My long-term goal was to build financial independence as a freelance writer. I had been writing online articles and interviews at work, and I had just published my first feature story in a local magazine. After a year of night school to complete a Certificate in Feature Writing, seeing my first feature story in print was motivating to say the least.

I set up in Blogger which was free and simple to use. I had the option of placing Google AdSense on my blog, but I decided not to because it didn’t fit into my goals at that time. I landed in San José, Costa Rica and had forgotten that I had inquired here and there about teaching English until on day two I received a message inviting me to an interview. Though hesitant to start a new job right away, I took the position teaching business English in a local financial institution convinced I’d have enough free time to write and to explore my new surroundings.

Just three months later in May 2008, I published my first travel feature in the Central American newspaper, The Tico Times. Writing content for websites followed as did numerous opportunities to write hotel reviews and real estate feature stories. I was on fire!

In March 2009, I started handing out my new business card. After a lot of thought, I decided to go with the working title “Writer. Blogger. Traveler.” At the bottom of the card I listed creative copywriting, web content, freelance travel, hotel reviews, profiles, features and corporate communication as my areas of expertise. I didn’t want to limit myself so early in the game.

In May 2009, I had an unsettling conversation with one of my students who out of the blue said his lawyer told him not to talk to a journalist. I explained that I was really more of a “writer” with a passion for travel and that I didn’t see myself as an “investigative journalist.” Classes continued.

I have a B.A. in Communication and a B.A. in Political Science with a regional specialization in Latin America. And I remember quite well from my studies the heavy burden journalists carry in this oft-volatile part of the world. Even though I was at that time a member of the Society of Professional Journalists (I need to renew my membership), I considered myself more in the vague category of “writer” since I wasn’t working a regular beat for a news organization.

In August 2009, I moved my blog into WordPress, became a member of the Blogher publishing network, started to grow my Twitter network and was busy applying tips from Nomadic Matt’s eBook entitled How to Make Money With Your Travel Blog. I also added my first sponsor to my blog’s home page who paid me US$25 a month for the link. My dreams were coming true!

In March of this year, I made a new business card. The working title reads “Writer and Social Media Consultant.” I’m experimenting with ways to highlight the social media side of things.

Two weeks ago I went on a hike with a group and when responding to the question “What do you do?” I said, “I’m a writer.” One person responded, “You’re not a journalist?” Another person responded by asking, “So, do you write poetry?”

Who am I? As modes of communication take new and exciting turns and as more and more people take the freelance route, I wonder how working titles will evolve. Or, perhaps they will just grow. Here are a few working titles I’ve come across lately:

Freelance property writer, copywriter, journalist, blogger
Writer, journalist, blogger
Author, journalist, blogger, and periodic talk radio host

To all of you running blogs out there, how do you answer the question “What do you do?” and what kind of responses do you get?

When I read this sentence, I was reminded of the bike ride I took along the Mekong River between Kratie and Kampi to view the freshwater Irrawaddy dolphins. It was a 15-kilometer ride along a paved, albeit bumpy, two-lane road lined with homes and stores. People were busy working in the nearby fields, repairing mopeds, making sticky rice snacks and carving dolphin sculptures to sell to tourists.

As we pedaled along, kids ran to the side of the road to scream hello and wave. Some would continue with “What’s your name?” and “How are you?” If the mother were nearby, she’d often follow with a sua s’dei, which means hello in Cambodian. If she were holding a baby, she would pick up its arm, wave it back and forth and repeat in a high-pitched voice, “hello, hello.” Some kids would run to keep up with us while others stood in place with arms stretched out and palms flat looking for a high-five. The kids who were inside of the house would stick their heads out of the windows to join in the cacophony of greetings.

While this particular bike ride stands out in my mind, I was often struck by the flood of warm smiles, the genuinely kind greetings and the persistence to survive throughout Cambodia. In a country that has suffered so much tragedy in its recent past, seeing how the people forge ahead is certainly a lesson in the endurance of the human spirit.

This brings me to tip number one for those of you who might find yourselves wondering how to successfully complete a mahout training course while saving body…and face:

1. Place your foot in the harness to pull yourself up onto the elephant’s neck. Do not attempt to leap directly to the top, unless you are over six feet tall and can do at least ten pull-ups. If you don’t believe me, take a look at the video of our adventure by ContemporaryNomad.com:

Tips continued

2. Wear long pants if you are going to be riding on the neck because your legs will chafe against the elephant’s rough skin.

3. Wear shoes that are unlikely to slip off, or just don’t wear shoes. Tevas are okay but flip-flops are not. It’s a long way to the ground, so the fewer the distractions the better.

4. Use more balance than brawn. While you will occasionally need to clench you thighs to hang onto the neck and to command the elephant to turn left or right, staying on the neck for any length of time without completely exhausting yourself requires balance.

5. If your ride in the basket on the elephant’s back, bring a pillow because sitting on the wooden seat while swaying back and forth gets very uncomfortable after a couple of hours.

“No problem,” said our host flashing his wide set of pearly whites.

In between treks, we decided to do a home stay in a Pnong village just outside of Sen Monorom town in Cambodia’s Mondulkiri province. A handful of thatched-roof huts dotting the village sat between rolling hills and a river, the latter area doubling as the toilet. Mr. Hung pointed to the hut we’d be sharing with his family of eight. With so many people sleeping under the same roof, I couldn’t help but wonder where Mr. and Mrs. Hung got “busy.”

The candles were blown out by 8:30 p.m., but I decided to stay up with my headlamp and write in my journal. As much as I love hammocks, I had never spent an entire night in one. I couldn’t see much through the diaphanous mosquito net but I felt cozy inside of my camouflage-colored hammock, which stretched from beam to beam across the hut.

Replacing the familiar sounds of car engines and horns, I heard a pig snorting and ramming its head into the door made of cane. The pigs, which wandered in and out of the hut all day, were just learning that their domestic curfew had ended. A scratchy transistor radio hummed softly. A fire had been burning for most of the day on the dirt floor separating the raised wooden planks which served as both a dining table and a bed. The air was smoky and warm. It was within this ashen-choked room that I realized that action is not reserved for city folks.

Twenty minutes passed. Music continued to emanate from the transistor radio. I didn’t have a pillow, so I used my fanny pack. Every time I shifted, I couldn’t help but feel precariously perched even though I saw that the hammock was securely tied. I heard mumbling from my nearby friends who were also dangling between beams. “I’m not telling them to turn it off!” hissed Thomas. “It’s only 9:00 p.m.”

Shortly thereafter, the volume on the transistor radio climbed. I heard more mumbling, but this time it seemed to be coming from the other side of the hut. We don’t speak Pnong, so I couldn’t figure out why they would want to drown out their voices. Blankets rustled. I heard a deep exhale and then a moan. I lifted my head turning my ear in their direction. Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing, I questioned? The radio suddenly got louder.

At that moment I thought: what anonymity and concrete walls swallow up in the city, scratchy transistor radios devour in the village.

Spa days for me are a way of delving into the local culture and discovering that moment when I’m forced to reevaluate what I once considered the “right” or “normal” way of soaking, massaging and clipping. I expanded my spa-day definition a few times last year in Costa Rica when I survived a couple of shocking spa experiences.

Recently in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, I experienced my first “reclining pedicure.” Before your mind wanders, I was asked to lean back on a massage table and place my feet, one at a time, into a stainless steel mixing bowl. The pedicurist guided my toes into the bowl filled with warm water, which was barely big enough for a size-five foot.

Even though I had to carefully balance my size-eight foot so that my toes entered the bowl without tipping it over, I actually prefer this low-tech method to the deluxe spa chairs because you don’t have to worry about the last time the filters were cleaned. Just when I was feeling pleased that the local foot soak method doesn’t potentially spread bacteria, I witnessed my friends Tony and Thomas at ContemporaryNomad.com later in the evening take a seat at one of the many small pools around Siem Reap, Cambodia and dip their tired and calloused feet into fish-infested waters.
Fish nibbled on their feet producing what they described as “electric shocks” while they nonchalantly sipped a Coca-Cola. Usually up for new experiences, I drew the line at the fish pedicure. If they had served Cosmos, I might have been swayed. The truth is I largely got cold feet because a few weeks earlier I had seen a news report about how several states throughout the United States were banning this alternative pedicure practice due to the high risk of spreading bacteria. Curious? Read more about Tony and Thomas’ take on Dr. Fish here.

Those of you who have been following along from the beginning may remember that this journey began after The Leap ― my unapologetic step into the unknown. Two years later, I feel stronger in the craft of writing; however, I’m not sure I’ve tapped into the core of who I am. Close friends don’t see me expressing my more irreverent, opinionated and humorous side. I know it’s there (The Leap is just one manifestation of this, minus the humor), but how can I let it out? Or, a better question is: why haven’t I?

Part of me feels that because I’ve been presenting my blog as a professional writing sample and because I’m afraid of marginalizing myself too much that I’ve censored myself. Not making much money off of this blog (though I’ve gotten a good amount of freelance writing work) and on the verge of a second Leap gazing at the Tonle Sap River from the balcony of an open-air café in Phnom Penh , Cambodia, I’m starting to think SCREW IT; if you don’t like me, take a hike ― and I’m not talking about the kind around Costa Rica’s Monteverde Cloud Forest.

The fact is: I’m a forty-year-old woman who lives life passionately and spontaneously. I’ve skirted convention in pursuit of adventure, which has invited both applause and criticism. While some admire my decision to live on the edge, some simply don’t understand it, which tends to conjure up a mix of resentment and disbelief.

As I sit here in reflection, I’m wondering why I have ever cared about what people think. So what if people can’t fit me into a neat little box to prevent their world view from being challenged, or worse turned upside down. After all, there are plenty of people who support and even feel inspired by my lifestyle. If I could focus more on the inspired audience, how might this affect my voice?

It’s the smart ones who can see that there are tradeoffs with every choice we make. I’ve chosen to forgo the “safety” of steady employment, marriage and children in exchange for mobility and the opportunity to explore and write about our world. If your passion is to be a homeowner in a committed relationship with kids on the way, then follow your dreams. While dreams do not always come true, whether or not you pursue them is a choice.

Sometimes we come to find that the choice we made did not pan out in the way we had expected. In this case, we need to harness our flexibility and choose a new direction for our project, our career or our life. Now, once again, my flexibility is being put to the test. What shift in consciousness do I need to make to reveal the uncensored Beverly?

I’ve met up with good friends Tony and Thomas from ContemporaryNomad.com on their epic journey. As we explore, write and reflect, I have no doubt that inspiration and new direction will be borne.

I guess only time can tell where this will end up!

After deciding last minute to explore one of the country’s endless beach communities, I headed to San José’s Coca Cola bus station following the published schedule. I arrived at 7:00 a.m., giving myself a just-in-case half hour cushion. Go figure, taped to the wall of the station was a large, hand-written sign announcing that the buses to Montezuma were leaving at 6:00 a.m.

Figuring I could jump on a bus to Puntarenas and arrive in time to catch the ferry toward Montezuma, I popped into Jacó Transportes, even though I swore I’d never visit that agency again after getting my bag stolen on one of their buses. (Read about that wild goose chase here!) The young man at the ticket window told me that I could take the bus to Herradura, just before Jacó, and grab a quick taxi to the beach where his uncle ran a speedboat shuttle service to Montezuma. Score!

I arrived in Herradura a quick two hours later riding shotgun in seat number 2 ― the best seat if you want to pass your windy and bumpy bus rides in Costa Rica on the edge, literally, of your seat. Taxis were waiting as promised, and they charged mil colones for the ride, also as promised. The trip was getting easier by the minute.

We arrived to Herradura beach in about five minutes. As we turned down the dirt road lining the sand, a man stuck his head in the window to ask if I was here to take a lancha, a speedboat to Montezuma. “Wait over by the bus stop,” he said as he turned away.

I had thirty minutes to kill before the boat left, so I wandered into one of the few rustic, open-air restaurants lining the beach for a bottle of Gatorade. It was 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday and the beach was already covered in kids and coolers. Until I turned my gaze to toward the northern tip of the horseshoe bay, I never would have guessed that I was in the midst of one of the most famous mega-resort hotels in Costa Rica ― Los Sueños.

The uncle arrived with seven other travelers and introduced us to our captain. The captain took our bags and wrapped them in black plastic garbage bags before loading them on the boat. “Are we going to fit in there?” asked an Irish woman rhetorically.

Alas, all eight of us plus two captains fit comfortably in the boat. The seemingly small vessel packed one serious engine. An hour and a few dolphin spottings later, we arrived to a slice of the jungle for what I thought was perhaps to drop off a passenger at a remote hotel.

Lo and behold, we had arrived at the beach right in front of the small and sleepy, yet funky, town of Montezuma, which I come to find out, sits tucked discretely behind the slivers of beach and tamarind trees.

I was in one of the three water taxis departing Tortuguero, Costa Rica at 11:30 a.m. which were all stopped mid-stream. Blocking the river was a boat named “Tiburón,” shark in English, manned by six, dead-serious officers. A far cry from the police you usually see walking around the capital in uniforms two sizes too big, these five men and one woman wore a well-trained air as well as uniforms that fit. Jumping onto each vessel, the officers went through every bag on the boat.

All passengers were cooperative and quiet. Before the eggs were discovered, a man in his fifties had asked what the officers were looking for. The response: “Drugs, guns and eggs.”

The woman was smuggling protected American green sea turtle eggs, a species which is just finishing its nesting season in Tortuguero. Elegantly dressed in a red sequined tank and black pants, the woman sat quietly. Her twenty-something son called out from the back of the boat in English: “Ask them why you are being arrested.” (Many locals on Costa Rica’s Caribbean speak Creole English.) The officer pointed at the bag and then motioned for her to get into their boat.

Silent, she looked back at her son who was holding a small child wrapped in a white blanket and then stepped into the “Tiburón.” The police boat’s captain was the only officer without shades. His whitish skin pulled tight against his angular jaw. A crew cut was visible from underneath his black cap which read “POLICE” in yellow. With thin pursed lips, the captain stood tall and clenched his clipboard while he wrote down the name and ID number of the water taxi driver.

The boats separated and we continued down the river. Nobody spoke a word about the incident, not even a whisper.

In some areas of Costa Rica such as Playa Ostional, limited harvest of sea turtle eggs is allowed for local consumption. In many cultures, as people will explain to you in Ostional, sea turtle eggs are considered an aphrodisiac. Read about my visit to Playa Ostional and the olive ridley sea turtle politics.

Find out how to travel to Tortuguero, Costa Rica on you own and on a budget here.

I left the San José bus station right across the street from the Monteverde and La Fortuna bus terminal (where you can pick up a hot cup of coffee and an apple strudel) – about 200 meters north of the Coca Cola station. I took the second bus out that morning at 7:45 a.m. Delayed by the Policía Nacional who pulled the bus over and arrested three passengers, we arrived to the Costa Rican/Nicaraguan border known as Peñas Blancas at 2:15 p.m., just as the skies decided to cleanse the border´s dust-and-exhaust-filled air.

Bombarded by kids handing me the official paperwork, and money changers shuffling fistfulls of Córdobas, I made my way into the immigration center on the Costa Rican side. The walk to the Nicaraguan side was a good 400 meters through a second passport check. Two long lines and seven dollars later, I had my stamp and was officially in Nicaragua.

Passing through a turns-dial gate, I was stopped at the entrance by a police officer who asked for my passport. And, once through, by a young woman in jeans and a blouse who handed me a small, printed receipt from the local mayor´s office and requested $1. Now, I was officially in Nicaragua.

I jumped on an old, yellow school bus which still had the rules of conduct for American children pasted to the wall: “Behave on the bus as you would in the classroom.” I got off after 45 minutes, just before the transportation hub of Rivas, at “La Bomba,” which means gas station, at the turn-off to the port and grabbed a taxi for the remaining 10-minute drive.

Squeezing onto the ferry packed with huge, round baskets of vegetables, bags of rice, and motorcycles, I sat on the bow ready to breathe in the cool breeze sweeping across Lake Nicaragua. First came the sunset, and then, the views:

From San José, Costa Rica we jumped on a Nature Air flight to Bocas del Toro, Panama. As we peered out of the Twin Otter’s large windows, we got a birdseye view of the tropical landscape we would later cross by boat and bus.

After two days of sampling Caribbean food, motoring between tangled mangroves and dancing at the local hot spots, we left Bocas on a public water taxi. With 15 other men, women and children, we departed from Colon Island at 9:30 a.m. and embarked on a quick, 30-minute journey across the Caribbean Sea to the port town of Almirante.

Pulling into Bocas Marine’s two-slip, wooden dock, a man on bent knees announced his taxi service to the Costa Rica/Panama border. Signaling interest, he offered his hand and helped us squeeze out from under the boat’s canopy. Ten balboas to the border, he said. (Even though Panama uses the U.S. dollar, the currency is referred to as “balboas.”) After a little bargaining, we were off in his gold, mini-van.

Winding through lush tropical forest and banana plantations, we arrived in front of the Changuinola bus station and parked behind a black, four-wheel drive taxi with female decals on the rear window. Out jumped a portly man in a baggy, red t-shirt and a baseball cap who waved us into his taxi. He’d be taking us to the border. We all swayed back and forth listening to Latino rock. Once at the Sixaola border, he left us with a heartfelt: “Thank you for visiting my country.”

We navigated the tiny border crossing, trekked across the 100-year-old “bridge of death” which stretches across the wide, light chocolate-colored river separating the countries, and grabbed a bus on the Costa Rican side. (Read about border crossing options here.) By noon we were on our way to Limon driving through banana plantations and later along the palm-studded coast.

From Limon, we took another bus at 3 p.m. to Guápiles passing river after river and munching on typical home-made snacks sold at bus stops along the way. Once in Guápiles, we thought we’d see how much a taxi would cost to La Fortuna. At 50,000 colones, we decided that a taxi ride would definitely form part of our road-trip adventure.

Two hours and just one, deep pothole later, we arrived to the bustling tourist hub of La Fortuna at the base of the active Arenal volcano. We dropped our things off at the hotel and headed straight for the luxurious Tabacón hot springs.

Soaking our well-travelled bones, we reflected on our amazing day. Not a boring stretch of scenery. While we had reached our destination and the natural hot springs were a soothing treat at the end of a long day, it was the journey that made us smile.