I met Marc at the bus station in Liberia. He was of similar height and build, but with a broken noise, and lacking the longer hair that I’ve only recently adopted. We were both looking for the same Tamarindo bus, and along the way I learned that he was fresh off the plane in Costa Rica, originally from Ontario, had quit his office job just before the new year, and had left his girlfriend behind while he went off to travel for several months. Within the first hour, it came out that he’d had his wisdom teeth pulled on December 14th—just two days before I’d had mine removed—both of us trying to beat our lapsing health insurance.

The dissimilarities quickly became apparent, and the eerie sensation of having met a mirror to myself within 14 hours of being in the country began to fade. Marc was into rugby, partying, and it didn’t seem too much else. On the beach later that day, he’d show me the burn marks of where his team had hoisted him onto the bar to put a flaming shot in his belly button. The girl trying to drink it had spilled it on his side, and the burn marks resembled the streaks of his fingers trying to sweep the fiery liquid off himself. Sweating in our seats and keeping an eye out for signs marking the distance to Tamarindo, we talked about many things, but one subject kept coming up. Learning I’d been here before, he quickly asked if I knew how easy it was go score marijuana. I heard about how much he and his girlfriend liked to smoke weed, and that he’d smoked far too many cigarettes since his arrival because he hadn’t had been able to buy any herb. I was treated to all of the typical stoner wisdom of why pot should be legalized, how people receiving medical grade marijuana for health reasons had given it back because the government issue product was so bad, and that it was really healthy after all. I try not to pass judgment on anyone who wants to indulge in the habit, but I do have little respect for those who neglect the studies that show inhaling carcinogens is decidedly unhealthy, and that at the end of the day they’re just looking for a buzz. Escaping is one thing, but proselytizing is another altogether.

Walking back from lunch later that day, a young Tico rasta called us across the street. He asked if we wanted to by weed, and of course Marc was interested. When the kid found out where we were from, he started apologizing and trying to explain that in Canada we had such good pot and it was very cheap, but not so in Costa Rica. He told us it would be more than $50 US for an eighth, and after a bit of negotiation, tried selling us cocaine instead. “Is much more cheaper than weed,” he assured us. We both declined.

Whether marijuana is actually hard to come by around here, or whether prices are severely inflated for tourists, I haven’t bothered to figure out. This isn’t the first time I’ve been offered cocaine in this country, and it has been offered again several times in the last week. Back in 2007, I went to a bar in Mal Pais with some Albertan friends I’d made at the hotel, and one disappeared for almost an hour just before closing time. Along the walk back to our rooms, he regaled us with a tale of having a gun pulled on him by a Colombian while trying to buy coke out behind the bar. He was dabbing small piles of cocaine onto a 100 colone coin and taking hits to emphasize the highlights of his story. At the end of the tale, he saw me looking at him with disbelief that he misinterpreted as awe, and said “sorry, that was rude. You want a hit?”

Back at the hostel with Marc, I desperately needed to buy sunscreen before going out into the sun again, and since I didn’t see any other shops that might carry it, I walked up to a deeply tanned bald guy standing in front of a surf shop.
“Do you sell, or do you know who might sell…” I began.
“Weed?” he interrupted.
I clarified that I was looking for sunscreen, rejected the tiny $17 bottle of surf branded everything-proof magic cream, and thought I’d do Marc a favour before heading back to the hostel.
“I shit you not, I am actually asking for a friend, but where can he buy weed for a good price?”

I told Marc to head to a certain ding repair shop, and to tell the guy that baldy from the surf shop said he was cool. Later that night, he found what he was after and spent nearly half an hour trimming the buds with his tiny scissors and rolling a joint in his all-natural organic paper. After smoking it outside while I sat with him and drank my $1 Imperial beer, he turned to me with a baked smile and said, “that’s the most I’ve ever paid for a smoke. Twenty dollars for one joint, but hey, it’s Costa Rica man.”

I smiled and raised my beer in salute. Marc was on day two of his eight month trip, and already blowing his budget on beer and pot. Like I said, I’m not one to pass judgment, but looking in that distorted mirror of a man who could well have been me, I’m happy to be someone else.