Friday, December 19, 2008

It Is Good To Be Back!

It has been a busy few weeks. Between going home for Thanksgiving, making two trips to the Nicoya peninsula, and graduation week at the elementary school, I’ve had a full schedule.

Thanksgiving was incredible. Just being with my family and friends was comfort enough, but the festivities were over the top. The first weekend was occupied by a two day party with my college friends with whom I celebrated the end of the worst season of Michigan football ever. People came from LA, Chicago, Philly and DC, and I was truly touched that people would travel that far for me. We caught up, discussed the Michigan season the way the Germans must now discuss World War II, and stayed up till morning at my friend Derek’s apartment. It was the most fun I’d had in a while.

The rest of the week was spent enjoying intimate time with my family, and eating. I got to eat Indian food, bagels, and my mother’s world famous chili. Regretfully, I did not get to eat Thai or Chinese food. This is something I will get to if I go back next Thanksgiving.

When I got back from New York, I was surprisingly at peace. Before the trip, I feared that I would get back to Costa Rica and want to go back home or become depressed. But in New York, I saw that I wasn’t really missing too much. People are getting laid off, fed up with the jobs they are lucky to have, or being pounded by graduate school work. While my job is hard in the fact that it can be unorganized, lonely, and stressful, it is no worse than what I would be doing in the US.

I also found perspective. I had glorified New York in my mind during the lonely times here in Costa Rica. I fantasized about everything that I loved about it. But in going back, I saw that the city is still just the city, and that eighty degrees and sunny is better than freezing and cloudy. I realized that New York will be there when I get back, and this is where I need to be right now.

It felt great to be home. My family seemed to have genuinely missed me and was glad to have me back. I felt the same way. In a place that has consistently made me uncomfortable, I felt comfortable. That night, I doused my rice and beans in hot sauce, and ate them with a smile. It wasn’t my mom’s chili, but it did the trick.

The next week, my friend Meagan asked me if I would help her with a nature camp she was putting on with a park ranger in her site on the Nicoya Peninsula. Since the trip is only a ferry ride away, I agreed, and packed my bags. However, in the great Tico tradition, the camp was postponed.

“Do you still want to come?” Meagan asked. I looked at my bags.

“Why not!”

So I headed across the Nicoya gulf and went to pay Meagan a visit. I disembarked in the small town of Paquera where I got on a bus to the small beach town of Montezuma. Meagan met me on the bus where we chatted about America until we pulled into town.

We found a backpackers’ lodge a bit outside of town and decided to stay there. The place had two cabins built into the jungle, with large porches. After Meagan and I put our stuff in our room, we lay in hammocks on the porch and enjoyed the late afternoon sun. Not five minutes had passed before we heard a racket in the trees. We got up, looked around, and found about a dozen Cappuchin monkeys on the branches of the trees, and even sitting on the deck. They seemed pretty comfortable with humans, and got close enough for people to hand feed them bananas. We hung out with the monkeys for a while, then headed into town for dinner.

That night as we lay in bed, we could hear the crashing of the waves, and the sounds of the jungle. It felt good to be back in Costa Rica.

The next day was hot and sunny. We decided to hike up the river to the town’s famed waterfall. We hiked with two Swiss girls from our lodge; one could speak English, and one could speak Spanish. So while climbing through the cool river, I made myself dizzy going back and forth between English and Spanish. By the time we got to the waterfall, I didn’t know what language I was speaking.

But I didn’t have to speak. The sight of this five-story high waterfall was captivating, and we all stood and watched for a while. In the middle of the jungle, the waterfall crashed its way into a deep pool where we swam. Around the pool were outcroppings of rock from which we jumped into the pool. We even got to climb behind the waterfall and stand in the loudest place in the world. Jumping into the waterfall was, more than anything, a comical experience. After a second in mid air, the water pounded me into the water with great force, and before I knew it, I was ashore. While climbing rocks to do some diving, a European man turned around, looked at me and said, “It’s fucking paradise man!” It really was.

The next week, I went out to the peninsula again, this time to do actual work. Meagan did eventually get the camp together, and I did a nature themed art project with the kids. It was fun, and the kids really liked it.

Now, I am attending graduation events at the elementary school and planning my schedule for the next school year which starts in February. I have also started a new photography workshop with the Albergue kids, in addition to the poetry workshop we started a few months ago. And in a few days, my parents will be here to visit!

As the holidays and vacation approaches, I hope that everyone back in the states is well. To all my Jewish brethren, Happy Chanukah! To my goy friends, Merry Christmas!

Friday, November 14, 2008

Poetry, ¡Obamanos!, All Volunteer Conference and What Have You

The month of November has been one of the busiest and best yet.

About a month ago, I started a poetry workshop for the children at the albergues. I was nervous about it when I designed it; who knows many kids who would give up a sunny Sunday afternoon to write poetry? Regardless, the program has exceeded my expectations. The children are enthusiastic about it, and have created some impressive work.

I start every session with a song (in Spanish). The children listen to the song played on my computer, and read along with the lyrics I print out for them. This gets the children excited, and also shows them the different structures of poetry. Once we have listened to the song, we read a poem together. I have been using Pablo Neruda poems because they are so simple and beautiful. If anyone has any suggestions for appropriate Spanish poetry, I’m all ears.

After the poem, we get our creative juices flowing by actually creating poetry. During the first lesson, we wrote group poems, but now they are writing some on their own in writer’s notebooks that I have given them. The plan is to have them peer edit their work and continue writing. Hopefully after a few months, we will have enough polished work to publish in a book to sell as a fundraiser. Once the book is published, we will have a celebratory poetry slam.

High off a good start with the workshop, I headed into San Jose on the fourth for an election night party with other volunteers. Upon seeing my PVC friends at the bar, I was inundated with hope and anticipation. I’m sure that it comes as no surprise that one hundred percent of the PCVs and staff are Obama supporters. People were wearing custom made Obama t-shirts, and chattering about exit poll numbers all night. A group of about fifteen PCVs had made shirts that read ¡Obamanos! I found this hilarious (for those of you who do not speak Spanish, it is a creative way of writing “lets go Obama!”).

When the networks projected Obama to win, the place went wild. Some people started screaming, some people started crying. I ordered a double Patron and sat with a shit-eating grin on my face. I felt more calm and relieved than anything. I just watched the celebration around me as I sipped my tequila. American and Tico alike, everyone was thrilled.

The next day, every volunteer in country was bussed to a camp ground in Cartago for the annual “All Volunteer Conference” (AVC). Everyone was pretty de goma, but in good spirits about the previous night’s election. As we signed in and spread our sleeping bags out in our tents, tranquility fell over everyone. The air was cool and clean; we were up in the piney mountains northwest of the city. Many of us are trapped in hot, urban sites. For us, the place was paradise.

AVC was three days for all volunteers to get to know each other, and share stories, projects and ideas. During the day, we had workshops and bonding activities. At night, we had a poker tournament (in which I was quickly and soundly beat), a movie night, a Halloween party, a talent show, and a bonfire.

It was what everyone needed. In a sweater for the first time in a while, I got to know my fellow volunteers, and was reminded how interesting and unique each one is. Each PCV had a different lesson to give, a different experience to share. Although I knew most of them already, the conference allowed us to become even closer; so close that we all had a fun time at an alcohol-free costume/dance Halloween party.

The second day, the U.S. Ambassador came to meet us. So I spoke with the Ambassador…again. A few weeks ago, he invited me to have Thanksgiving dinner with his family. I thanked him for his invitation when I saw him after he addressed us.

He did a good job of charming the crowd, and had a Q&A. One PCV asked if he, as a Bush appointee, was worried that Obama would replace him. He responded that he didn’t feel too worried about it, and would respect whatever decision Obama makes. I personally hope that he stays. He seems like a genuinely good person, who would honor the Obama agenda when it arrives.

The last night of AVC, we had a big bonfire. As we all huddled around the fire and made s’mores, people played popular songs on their guitars and we all sang along. As the smoke drifted into my eyes, and I sang the ones I knew, I couldn’t help but think about how “Peace Corps” the moment was. At that moment, we could have been Peace Corps, Costa Rica, 1969.

It has been a good couple of weeks. And with Thanksgiving coming up, I can’t help but get giddy. I will be coming home to NYC next Thursday, Nov 20 until Friday Nov 28. If you will be in town, drop me a line. Happy Thanksgiving!

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Toilet Bowl Confessions and Other Stories

There are some things that happen to me here that I immediately deem blog worthy, but are not funny enough to devote a whole entry to. Below, you will find a list of things I deem funny, but not whole blog funny.

• The mosquitoes have a little hideout in my shower. Therefore, whenever I go into the bathroom to pee, a swarm attacks my legs. As I stand there, urinating, I can feel them biting my ankles. The first few times this happened, I slapped at the mosquitoes mid-stream, spraying pee all over the shower curtain. Now, I just accept the inevitable. We must never share this with my host mom.

• My host “Dad”, Bairon, is a 29 year old construction worker with grills on his teeth, yet loves old black and white ranchero and mariachi movies on TV.

• Necio is afraid of mice.

• One day, I walked home from the local pulperia and walked up to a group of family and neighbors sitting on my porch. My host mom asked me if I had a banana in my pocket. I, in fact, did have a banana in my pocket, and started laughing hysterically. None of my family or neighbors understood why.

• A story about gay marriage came onto the evening news which prompted the following from my host family:

Ania: “No, no, no! It is the end of the world! The end of the world, these gays! Against the will of God!”

Memo: “It is a disgrace. Disgusting.”

Bairon: “Terrible. Just terrible.”

Memo: “But with two women, it’s cool, right?

Bairon: “Oh, totally.”

Memo: “Totally.”

Me: (beating my head against the wall).

• My butcher gave me a ride into town the other day. He told me that he had lived in South Carolina for a few years. When I asked him how he’d liked it, he told me that it was nice, “but there was quite a bit of prejudice there. I really disliked how some people would call me a spick or other bad names there”. I responded by telling him that I was sorry that he had experienced that.

“Also, there were a lot of Blacks there, and I don’t like those people at all”.

“Oh”.

• Costa Rica is a Catholic country but most children are born out of wedlock, and prostitution is legal.

• I am no longer afraid of, yet even welcome, cockroaches. This is because I know that they will not give me dengue or malaria or lay eggs in me or anything like that. The worst they will do is eat the crumbs off my floor or scare the shit out of Necio.

When you live in the tropics, you learn to put things in perspective.

• Children’s games are locked in the 1950s. Marbles is the big game, and now tops are the rage. I’m just waiting to see if jacks make it to the streets. We should expect pogs in about 40 years.

• I asked my host mom what her favorite food was. She said that it was rice and beans. I almost smacked her.

• I am yet to see a spice rack in this country.

• It finally happened. My host mom managed to get every single starch onto one plate. Chicken broth with potatoes, noodles, rice, corn, and yucca. People ask me how I’ve lost weight living in this country. “I try not to eat the food” is my usual reply.

• I saw a crackhead steal a half eaten sandwich, not because he was hungry, but because he thought he’d be able to sell it for enough money to buy a hit.

• I get cat calls whenever I walk down my street in my gym clothes. These are of course from overweight married women in their forties.



To Be Continued…….

Monday, October 27, 2008

Ambassador Visit

The US Ambassador to Costa Rica came to visit my site a few weeks ago. I took him to the albergues for a small reception. He is a good man, and got along very well with the children. Below is a link to see pictures of the visit.


http://picasaweb.google.com/mesa805/AmbassadorCianchettePANI?authkey=4Et-M7Vo2EM#

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Limon

Whenever I’ve been in rural sites, I have consistently failed to notice the hoots and calls of the land’s howler monkeys. “Ooohh! You hear those monkeys?” my friends will ask. I always shake my head in disappointment. It is like I have a primate specific hearing impairment.

So as our bus wound its way east to the Caribbean coast, I told my good friend and fellow PCV, Mario, that I would not leave the area without hearing the monkeys. It was Friday afternoon, and we were beginning our weekend vacation to the Province of Limon. This trip was particularly exciting because the Province of Limon was fabled to be like a separate country entirely; more like Jamaica than Costa Rica. The population is largely Black, of Caribbean descent. The sounds of Bob Marley are ubiquitous, I was told, and the smell of jerk chicken fills the air. So after meeting Mario in San Jose, we hopped on the bus with great anticipation.

The bus left San Jose and took a windy mountain pass that carved its way east trough the rainforest. Mario and I rode silently in amazement as we observed waterfalls, cliffs and green mountain peaks as they passed. Giant single leafed plants popped out of the mountains like beach umbrellas and palm trees dotted the landscape like fireworks. It was my first look at unadulterated canopy jungle; I was taken aback by its beauty.

After about three and a half hours on the road, we arrived in the port city of Limon and immediately noticed the difference between Limon and the rest of the country. The colors of red, yellow and green were painted everywhere, and people spoke a Spanish-English hybrid called Padua. This mixture was perfect for me, as I find myself constantly speaking Spanglish. The language is almost melodic in the way it hits the ear, like a reggae song. I could understand it, but didn’t attempt to speak it.

A quick cab ride took us outside of the city center to Playa Bonita where we met our friend Jen and her friend Owen. Jen is a PCV in the Limon region, and her college friend, Owen, was visiting for a few days before starting a two month long Outward Bound training. The two are both Georgia grads and have thick southern accents, and great senses of humor. After a quick beer in our hotel room, we walked to a nearby beachfront restaurant. It was there that I experienced the wonder that is Caribbean food.

A while ago, I overheard someone asking my friend Daniel (who’s site is in Limon) if he eats rice and beans in his site. I looked at the person, baffled, and asked her repeatedly if she was joking, for rice and beans are (to my dismay) a prerequisite for any Tico meal. Daniel laughed and explained to me that the specialty dish of Limon is called “rice and beans,” and is, in fact, very different from the arroz y frijoles Ticos eat. The “rice and beans” that the Carribeans eat is cooked in coconut milk and spices. So when the four of us sat down to our table, just feet from the crashing waves, I didn’t hesitate to order the rice and beans and chicken.

It was bliss. The chicken had been slow-cooked in coconut milk, Caribbean spices, and a thick, rich gravy. The meat fell off the bone. The rice and beans had a robust smoky flavor. For a guy used to eating food with no flavor at all, this was a real treat. We savored the different flavors, and spoke about the plan for the weekend. We would go to a short meeting of PCVs in the region the next day, and then make our way south to the laid back beach town of Cauhita in the afternoon. Happy with our plans, we finished our dinners and listened to the surf. Afterward, we drank tequila and watched the stars and moon glitter across the sea.

The next day was one of the best days of my life. We left the hotel for the center of Limon in the late morning and spent the morning drinking coffee and chatting with the owner of the café. Then we made our way to the most famous restaurant in Limon: the Black Star Line. It was here that we met a dozen Limon PCVs. I was very happy to see them all; most of them were friends from my training group. Among them were my close friends Daniel, Marcus, Katherine, Jonus and Nicole. After an enthusiastic reunion, we took our seats, ordered lunch and began our meeting. I ordered the rice and beans with chicken. It was even better than the previous night’s.

After our meeting, we walked out of the restaurant full and happy. The administrative stuff took up about ten percent of the agenda. The rest was catching up and joking around. Marcus said that he knew a guy who owned a microbus who could take us the fifty kilometers south to Cauhita on the cheap. He took off, only to reappear in the passenger side of a microbus, rowdily honking the horn. We packed in and hit the road.

As we pulled into town, I immediately fell in love with Cauhita. Modest houses, shops and inns lined the dirt roads, leaking sounds of reggae and barbeque smoke. The smell of salt filled the air, for the town flanks the beach. And at the far end of town is Cauhita National Park. After finding cheap cabinas, we dropped off our bags, put on swimsuits and sunscreen and headed to the park.

Cauhita National Park is a large strip of protected land that parallels the sea. The park includes miles of white, clean beach, and trails through the jungle. A group of us jumped into the water and enjoyed each other’s company. It was there that Jonus mentioned the howler monkeys.

“All day, all night, I hear them. It’s annoying! I’m trying to relax and all I hear is OOOOOOH……OH…OH…OH…OOOOOOOOH!” His wife Nicole agreed that their rural site was full of howlers.

I could have slapped them I was so jealous. The only howls I hear in my site are from the crackheads.

Then suddenly Marcus pointed toward the shore and yelled “look! There is a monkey in that tree!” I turned my head and sure enough, there was a small crowd of people pointing up at a monkey dangling from the branches of a tree. It was a small white-faced Capuchin monkey. I walked out of the water and got a closer look. He jumped from branch to branch until he was out of sight.

I walked over to where a group of my friends were sitting on a palm trunk and talking. I excitedly told them all about the monkey only to get unenthusiastic responses. “I see monkeys every day…it’s no big deal” was the common response. These rural volunteers are spoiled.

I then took a walk through one of the trails with Daniel and his friend Linda. The forest was beautiful in the late afternoon light. I saw trees and plants that I had never seen before. As we walked, I told Daniel how much I loved his province. I told him that I loved the natural environment, the people, and the culture. “And seriously” I said with a smile, “it is great to be around Black people again!” Daniel, being an African American, got a big kick out of this and laughed with me for a minute.

We walked along for a long while, discussing cultural differences, challenges we have been facing, and problems that we both have with the Costa Rican educational structure. I saw more monkeys, but unfortunately no howlers appeared. At one point, we came across a sloth, who was one of the most hilarious animals I’ve ever seen. It was, well, lazy. He was sleeping on a tree branch, looking very content. The Spanish word for sloth is oso perezoso which literally means “lazy bear.” The Spanish hit the nail on the head.

After our walk, Daniel, Linda and I met up with the group and returned to the cabinas to shower and prepare for the night.

Once ready, we walked to a local restaurant called Mutus for what would be one of the best meals of my life. Marcus made sure that we went to this specific restaurant because of a certain two hour long happy hour. So before eating, our group was bombarded with an array of drinks. Piña coladas, tequila sunrises, daiquiris, and every fruity drink you could think of were hurled at us. The drinks were fantastic, made with fruit that was probably on a tree earlier that day.

Now I know what you are thinking…and no, there was nothing gay about a bunch of dudes drinking fruity drinks. In the Caribbean, no red flashing light goes of when a guy orders a strawberry daiquiri. It’s just the way things are done down there.

After two hours worth of rum and fruit, we were all feeling pretty good by the time our dinners arrived. The entire restaurant was hazy from the barbecue smoke, creating an intoxicating aroma and ambiance. A steady stream of Bob Marley albums were played, and vibrations were good all around. Owen and I shared an order of jerk chicken, and Jamaican curried chicken. Both were delicious. By the time we left the restaurant, we were all tipsy on good food and drink: a perfect way to be as you walk toward the salsa club.

Honestly, we tore up the dance floor. I know, you wouldn’t think that a group of gringos would be capable of such a thing. But we have been in country for eight months now, and have had proper training. I spotted a group of beautiful young Ticas dancing in a circle and decided to break the ice. I pulled one of them out of the circle and we salsa danced for a good while. Then, suddenly, she tossed me into the circle of ladies. So I had no choice but to shake my ass, and get down. The ladies loved it, and soon my PCV buddies were doing the same thing. Eventually, all of my buddies and I were making the salsa rounds on these girls, sweating through our shirts as we made our moves. Thankfully, being a sweaty mess is not a turn off for Ticas. On the contrary, it was a turn on.

At one point, I was sitting on the side of the dance floor for a quick beer with Owen, when a strikingly beautiful Tica walked passed us and sat down with a woman who looked like she could be her mother. She was model hot. Movie star hot. I decided that I had to have at least one dance with her, but was a bit discouraged by the consistent rejections she was issuing. So I did what any man with game did: I walked over, and asked her mother to dance.

I tossed that old woman all over the dance floor. We had a blast. And you better believe that I was sending wanton looks at the daughter the whole time…making her giggle. So after a song with momma, I asked the beautiful Tica for a dance. She smiled and obliged. We had a great dance and learned a bit about each other. My buddies gave me several thumbs up behind her back. I would have taken the time to get to know her better after our dance, but my buddies informed me that I was running late for a late night swim session at the beach. So I thanked the model-hot Tica for the dance, and left with my friends for the beach.

At playa negra a small group of us stripped to our underwear and took a dip in the warm water. The moon was bright and illuminated the puffy silver clouds on the horizon. Outcroppings of fluorescent coral glowed in the darkness. It was a beautiful scene. The perfect end to a perfect day.

The next morning, Owen, Mario, Jen and I packed up our things, said our goodbyes, and started out for the bus station. We were sad to be going back to San Jose, and ultimately, our sites. However, we were still on a high from the fun of the night before. And as I approached the station, I heard a strange sound.

“OOOOOOH……OH…OH…OH…OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!”

I stopped and smiled at my friends. It was the howler monkeys doing what they do best. Apparently, I am not primate hearing impaired. I just needed to go to Limon.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur

I went back to the beautiful synagogue in San Jose to observe the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. This time, I was accompanied by my friend Alicia, another PCV in the eastern part of the country.

I approached the high holidays with great hesitancy. While it may be a sign of weakness in my Jewish mettle, I find it difficult to worship anywhere other than my beloved Brotherhood Synagogue in New York. I almost always have a spiritually fulfilling experience at Brotherhood. However, I have had mixed experiences experimenting with other venues. I never liked the experience at the Hillel’s shabbat services at Michigan, and found the High Holiday services adequate. I didn’t mind my friend Jason Cooper’s synagogue in Toledo, Ohio. I even had Kabblat Shabbat in a Quiznos once.

The difference is that in other venues, I have been a foreigner rather than a member of a family. The tunes are different. The handshakes aren’t followed by a kiss (or sometimes a good slap on the backside). The gossip is not yours. The rabbi is just another man, and not your role model. There is a sterility to it that makes reflection and atonement more of a challenge.

But I was optimistic. The last experience I had at the synagogue for Passover was a positive one. So Alicia and I approached the Synagogue in the pouring rain and I was reminded how serious the congregation was about security. After handing over our passports, we were vigorously interrogated multiple times, frisked, and put through a metal detector. To quote Ace Ventura, “the man with the rubber glove was surprisingly gentle”.

As the two of us walked into the synagogue, I noticed the look of awe on Alicia’s face. It was her first look at the beautiful campus. The paths glittered in the rain, and the stately building’s lit face shone. After finding a kippah, I walked into the sanctuary alone; Alicia had to sit upstairs with the rest of the women.

After settling into a seat, I couldn’t help but laugh at the familiarity of the situation. Jews will be Jews, no matter where you go. I overheard conversations about the American financial crisis, and the presidential election. It was great to hear talk of business and politics; the only topic of discussion in my barrio is over who will win Latin American Idol. I introduced myself to the few people I recognized from Passover, and met a few more people. I was even introduced to the Israeli Ambassador. We chatted for a minute in a mix of Spanish, Hebrew and English. After speaking with him, it was difficult to think, let alone introduce myself to my neighbors. All were warm, welcoming and refined. It was nice to see people dressed so sharply. Having passed Audis and Beamers on the way in, it became clear to me that the Jewish community is the upper crust of Costa Rica. It was interesting to see such a population while living in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the country.

I found the way the congregants socialized to be very similar to the way American Jews I know interact. A man would spot a friend, beam, hug and sometimes kiss him on the cheek. I could imagine looking to my right to find Harvey Markovitz and my father interacting in such a way. There was also an Eastern European bend to the accents that brought their Spanish closer to me. It was like walking through a Tico Essex Street. The Rabbi’s accent was thicker than most. His voice and appearance reminded me of family friend Joe Zacherman; I took great comfort in this.

The service began when six men on the beamah began chanting the prayers. While I happily joined in when they chanted prayers I knew, most of them were in unfamiliar tunes. So I struggled to follow along with the service.

This synagogue was the first orthodox congregation that I had ever worshipped with. This, of course, meant that men and women sat separately. At first, I had no problem with this, as I thought that it would help everyone focus. But like men at a poker game, the congregation did a significant amount of schmoozing. Alicia later told me that it was the same with the women. I thought that the chatter would stop when the cantor began. However, it did not. Throughout the entire service for all of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, all I could hear was chit-chat. To make matters worse, the synagogue does not use microphones or speakers. The familiar prayers that I love came to me as faint static through the talk. I hoped that the men would silence themselves for even the most holy of prayers like the Amidah, Avenu Malkenu, or the confession of sins. They continued as if at a cocktail party. While I felt very grateful to the congregation for having me free of charge, I became quite angry after a while. Because I could not hear the prayers, most of the service was spent praying silently to myself. My crocodile tour operating friend Mr. Levi empathized with me noting that it was a “falta de respecto”. I told him that I agreed with him, feeling disrespected myself.

Overall, the experience of both holy days was good. I did a good amount of reflection on the past year, and decided what was good, and what was bad. I asked God to forgive me for my sins. It was fulfilling.

As Alicia and I broke the fast over Lebanese food (ironic?), I realized just how important it is for me to be around other Jews. My entire life, I’ve been surrounded by them. Being isolated among non-Jews in the Puerto has made me appreciate just what I am missing. This is why an Eastern European accent or the site of an old man in a tallis is so pleasant to me. So to all of my Jewish friends and family back home, shana tova. I hope that you have a sweet year to come, and that your name is sealed in the book of life.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Ticos: 1 Flavor: 0

I made penne in a vodka sauce from scratch for my host mom the other day. She took a bite, smiled, and told me that she liked it.

"But wait" she said walking to the fridge.

"Oh no," I thought. "No way, she wouldn´t."

Oh, but she did. She opened the door to the fridge, pulled out the bottle of ketchup, and doused the plate with it. I bit my lip. She took a bite.

"Much better!" she said with a smile and walked out of the kitchen to the living room.

I am convinced that Ticos have no tastebuds.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Eddie

I was walking home from the Albergue the other day when I bumped into my neighbor Eddie. Eddie lives with his sister Yessenia: a recognized leader and my community counterpart. The two are from El Salvador, which is refreshing (it is nice to have someone around who isn’t Tico). Just as Yessenia is active in the community as the president of the Junta de Educacion, Eddie does his part. After a day’s work of hard manual labor, it is not uncommon to see Eddie sitting on the curb with the street kids. Even though these are not his kids, and he is dead tired, he finds time to play soccer and provide them with guidance. This is very rare in my community.

Needless to say, Eddie is a natural ally of mine and I was happy to cross his path as I walked down my street. He was flanked by four neighborhood kids, and dribbled a soccer ball as he walked. “Quire jugar?” he asked. Without hesitation, I told him I would play, and joined the group.

As we wound our way through town to the soccer field, he told me about El Salvador. He has two daughters there who he sends money every month. When asked why he left El Salvador, he responded by telling me how dangerous the country is. Crime and murder is a way of life there, he told me. He went on to explain how the gangs paralyze the people with fear, and were worth escaping. He hopes to bring his daughters out of the fray.

We got to the field and played in pick-up games for a few hours. We played until it became to dark to see.

On our walk home, I asked Eddie why he chose to come to Costa Rica. “Es muy tranquilo” he said. Muy tranquilo: a trait of Costa Rica that I have had qualms with. It is hard to motivate people to improve their community when things are so tranquilo. But Eddie put things in perspective for me. Tranquilo is something to embrace, if violence and fear is your country’s theme. Costa Rica is lucky to be so easy going. There is no revolution, no war. People aren’t dying needlessly, families are intact. The country may have serious problems, but fear isn’t one of them. This is one reason why Costa Rica has such a large immigrant population.

Not long ago, Eddie continued, he tried to cross illegally into the United States. I gave him a concerned look to show that I knew what a grave thing it was. He explained that the trip north through Central America was difficult and dangerous. He got as far as Mexico where he faced the facts. Coyotes (guides who bring people across the border), he learned cost about seven thousand dollars per person. Eddie went on to say how awful the coyotes are, sometimes selling their clients into slavery after the crossing. Some coyotes simply steal their clients’ money or take advantage of them sexually. The worst part, he said, was that their clients pay them money made in America after the crossing; if a client cannot make enough to pay the coyote on time, his or her family back home is usually threatened with death. Eddie wanted nothing to do with these people.

Eddie knew the odds. Most of the people who try to cross the border illegally end up dead or in prison. You have to have incredible luck, he noted, to cross the border safely. For every person who makes it, there are several who have died trying. So Eddie turned back, and headed back down south.

He finished his story as we approached our respective houses. I shook his hand and looked at him before heading in.

“Thank God you didn’t do it, man.” I said to him.

“Si, Gracias a Dios.”

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

The Afternoons

I love the late afternoons here. As the sun lowers in the sky, the heat becomes bearable and almost welcomed. There is a dawn in the dusk. Neighbors sit outside under lemon trees and spread chisme. Kids play marbles in the dirt streets. And light falls sideways, creating warm squares on my bedroom walls which bear a comforting reminiscence. The soft light wafts memories into my mind: my brother Andrew, cousin Matthew and I having run home from miniature golf on the Jersey Shore in time to catch the daily Happy Days rerun; squares of rich light obscuring our view with glare. These good memories have diffused with the good ones I’ve made here, enhancing my adoration of the late afternoon sun.

This may sound rude (especially to those of you who live in Florida), but none of you know what heat is. The Costa Rican sun is an imposing presence. Nobody in this country owns a dryer; this is because we live in one. Seats at a soccer game cost a third more if you want to sit in the shade. People walk with umbrellas to protect themselves, and this is in no way uncool. Even the iguanas hide in the drainpipes. So when three o’clock passes, there is a collective sigh of relief.

In the country of “pura vida,” this time is especially relaxed. Because everyone wakes up at five and starts work no later than seven, people usually start trickling home from work at this hour. Fathers join in on the marbles or futbol. It is often this time of day that I enjoy playing with the kids who don’t have anyone, let alone fathers: those at the albergue.

Last Sunday at this hour, I took all of the kids to the park to play futbol, draw, paint, and/or run in circles. I ended up spending the afternoon spinning, throwing, chasing and lifting kids; I was a human jungle gym. The sun was low, so I avoided the stroke that could come from midday playtime. Amid the slaps of bare feet playing soccer on the plancha, and giggling kids, I realized that I had made a breakthrough. I had earned their trust. The little toddler whose mouth was originally glued shut was gabbing on and on about her drawing. The guarded one was jumping all over me (unwittingly kneeing me in the balls every time), begging for a shoulder ride. The problem child actually listend to me when I reprimanded her. This victory is monumental for me.

These kids have every right not to trust another adult again. All of the children have been removed from unsafe home situations; the adults in their lives have done irreparable damage. Their trust in me is also a victory for them. For them to have a healthy relationship with an adult is valuable in that it provides a vital social aptitude. Hopefully, it will lead to more healthy relationships with adults, and a healthier overall socialization. And now that I have their trust and respect, we can start working on more academic projects. I have written up a poetry workshop class for the older kids, we are slated to start on Saturday. I’ll be sure to hold the class in the late afternoon.

It is the late afternoon that I can get lost in. The mornings can be stressful. I wake up and it is already hot. All that moisture, already in the air. It is hard not to think about all those days and mornings piled up ahead of me. Seven hundred thirty days in the Peace Corps, and here’s a fresh one. Necio is usually in my face, wondering why he has not yet been fed. I unclench my teeth and begin.

As each day wears on, I usually find enough small victories to keep me happy, purposeful. But when the day has been too stressful, or not stressful enough, I pack my sunscreen and a towel and head to the beach.

Ok, don’t get excited. I know that you are crazy with jealousy wondering why I ever complain, being so close to the beach. Well, after a short bus ride, I have to navigate my way through the crack heads and junkies to get my feet sandy. Once there, I have to find a spot of black sand that is not covered by driftwood and plastic bottles. I also try to get a spot semi-close to another person on the beach so that I have someone to help me in case of mugging. It is also better to stay away from the smelly big heaps of trash.

But the ocean is the ocean. No matter how poor an area is, the waves crest and crash the same way. Salt fills the air. The waves bury your feet in Puntarenas, just as they would in the Hamptons. I lay down my towel and let the late afternoon sun cover me like a blanket. I close my eyes, and listen to the palms click against each other in the onshore breeze. Every now and then, I get a whiff of garbage. But more often than not, I get the sea spray.

This time has rescued me from some of the more difficult days. After laying out for an hour or so, I usually walk out across the pier to watch the sunset. With the beach lined with palms, and the backlighting from the low sun, Puntarenas looks like paradise. You can’t see the abandoned buildings, the prostitutes or the grime. For that moment, the Puerto is perfect. A postcard. A late afternoon memory, sun-stained, like Andrew and Matt and Happy Days.

Monday, September 8, 2008

The Beautiful Struggle

Life here has been hard lately. I’ve hit the six month mark of being in country. The milestone should be exciting; unfortunately, it has had the opposite effect. It is daunting knowing that I have been here for such a significant amount of time, yet have so far to go. Six months down…twenty-one more to go.

I haven’t written in a while because the last thing I want to be is a bummer to all those living vicariously through me here. I am also trying to figure out a way to express my frustration in an appropriate manner. However, the past few weeks have been positive, and taught me how to take the good with the bad.

I came to this country with (and like to believe that I still have) an open mind. As a sociology student, I’ve trained my mind to be culturally relative: cultures other than mine aren’t better or worse, they are just different. For example, the fact that people do not use flavor in their food here doesn’t make them culturally inferior. The fact that the soccer players here take more flops than others does not make their culture inferior.

During about three weeks ago, I tossed all that out the window. I was ethnocentric, and it didn’t help me one bit.

My friends and I made it a tradition to meet and explore the country once a month. This has been very important to our collective mental health. We have had something to look forward to, time to be ourselves, and time to decompress.

We cancelled our weekend for the month of August. Due the first week of September was an enormous diagnostic that we have to write of our community including everything one would ever need to know about its resources and challenges. Without my monthly break, and with a challenging assignment over my head, I began to get stressed out.

The diagnostic requires extensive field research. I have been going door-to-door, interviewing my fellow community members about the challenges and resources that my housing project has. Turns out that the resources are few and the challenges are great. Big surprise that I was placed here.

I found out information that made me very angry. Mothers prostituting their twelve year old daughters out of their homes. Mothers keeping their children home from school so that they won’t get lonely throughout the day. Fathers few and far between. A municipality that has to have its arm twisted to pave a road so that a disabled child can get to school in his wheelchair. A municipality that threw up the project in haste and forgot about sewage and recreational opportunities for their children. I became sour and resentful. I’ve blamed Ticos in general for all of this. It may not be fair, but when you are up to your eyeballs in it, it is hard to be level-headed.

A few weeks ago, I walked out of my bedroom to see my host sister, Jose, playing with a girl her age who I vaguely recognized as my host brother, Memo’s, girlfriend. They were playing with dolls. I turned around to find Ania holding a beautiful little baby girl. I smiled and asked her name and how old she was (eight months) and played with her for a second. I asked her whose it was, and she replied nonchalantly that it was Memo’s. My jaw dropped. I asked her a few more times if she was sure, and she thought it was funny that I didn’t know. I asked her who the mother was. She pointed to the little girl playing with dolls with Jose. I was taken aback.

The girl couldn’t have been older than fifteen. With an eight month old daughter. I was rattled and had to leave the room.

I couldn’t decide what was more upsetting to me: the fact that the mother was so young, that Memo was so uninvolved with the child’s life, or that everyone was so hunky-dory about it. The mother stayed with us for a few days, and every time I saw her with the baby, I got a bit freaked out. She looked (and may have been) younger than fifteen.

I stewed in anger for days. Not at Memo or the mother or Ania, but at the culture in general. How could this be acceptable to everyone? Ania was thrilled; neighbors would come by and remark to the mother how beautiful her baby was. She was congratulated. And then, I realized that the situation fit perfectly into the way of life of my barrio. Women are often not expected to do more than procreate, and fathers are often not expected to have much of a role at all. I knew that this was not uncommon in my area, or even some areas of the U.S., but it was difficult seeing it up close and personal. It is especially hard for me, a volunteer who has been sent to Puntarenas to prevent that sort of thing exactly. I was not prepared.

My anger didn’t subside until I met up with friends in San Jose to see the Costa Rica-El Salvador World Cup qualifier. Removal from my site was vital. I got to vent to my fellow volunteers who empathized; my experience was not unique. We relaxed together; I had my first drink in a month. It was as if a rope in my stomach was unknotted.

I started to feel good about Ticos again as I entered the soccer stadium. The whole country had united to support their national team, and I got caught up with them. I knew the chants, I knew the players. I sang the national anthem with the rest, and screamed like hell when the game started. When we scored the only goal of the game, the place went wild. I jumped and hugged my Tico neighbors around me: an act of citizenship. They may have their problems, but they are a family…an often dysfunctional family that I have become part of.

I felt better when I returned home. Ania runs a lunch counter at the school, and spends every evening pouring juices into plastic baggies to sell (note to gringos: one, more often than not, purchases juice or coke in a bag here). I tossed down my backpack, sat across from her and began tying the baggies as I do every night. She was happy to see me, and asked me about the game. We fell into a nice rhythm, speaking softly while tying bags. Rain tapped lightly on the tin roof. My mind relaxed and found that faint euphoria that comes with repetitive hand work like the mowing of a lawn or the washing of dishes.

We sat for hours, pouring, tying, talking. Suddenly, I realized that Ania and I had crossed a barrier. We were no longer acquaintances, but close friends. She shared sensitive information with me, and we discussed it. I also realized that my Spanish was no longer slowing me down, and that I could have a complex conversation without missing a beat. It felt good to be home.

For better or worse, it is my home.

Monday, August 11, 2008

The Adventures of Necio

When Marianne left, I inherited her cat, Necio. Necio is a Peace Corps mascot of sorts. He was first adopted by Marianne’s predecessor, Kelly. Kelly had him neutered (thank you Bob Barker), and housebroken. On her last day in site, Marianne walked him over. He was wrapped in a sheet, unaware of what was going on. We took him into my house and I unwrapped him like a present. He popped his head out, took one look around, and ran away. This was the beginning of the adventures of Necio.

I searched in vain for him. After a few times around the neighborhood, I gave up, hoping that he would eventually come back. He didn’t that day or the next; I figured that he had made a home somewhere else. So I went about my life as usual: speaking Spanish, beating the hell out of kids at soccer, etc. One day, about a week later, a woman stopped me as I was walking out of the local pulperia.

It was Marianne’s old host mom, Blanca. At that moment I didn’t recognize her, and became a bit freaked out when she started yelling “El gato! El gato!” I thought that she was just some crazy lady (Puntarenas is chock-full of them), until she said “El gato, Necio. Venga para recogerlo.” I got really excited when she told me that she had him, and walked with her back to her house.

As she promised, he was lounging around her yard. He seemed well, and even happy to see me. He came up and nuzzled into my legs, and began purring. That didn’t last long. I grabbed him by the neck and wrapped him in my gym towel (poor guy), and started walking down the street with my cat.

People in the projects have seen a lot, but none of them neglected to stop and laugh at my meowing, crying ball of towel and fur. Necio tried desperately to get away, but I had him in an awkward headlock, drawing more laughter. I acknowledged my neighbors by saying in Spanish “don’t worry, just walking my cat!” More laughter, more scratches. I began to wonder to myself “why did I agree to this again?”

I got him in my room and closed the door. He was my prisoner. Scared out of his mind, he hid under my bed all day. I set him up with food and water, and hoped that he’d stay this time. As night fell, he poked his pink nose out from under my sheets. I egged him on, calling to him. He slowly emerged from the bed, and I had to admit to him that he was a beautiful animal. He is a deep golden color with orange stripes. His eyes match his coat: two golden rings. His sheer size is impressive; my host mom Ania refers to him as “enormo” or the “tigre.” After taking a lap around my room, he ate, drank, and sat on the bed with me. I hoped that he had gotten the point that this was his new home. Of course, he didn’t.

I took the bottom slat of glass out of my window so that Necio could jump out and go to the bathroom, and hang out outside. I was a bit worried about letting him have his freedom, but it was the way he lived with Marianne, and I didn’t want to mess with the system. The main reason that I was worried is that Necio has no, um, testosterone. I was afraid that the male cat that lives here would fight him and scare him away. I was also afraid that he would get made fun of by other cats. Most of the female cats and dogs here, not unlike the humans, are pregnant or trying to become pregnant. I didn’t want Necio’s lack of necessary equipment to get him down. Apparently, this was not a problem.

He left and came back, and became comfortable living with me. I gave him a constant supply of food, and he gave me good company. Everything went fine until I left for Guanacaste.

I came back from the beach trip to find my host aunt standing in the middle of my bed, hanging laundry on clotheslines she had hung across my room. “Hey David,” she said with a smile. “It’s raining outside, so we’re hanging the laundry in here.” I told her that it was cool with me, and searched the room for my cat. I saw that Ania had not put out food like she said she would. He was nowhere to be found.

I walked into the kitchen and asked Ania what happened to Necio. “Se fue,” she said, meaning that he’d left. “I don’t think that he likes you or this house very much. You should just let him go,” she said in Spanish.

“Thanks for your support and help Ania, you really blew this big time. Shit!” I said in English, turning from her.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Thanks Ania, you are the best” in Spanish.

“Oh. Well, thanks.”

The next day I went to Blanca’s house, and sure enough, he was there. Again, I wrapped the brat in my gym towel. More scratching, crying and laughing. When I got him back to my room, however, he seemed happy. I think that he thought that I had abandoned him. I pet him, fed him, and he felt at home.

He hasn’t run away since. He hangs out in my room during the day, and goes out all night. This is great in the fact that he doesn’t pee on my floor, or poop on my bed. However, at about four or five, every morning, I awake with a jolt as he crashes through the window, into the bed and on top of my face. Every now and then, I wake up to see him fly through the window followed by Negro (the other cat of the household). They then proceed to fight, bringing my blood pressure to new heights. A few times, he has crashed into the room followed by a totally random cat off the street that I then have to cram out of the slit in my window. Did I mention that “Necio” is Spanish for “annoying”?

Even with him living up to his name, Necio is good company. We read together, watch movies, and he is even lying in bed next to me as I write this. This place can get pretty lonely. In such times, it is nice to have a little friend who, in thick fur in the 110 degree heat, may be suffering as much, if not more than I am.


P.S. Beating the hell out of kids at soccer is not all I have been doing. I’ll update you ASAP on all of my new projects that have been keeping me really busy.

Monday, August 4, 2008

New Cell Phone!

Hi All,

My new cell phone number is (from the US):

011-506-8821-4013

Dave

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Oh! This is why tourists come to Costa Rica: Playas Brasilito, Conchal and Flamingo

It finally came: my first real vacation. After five and a half months of chasing kids, writing lesson plans, and putting myself in extremely uncomfortable situations, I got a chance to relax. This past Friday was a national holiday: Annexation (of Guanacaste) Day. This day celebrates the annexation of Guanacaste (northwest Costa Rica, arguably the best province in the country) from Nicaragua. This translates into a Fourth of July like party involving traditional dress, dance and food. More importantly for me, it meant a day off and a free night out of site. Therefore, my friends Casey, Julie, Hillary, Meaghan, Mario and I headed north to join in on the partying.

Our first stop was the City of Liberia. Liberia is smack-dab in the middle of and is considered the capital of Guanacaste; it also happens to be Hillary’s site. Hillary met Casey, Julie, Meaghan and I at the bus stop and promptly led us to the Liberia Festivals: the epicenter of a province locked into party mode. The Liberia Festival is comparable to a county fair; there are food booths, carnival rides, bars, concerts and rodeos. We strolled through the grounds in bliss; we were happy to see each other after being isolated for so long. We were also excited by the fantastic food. I immediately grabbed one of my favorite Tico foods: grilled meat on a stick. In another world, one might call it a shish kebab; here, it is meat on a stick. Some got pizza. But the best part of any carnival or fiesta in Costa Rica was enjoyed by all: the churro. For those of you who don’t know what a churro is (if you don’t, I feel sorry for you), allow me to explain. A churro is a deep fried roll of hollowed out batter the size and shape of a foot long hot dog. The churro is covered end to end in cinnamon sugar, and often times infused with dulce de leche. Even though the pastry is vividly phallic, we all ate unbashfully. Ahhhh, churros.

With our stomachs full of carnival food, we moseyed on over to a bar to make a very important toast. With bottles of cheap Costa Rican beer, we celebrated Casey’s birthday and made our own little Liberia Festival. We clinked glasses and slapped each other on the back, high on the anticipation of our vacation. When we were finished, we walked out into the sun and heat to get back to the bus station. It was time to make our way to the coast.

Keeping with Tico tradition, what should have been an hour long bus ride took three. We groggily disembarked from the bus in Playa Brasilito to be roused by the smell of the ocean in the air. We got directions to our hotel from a local and began walking. With each step, the sound of crashing waves on the shore became clearer. As we approached, I realized that our hotel was on the beach, and that I would be sleeping a stone’s throw from the water. If that wasn’t enough to make me smile, waiting for us was our good friend Mario. He was with three people I had never met having drinks on the oceanfront patio. I dropped by bag, hugged him and looked out onto the darkness of the Pacific Ocean. “Welcome to paradise” he said.

We checked into our rooms, went out to the patio, and introduced ourselves to Mario’s friends. Mikey (an interesting name for a girl) is a Habitat for Humanity volunteer working on a new community in Cartago. A fantastic couple was with her visiting from Guatamala. The couple was in Guatamala for the summer making a documentary on coffee growers and the complex economics that go with the trade. The three were interesting, fun, and added a great dynamic to the trip. It is always nice to meet interesting people on vacation.

We took dinner on the patio. Casey received a steady flow of birthday drinks, and eventually retired early with Julie (his girlfriend). The rest of us were drawn to the ocean and took a walk on the beach. While there was talk of skinny dipping, we simply strolled in the darkness. I was taken aback by how many stars I could see. In the Puerto, all you can see is the orange reflection of lights in the night sky. In Brasilito, we could see everything, even the cloudy light of the Milky Way.

The next day, we woke up at six am and ate legitimate breakfast food on the patio. Banana pancakes, French toast, omelets; it was fantastic. Hillary and Julie were doing well on their “no rice and beans” weekend. After breakfast, we packed our beach bags and started the one kilometer walk to Playa Conchal. Conchal is hidden and difficult to get to. We walked south along Playa Brasilito until we came to a headland into which a path had been cleared. We passed through a tunnel of trees and tropical plants and emerged with gasps and wide eyes.

The empty white beach went on forever into the horizon, flanked by clear water. Palm trees bent over the beach, as if kneeling to honor it. The clear water gave way to a clean blue that I have never before seen in the ocean. The beach itself is made of billions of pieces of crushed shell, hence the name Conchal. We removed our sandals, caught our breath and walked along the beach until we found a private tree cove. I knew that places like this existed from travel magazines and postcards, but could not believe that I was actually there. It was so striking that I had to thank God for making such a place, and providing me with the opportunity to see it. After taking it in, I ran toward the water like a little kid, and dove in.

We spent the day absorbing the strong Guanacaste sun, swimming and snorkeling. Mario and I rented snorkels and walked over to a shallow pool protected by an outcropping of rocks. After pressing our masks to our faces, we jumped off the rocks and took a look. Florescent tropical fish were everywhere. I had only seen such fish in tanks at the aquarium in Coney Island, and in Finding Nemo. Speaking of which, I found Dory a few times and said hi. She kept forgetting my name, so avoided her and met all of the other fish.

That evening, we showered, ate and sat on the beach to watch one of the best sunsets I have ever seen. The horizon was free of clouds, but luckily there were some wisps distributed throughout the rest of the sky. The beach is in a horseshoe shaped cove, with tiny uninhabited islands popping up on the horizon like fingers. As the sun lowered in the sky, the foliage covered headlands of the cove turned mango, then pink, then violet. The islands, and then the tips of the horseshoe became silhouettes. The backlighting hid any blemishes the scene may have had, and enhanced the texture of the beards of trees on the islands. The afterglow lasted late into the evening as we sipped rum from plastic cups on the beach.

The next day was more of the same. We took a taxi five kilometers north to Playa Flamingo. Flamingo was actually better than Conchal if you can believe it. There was white, powdery sand and clear blue water. Manta rays jumped into the air and surfed waves right next to me. At one point while I was swimming, I looked down into the clear water to find one at my feet. Remembering the terrible fate of Steve Irwin, I jumped away from him, and he did the same. However, being so close gave me a chance to get a good look at him. He was the color of desert camouflage and floated on the ground like a flying saucer; a truly beautiful animal.

The next day we all traveled back to our sites, tan and exhausted. While I did not like leaving such a beautiful place, I am glad to be back at my site. After a good vacation, I feel recharged. And while times here in Puntarenas may be wet, smelly and difficult, I can always remember that the white sand and clear water are only a bus ride away.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

NO MORE KIDS

I don´t think I want to have kids for a really long time.

Dave

Monday, June 30, 2008

Rain

It is raining hard tonight. The sound of the fat drops pattering on the roof is therapeutic. I’ve been quite bummed out today, and the rhythm is calming. I’m sitting on a rocking chair on my front porch, watching the rain splash off roofs and the banana trees bend in the wind. The setting is serene, but I don’t take as much solace from it as I should. I have a headache that no pills have helped; remnants from last night’s big party in San Jose. My host family has decided that it is a good time to do karaoke at max volume. And to top things off, the shit smell has just wafted into my face.

At this moment, I am homesick.

This past weekend, I met up with all of the volunteers in country (about a hundred in total) for a party bidding the Tico 15 group farewell. It was a blast. It was an all day, all night party that made me feel normal again. I was speaking English, I had the privacy of a hotel room, and most importantly, I had a hot shower. These luxuries make coming home to the Puerto a brutal reminder of exactly how far away from home I am. It makes me miss my apartment on West Street, where Derek and I spent Sunday nights ordering Thai food and watching the Discovery Channel. Tonight, I choked down more rice and beans.

I know that I shouldn’t whine. I could be in Africa in a hut without electricity or water. But something else is bothering me: I am sad to see Tico 15 leave. Tico 15 is the group of PCVs who came here two years ago and are ready to head home. Many Tico 15ers have played major roles in my training and adjustment into Tico life and culture. The most important of these PCVs is Marianne. She lives here in my site, and is handing the torch to me. Although she may disagree, she has done a fantastic job here, and has set the bar quite high for me. She has shown me the ropes, and introduced me to people I need to know, and is now packing her bags. But I don’t want her to go.

Marianne has been my lifeline here. When work at the school or albergue has been too stressful, I can count on her to provide me with good conversation, and episodes of Scrubs. When I get too sick of bland Tico food, I head over to her place and we cook up a storm; she makes a mean Bolognese sauce. Marianne is a Southern Baptist reverend’s daughter from Fort Worth, Texas who has had a falling out with God; a subject about which we speak often. If she hears a good salsa song playing, she has to dance to it. Her lessons have made me a bit less terrible on the dance floor. She has helped me establish myself here. I just hope that I can get along okay when the cord is cut and she returns home.

It is raining harder now. The gutters are filling up with thick brown water. I realize now that I have had it pretty easy thus far; Posh Corps if you will. If I am going to make it here, I’m going to have to get used to being uncomfortable. West Street is long gone. Nobody is going to hold my hand anymore. And while my host family may have no sense of reasonable stereo volume control, they are my support here. So with headache still throbbing, I leave the rain to sing awful Spanish songs inside with my family. And while my family’s voices sound like dying animals’, I find a surprising comfort in the dissonance, and sing along.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

The Great American (Nicaraguan?) Pastime

FYI: My new mailing address:

David Larkin
Apartado Postal 166-5400
Puntarenas, Costa Rica
America Central


One downside of living in a Catholic country is that my gym is closed on Sundays. This truth has forced me to make Sunday my running day. The safest place for me to run is on a track that surrounds my town’s soccer field. Next to the soccer field and track is a baseball field that I never really see due to the Guanacaste trees that separate the two fields. Every Sunday, I hear the crack of the bat and the cheers of the crowd; sounds that remind me of my high school baseball days. The sounds fuel me and provide me with memories to keep my mind occupied as I keep my feet moving along the track.

This past Sunday, as I was going through my routine, I stopped, squinted my eyes and tried to make out the game through the curtain of leaves. After a minute of this, I realized that I could take it easy on my eyes and just head over to the ball field and watch the game. As I approached the diamond, I could see that both teams were wearing uniforms; this was clearly a league game. The Puntarenas team was hosting the team from Cañas. I found a spot next to the home team’s dugout and took it in.

It had been a long time since I’d seen baseball played; soccer is the dominant sport here. I concluded that these players were probably Nicaraguan immigrants. It is common knowledge in Costa Rica that if you find people playing baseball, they are probably Nicaraguans. This assumption is due to the sport’s popularity there, and its unpopularity here.

Regardless of who was playing, it was a refreshing site. The sprawling triangular shape was like a slice of America laid out before me. The sights and smells were familiar and comforting. There was a good sized crowd cheering on the Puntarenas team, and I proudly cheered them too. Both teams were good, but Puntarenas was better. The pitcher was throwing heat that must have been in the seventies or eighties. I was thrilled to watch the game, and assess the level of play. However, more than anything, I wished to be out there playing with them.

After watching a few innings, I concluded that I could probably hold my own against these guys. I was no all-star in high school, but played consistent, good ball. I wondered how I could get into the league. Perhaps I could at least try out next season. Sliding closer to the dugout, I caught the attention of one of the players and coyly asked how one would go about getting on the team. “Quiere jugar?” he asked with a grin. I responded by telling him that yes, I did want to play and asked him if they needed any extra players.

“Si, pase adelante, macha,” he beckoned me into the dugout with an even bigger grin. “Juege hoy!” Translation: “Sure you can play, whitey, play today!” While I was a bit taken aback by his response, I walked into the dugout. I wanted to explain that I wanted to play, but maybe in their next game.

“No tengo una camiseta,” I explained. As if I was expected, the man pulled out an extra uniform and glove and tossed them at me. He told me that it was no problem and to get dressed, because the second game of their double header was about to start. I threw on the uniform to find that it fit perfectly. Suited up, I knew that there was no turning back, and prepared myself to play baseball for the first time in six years. I warmed up with one of the other players with my mind racing. I realized that my arm had adjusted to softball, and my bat speed probably had as well. I saw that these guys were better than I thought they were and got really nervous. I was in over my head.

The game started and we were first up to bat even though we were the home team. The man with the grin came over and put his arm around me. He had an epic moustache and a friendly way about him. He introduced himself as Ramon, and informed me that I would be batting second.

“Segundo?” I asked him baffled. Second in the batting order is usually reserved for better batters, not usually where you would put somebody you’d never seen bat before.

“Quiere sexto? No me importa!” Offering me sixth in the lineup, I could tell that he really didn’t care.

“No, no, segundo esta bien.” So I walked to the on deck circle and took some swings while the lead off man took his at-bat. I don’t remember how, but the lead-off man did his job and got on base and it was my turn to bat. The whole team, and much of my town was watching me; it was a try-out of sorts. I was shared shitless.

I took the first pitch which was a fastball called for a strike. I became even more nervous. The ball comes at you a lot faster when you are in the batter’s box. The man was hurling ‘em way faster than the guys who I played in high school. I ran the count full and was ready for the payoff pitch. It looked good, slower and right down the middle. I took a good cut and was thoroughly embarrassed as I whiffed and watched the bottom fall out of the ball and drop to the back of the plate. I had never faced a knuckleball before. It is the kind of pitch that makes a fool out of a batter who doesn’t know how to handle them. I walked back to the dugout, totally sure that I had made a mistake by joining up with the team.

The guys were good enough to give me my position of second base, where I settled in after our ups. I was glad to be there, I only wished that I was wearing a cup. A fierce ground ball could easily sterilize you without proper protection. I made a few pretty put outs there in the field, and built up my confidence. At least the team could see that I wasn’t totally incompetent.

A few innings passed, and it was my turn to bat again. This time, I took a lighter bat to increase my bat speed. The knot in my stomach returned as I dug in against this fantastic pitcher. He took his wind-up and I knew immediately that I had to swing. I could tell by the way he released the pitch that it wasn’t his ridiculous knuckleball or any other breaking ball. I swung early, hoping to catch up to his heat, and the most incredible thing happened. I got a hit. It was no ground ball with eyes or dribbler; I hit the ball square and hard. It was a legitimate line drive to left field. The guys cheered me, chanting “muy bien macha!” I eventually came around to score.

The guys played impeccable baseball and we won six to nothing. I got a few walks and didn’t strike out again. After the game, Ramon gave me his number and told me that we have games every Sunday. Throughout the season, we will have to travel all over the country to play other teams. I told him that I am game and looked forward to the next game.

I’ll let you know how we do.

Dave

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Balancing Act

Life here is like walking a tightrope. Just to pass one day is like taking one step. To do something incredible is to do a back flip. And just the slightest breeze can throw you off balance, and toss you to the ground below.

Lately, I’ve been doing back flips, into cartwheels, into what have you. Work has been going well, my social life has been great, the kids call me professor, and the women call me Papi. What I didn’t take into account is the fact that doing so well inevitably sets the bar higher, lifts the rope a few stories higher. Now, if I don’t get a nod of approval from the school’s director, don’t get to see that intoxicating Puntarenas sunset, I may fall hard, whereas before I may have been taking another steady step. PCV veterans here have told me that “the highs are high, the lows are low.” I’m beginning to understand what they mean.

The funny thing is that I haven’t fallen off yet. When I’m not doing gymnastics, I’m still moving forward. But I can see a storm brewing in the distance, and I know that I’m sure to get the wind knocked out of me a few times. My Spanish has reached a plateau; and it’s not like the plateau is a very high one. My family no longer sees me as a novelty and may eventually realize that they have given me one of two bedrooms in household of four. And one of my best friends here is preparing to ship out of Costa Rica. We’ll see how my balance holds up.

Enough with the pessimism…and now, the news:

Last weekend, I decided to take the only out-of-site night offered for the first month of service. After the first three months, these nights are unlimited; however, for now, the powers that be want me to stay in my site in order to better integrate. So I called up my friend Hillary who lives in Liberia (the city in Guanacaste, not the country in Africa). She agreed that we both need a break and should do something fun. “What do you want to do?” she asked.

“Anything, I don’t care. As long as I don’t have to see, hear or work with kids.”

“Ok, let’s go to the beach!” Hillary replied (she is ironically an Obama fan). “My friend Brandon is at Playa del Coco to volunteer for World Ocean Day. We can go to the beach and hang out with him.”

So as you can imagine, we did not get a relaxing day on the beach drinking margaritas…we ended up flanked by kids for the wonder that was World Ocean Day. That is the bummer about being a PCV: you can’t really say no when someone asks you to volunteer for something like World Ocean Day. What was I supposed to say? No thanks, I’m going to go hit the casino? So I ended up picking trash out of a dirty beach filled with super weirdo ex-pats and creepy sex tourists.

There is an upside. World Ocean Day paid for my hotel room. It was a sweet room too. I took my first hot shower in a month, and got to swim in a pool that was Hepatitis free. The night before, Hillary and I got to go out and catch up on our first month as PCVs. It was great to see her, even though we overpaid for beer and were flanked by the super weirdo ex-pats and creepy tourists. The best part of it all is that I explained what happened to my boss, and he let me take it as a work night out of site. So I still have the opportunity to take a night and do something fun. I may just go wild in the Puerto.

I hope that all is well at home. I put my toothbrush in my mouth the other night to brush up before bed only to spit out a big bug that was in its bristles. Think about that when you step into your clean American bathroom tonight.

Best,

Dave

Monday, June 9, 2008

The Fit

Things are finally falling into place. I have found that I am no longer constantly focusing on staying sane and avoiding homesickness; I am too busy for it now.

After a meeting with my school’s Junta de Educacíon (the Tico equivalent to the PTA), and the school’s director, I have learned that I am the new soccer coach. I can’t tell you how perfect a job this is for me. Not only do I enjoy playing and have a good grasp of the game, it has gotten me in with the students, the teachers, the administration, community members, and leaders at other schools in the area. This has happened because I have been taking both the girls and boys teams to tournaments in the area where many of the aforementioned people are in attendance. Having access to these people has not only made my job easier, but it has provided me with resources for the future. For example, I was shooting the breeze with another coach named Humburto, and he started talking about the band that he started at his school. He explained to me that he had found a direct correlation with the band members’ involvement and an increase in their grades. I congratulated him on his success and told him that I would love to start something like that at my school. There is quite the demand for and lack of extracurricular activities at my school; my director has put me in charge of improving the situation. After exchanging numbers, Humburto offered to help me out with a band or anything of the sort and I thanked him. After this interaction, I realized that my work here is going to have a domino effect: from one meeting comes a job, and from the job comes more meetings and more jobs. I’m just glad that the dominoes have started falling.

The work in the alberques has been consistently great. Last weekend, fellow volunteers Melissa and Sara (one year in), Casey and I (almost four months in) took the children on an outing. Melissa is a volunteer who lives a few miles upland and inland from me and has made a friend named Oolie who is on her town’s Junta de Proteccíon (a children’s advocacy group). Oolie owns a small hotel in the mountains of Miramar with an amazing view of the entire Nicoya Gulf, the Nicoya Peninsula, and the Central Pacific area. She was kind enough to invite the albergue kids and us up for a visit to play on the grounds, hike the mountain trails, and swim in her pool. Needless to say, we accepted, grabbed the kids, hopped on a bus and headed for the mountains.

Oolie’s place is a small clearing at the top of a mountain. The hotel consists of three small, tastefully done cabins with patios that take advantage of the view. She’s cleared two paths that slice through the lush rainforest creating tunnels of green. The two paths meet at a gazebo containing a perfectly placed hammock looking out onto the sea. We traversed these paths with the kids, stopping to pick mangoes along the way. The children clearly relished the time in nature; they don’t get out of the city much.

After a hot, sweaty hike, Oolie led the children to the pool (which, like everything else, possesses the view). Laughing and playing, she tossed the kids pool toys and taught them pool games. It was perfectly clear that Oolie really enjoyed being around kids and appreciated their fun. We four volunteers joined the fun: Casey and I threw the kids all over the place, we all played pool volleyball. Every now and then, I would stop and take a long gaze at the view. It is one of those views that grabs your insides and holds you for a second; it makes your lungs stall. Sometimes I’d find a few of my pint sized friends bobbing next to me taking it in as well. It was good for me to see, but more important for the children. They are kids who have been through a lot and seen some terrible things; such a sight is therapeutic for them. Silently watching the clouds pass over the gulf, I understood that beautiful things are not meant for only the rich to see; it was clear that Oolie agreed with me.

Oolie was born in Mexico to German parents. After living in Mexico and Germany and other Northern European countries in her youth, she moved here eleven years ago. As we sat down for a coffee break for adults only, she explained to us four volunteers that her parents bought the land and left it to her to develop while they lived in Germany. She went on to tell us how depressed and lonely she was while the house and cabins were being built; it was work with kids that rescued her. The four of us could empathize and appreciate this. After hearing her story, we toasted the day’s success, and thanked Oolie for hosting us. She then made a speech welcoming Casey and I to Peace Corps Costa Rica, offering herself and her land as a friend and resource respectively. We again thanked her, then gathered the kids together to take them back to the albergue.

***Quick Pitch***

If you plan on visiting Costa Rica, Oolie’s hotel would be a grate place to spend a day or two. It is called El Mirador in Miramar, Puntarenas. The cabins are big with two double beds, kitchen, bathroom and patio. There is no AC, but this is because it is in the mountains and cool. A cabin costs $60 a night.

I hope that all is well at home. Drop me a line if you have any news to report.

Dave

Monday, May 26, 2008

Work Hard, Relax Hard

My first week in-service was very busy. I filled my schedule to the brim so that my days could be as busy as they were when I worked at Skadden. This is a strategy I am using to take my mind off of the terrifying fact that I am going to be living away from everything I know and love for two years. Ha.

Most of my time was spent with the children at the two albergues in my town. Albergues are small orphanages run by PANI (the Administration of Children’s Services of Costa Rica). Passing by one, you wouldn’t know that it was an albergue; they look like normal houses on normal streets. In each albergue, between ten and fifteen children live with one or two “Tias” (Aunts). The children aren’t necessarily orphans; they are mostly children who have been removed from dangerous home situations. Many of them are victims of verbal, physical or sexual abuse. Regardless, they are a pleasure to be around.

During their free time, the children in the albergues really don’t have many recreational opportunities. The Tias are exhausted enough from caring for a household of children; they don’t really have the energy to run around with them. This is where I come in. Three afternoons this past week, I took the kids to the park to run around and get out of the house. We’ve been doing quite a bit of bonding lately, and I’m really happy to say that most of the kids like me. That is, of course, until I beat the hell out of them at soccer.

But in all seriousness, I feel that just to get the children doing constructive things during their free time is important. There is one boy in the group who is really good at soccer and was lucky enough to be selected for his school team. This has really kept him occupied; hopefully enough to keep him away from bad habits in the future. The boy is great to be around. He has a face that exudes congeniality, is really intelligent and has a decent chance of making it to college. I just hope that by embracing his talents, I can keep him on the right path in any way possible. If that includes taking him to the park to practice, then so be it. Hopefully as I become more comfortable with the children, and understand what they need, I can develop more substantive activities.

I also got to do my first work in the elementary school. This past Tuesday, Marianne and I taught a class for the “Aula Abierta” (open classroom) program: A class for dropouts who want to finish up their elementary school educations so that they can go to high school. This translates into a class of fifteen year old first graders mixed with eleven year old third graders and so on. It is interesting to say the least. Marianne and I taught a lesson on budgeting that went off without a hitch. This blew Marianne away; the previous class was apparently not so smooth. With students of different ages and intellectual capabilities, it is clearly a hard class to teach; and this is my inheritance.

All week, my host family has been raving to me about their family’s house in the campo just north and upland of here in a town called Caballo Blanco. Yesterday (Sunday), we packed into their tiny Civic, and headed out to spend the day there. As we drove away from Puntarenas, north along the Inter-American Highway, I felt as if I was being lifted out of an oven. As the Civic chugged up the mountains, the air became fresh and I was freed of the raw sewage odor. When we finally arrived in Caballo Blanco, my host brother, Memo, took us down a small dirt road until we were stopped by the car of my host aunt. She informed us all something in a Spanish that I couldn’t make out, and we all got out of the car and walked over to a group of trees. It made sense to me when the group of us (My host mom, “dad,” (he´s 29, I can´t bring myself to call him "dad") brother, sister, aunt, and two nieces) started to pick nance fruits from the trees and throw them in bags. The nances are like bitter little yellow pears the size of grapes. I didn’t like them much, and was glad when we continued a bit down the road to the house.

The house was beautiful. It was big and pink, with a long front porch and a yard of phosphorescent moss. Bamboo trees grew from the property in clusters and creaked in the wind. I walked with Memo behind the house where I found a view of Puntareanas, the entire Nicoya Gulf, and the high mountains of the Nicoya Penninsula. I was taken aback by the beauty of it, looked at Memo and yelled “why are you still living in the projects!” He explained that the house was his grandmother’s until she died in the accident, and now it belongs to his mom and aunt. They are probably going to move in after I spend my year with them.

As I contemplated this, Memo led me to the front porch and sat me down in their hammock as if to say “you’ve had a long week, take a chill pill.” The hammock hung under a great banyan tree which in and of itself seemed lazy; vines and moss hung from its branches. I lay there in the hammock and shot the breeze with Memo and Bairón until I saw my host Aunt setting up a barbecue. Happiness shot through my body as I saw her pour charcoal into the grill and start it up. This was totally inconsistent with the great Tico tradition of frying all food to oblivion. There would be no rice and beans for this lunch. Grilled meat? I couldn’t have been happier.

At this moment, Bairón sat me down at the picnic table on the porch and set a bottle of guaro in front of me. Y ahora, bebemos” he said, and put down a glass. I asked him if it was like vodka, and he replied, “mas suave.” I smiled and he poured me a drink with ice and a bit of coke. It was great. Guaro is like a mix between vodka and rum, made from sugar cane here in Costa Rica. It is cheap and good. Bairón, Memo and I sat and took our drinks under the banyan tree until the meat was ready, at which point we feasted.

The three of us spent a while talking, and I felt that I was starting to get to know them. They are both clowns and kind of foolish, but with good intentions. Memo, I have just learned, is eighteen. This explains his immaturity. Regardless, I enjoy joking around with him and Bairón. It makes me feel normal again.

After a few drinks, Bairón said to me what may be the best thing anyone has ever said to me: “Vamos a apiar aquacates,” or “Let’s go pick avocadoes.” We walked behind the house and on their huge lot we found three avocado trees. And it just happens to be avocado season. We spent an hour or so plucking avocadoes from the high branches using a long bamboo branch with a pillowcase on one end of it. Two bulging bags of ripe avocadoes later, we were done. I can see what my meal schedule is going to be like for the next two weeks: rice, beans and avocadoes. It’s a step in the right direction.

Ania then asked me if I wanted to go for a walk with her and of course I complied. We strolled along a dirt path that separated huge meadows interrupted by mango and Guanacaste trees. The path was lined by marañon trees which produce the marañon fruit. The fruit isn’t anything special, but at one end of it is a hard shell protecting the seed we commonly know as the cashew. We walked and walked and shared a lot about ourselves. I thanked her for opening her home and family to me, and she said that she was happy to have me. As we walked back to the house, I realized just how lucky I am to have such a good host family and only hope that they continue to be so supportive.

I just wanted to give a quick shout out to my Dad: Happy Birthday! I hope that all is well. I miss you very much. Eat some good food for me, I´m sure that Mom is all over it!

Much love to all,
Dave