project WOO) have created volunteer-based community development organizations seeking to address these issues. Organized groups in Salina Cruz, Mexico, Papua New Guinea and the Mentawais have taken it a step further by taxing surf tourism and designing surf tourism management plans to help direct the development process.

in Costa Rica, the move toward sustainable surf tourism is gaining momentum, with Travis Bays of the Bodhi Surf School in Bahia Ballena assisting the Marviva and KETO Foundations in establishing best practices for sustainable surf tourism, focusing particularly on surf schools (hopefully more on this in the near future as it develops). support for groups like these and creating our own local organizations can be a helpful way to redirect the effects of surf tourism in Costa Rica and beyond. in the mean time, talking to our neighbors in Hermosa, thinking about the community we all want and working together to shape the future of our own surf tourism experience should at least make our list of priorities.