Mangeot of the Nordlands is my floppy-hat wearing, perma-addled, globe-trekking alter ego. His is a thirst for the strange marrow of new lands and their cocktails. He is well-meaning and gets to live my best life.
We make the Ninth Parallel at Costa Rica. It is the rainy season, and by afternoon our party is drinking Rhum cocteles. A fine fellow named Errol arranges the bar service and sees to our baggage. His ceviche is good and true and his bar is clean but for the grackles who angle to steal my cassava chips. From the valley a macaw cries the invitation to press onward. “When does the rain break?” I ask Errol. With great solemnity he studies the misted clouds flowing over the mountains from the inland forest. “December,” he says.
The rains do not abate. Neither do the raccoons. From dusk through the night, the beasts probe the latches and doors of our lodgings. Randolfo says we must guard our luncheon and the mini-bar from their thieving paws. We place locks and a guard and wait as the rains rain steady and true. Prevented from inland explorations, we catalogue the base camp’s various species of iguana and Assorted Lizardry and coconuts and also the Rhum varieties. Randolfo serves me a Rhum drink of fiendish red made apparently from