Overview of Ostional

There are places in the world that exist without. They exist outside of the expected or the delegated. These places exist outside of time and reality. Ostional is one of these places. Throughout my stay there I found myself removing myself from the moment to a person some 10 years younger, or older, caught ageless and changeless in the timelessness and quiet restfulness of the tiny ocean front town.
The station, this is what everyone called the dorms where we stayed, is located five feet from the black sand of Ostional beach. The only relief from the stale heat is to be found in the brief ocean breeze that carries with it the smell of dry, cooked sand and coats our nasal passages with a thin film of salt that stays with us and occasionally burns the throat. It is too hot to sleep during the day and most of us could barely find the energy or the will to drag ourselves to the ocean. Drowning in our sweat and smelling of a pungent mixture of bug repellant and sunscreen, we gravitated toward the waves with the inevitable journey of magnets, unable to deny the irresistable pull of the wet slap of the great, dark pool of the pacific ocean: caught in the riptide created by the heat.
Ostional beach is surrounded by a dry rainforest. The roots of drooping mango trees are exposed by any threat of a wind as the dry dirt is ripped from the earth and thrown toward the heavens, leaving the ground vulnerable and new. Ripe fruits fall from exotic trees into the middle of the road, where, if left unattended, they begin to rot, filling the air with the sticky, sweet smell of delicious decay. Starved dogs chase purple and orange crabs crookedly across the streets, under chairs, and over the feet of the people that sit, sweating, languid and wet in whatever shade there is to be had. Trees that appear dead and dry burst forth into riotous shades of red and pink at the ends of the sharp angles of branches, much like Ostional itself. What may appear as lifeless and stark is actually painfully brilliant and beautiful.
For most of the permanent residents of Ostional, and for the volunteers as well, work doesn´t start until the sun is drowned by the ocean and the cicadas serenade the day one final time with a loud and obnoxious buzzing that rattles our eardrums, before they too slip into silence. Then, everyone moves with purpose to the beach. Wary of the hightide, people look for tracks, either a turtle´s, which cut great, lumbering lines through the wet sand, or the small needle point tracks of the crabs. In the distance, one can hear the tinny ring of Michael Jackson as the top hits are blasted through the overused speakers at the bar. We move along the beach in silence, muted whispers carried to one another over the sound of the waves that swell over our exposed ankles. Like so many mosquitos, we infest the beach, buzzing and looking, always looking, for the bite.