Rain Stopped Play

I cannot lie after two rums – with fruit juice – I am utterly unnecessary.
The Pacific Ocean is calm athough the rain continues to come down in buckets, then spades and now in splishes and sploshes.
I resorted to trousers, B’s socks, a t-shirt and a big sweater, The old git put on his holiday jumper, and the child put on a thick cardigan that made it feel like we were on vacation in the Alps. We are all sitting round the big table, the candles are lit, the crickets are chirping, the waves are lapping, and the chicken is marinating.
There is a full moon tonight at 9.36 so I am reliably informed by Freddie, our man from the hood, that after this moon summer begins…..I bleedin’ well hope so, I haven’t travelled 5,000 miles to sit in damp clothes whilst the howling monkeys bellow for some sunshine, we could have stayed in Blighty. Okay there aren’t any monkeys in England, alright only the ones in Westminster,.,.,

Given the weather and the state of our larder we set off for the market in Samara. There wasn’t one. Jim turned round the big truck and we went back to the villa to collect all the things we thought we wouId need to travel the 34 kilometres to Nicoya.
It was the easiest of drives. Some parts were more like East Sussex than Costa Rica although there aren’t that many palm trees on the way to Eastbourne.
It took about 45 minutes to drive inland. One main road with a handful of sleeping policemen to keep the speed down.
We parked the truck in a side street and followed our noses to find the market. Lots of little collectives sell their produce to the public. We went to a big shed where they sold battered lemons, irregular mandarins, three pineapples for a quid, watermelons, onions, cucumbers, garlic, mountains of yukkas and more coriander than you can throw a brick at. The local currency means that three bags of vegetables cost somewhere in the region of twenty-five thousand colones.
We went to a meat market I misread the bill and the old git generously handed over 60,000 notes for three chicken breasts and some thighs. The butcher gave him back 50,000, which impressed the Northern ‘oosbind immensely.
‘I like their honesty.’ he said pocketing his change.
Then to a local caff for a quick pit stop. Me and the girl had HUCHATTA the local nut drink, whilst the man had a piece of cheese cake and a coffee. Given that Costa Rica is known for its superior beans it came as a diassappointment to my coffee loving husband to be served up a mug of instant yuk.
On arriving back we had to unload pretty damn quick before the ants, caterpillars, spiders, flying weevils and other Central American vistitors ate it before we did.
I’m soaking red beans for tomorrow and planning on one of the pineapples for breakfast. The fridge is filled with more greenery than our next door jungle, and I’m trying my hand at mashed yukka. If I’ve got it wrong you wont be hearing from me for a bit. I’ver taken note of the rum, which as I speak, has done nothing for my digestion.
The Ocean is picking up a pace and we have had a visitation from the next door dog, an Alsation that only speaks Spanish.
It’s early morning your time and dinner time for us, I just need to mash the yukka, stiry fry the chicken and turn down The Pacific, cos it aint ‘alf noisy….