Swearing In and Shipping Out

This past Friday was a big day: my swearing in ceremony. The event was held at the Ambassador’s House, and was attended by leaders of the U.S. Embassy, Peace Corps, and various Costa Rican government agencies including Patronato National de la Infancia (my program’s counterpart agency…the Costa Rican Administration for Children’s Services). The house was beautiful, yet eerily empty; we are currently between American Ambassadors. Therefore, we were sworn in by the second-in-command: Magda Siekert. The occasion was like a wedding; we sat under white tents in the mansion’s back yard, overlooking sprawling lawns, pools and reception tables. After speeches by several of my bosses, directors of counterpart agencies, and three of my fellow volunteers, Mrs. Siekert added a few words of her own and then asked us to stand and raise our right hands. I’ve always considered myself to be a patriotic American, but I must say, chills ran down my spine as I took the very same oath that the president takes. I felt like I was dedicating myself to something significant as I promised to defend the constitution in front of all of those important people. And when we were done, my friends and I looked at each other in awe as if to say “did you feel it too?”

After taking the oath, we received our certificates graduation style and I got to meet the second-in-command. I asked her when we should expect to welcome our new Ambassador, and she said she didn’t know. So if anybody is interested in being the Ambassador to tropical paradise, they may still be taking applications. Mrs. Siekert was sweet and assured us that the Embassy would be looking out for us. I’m not sure how comfortable that was supposed to make me feel, but I told her thanks and went to congratulate my friends. After a whirlwind of pictures and food with my friends and Tico families, we left the grounds of the house, not as trainees, but as Peace Corps Volunteers.

That night was mayhem. Just as we were swearing in, the group that had arrived two years earlier was spending its last weekend in Costa Rica. Those in-between were dedicated to giving us a warm welcome, while wishing the veterans well. What resulted was an American bar filled wall to wall with PCVs, and a party to remember (or not). It was really cool to hang out a bit with the veterans and get their advice. The best suggestion I got was to have your parents ship you big bottles of Franks Red Hot. You hear that Mom and Dad? It was a good celebration: lots of salsa, meringue and terrible Costa Rican beer. It made me feel that much more proud to be a volunteer.

Yesterday, I kissed my host Mom goodbye, and shipped out to my permanent site: Puntarenas, a.k.a.: the Puerto. Puntarenas may be the hottest place on the planet. I’ve been told that it is the worst place to have a hangover, and I don’t doubt it. The sun is strong, and the air is thick and humid. We are just coming into the rainy season here, which means hot sunny mornings and torrential downpours in the afternoons. This translates to full, open gutters simmering during the morning, and refilling during the afternoon. On top of the gutter smell, we are close to a water treatment plant that releases the putrid odor of raw sewage when the skies open. Needless to say, it’s going to be a shitty rainy season.

Regardless, I am in love with the Puerto. It may be a seedy port town, but it’s my seedy port town. And let’s not forget that there is a lot to be said for a seedy port town. You can’t walk down the street without finding a bowl of fresh ceviche, or fresh fish in general. I am a short walk from the beach, and a quick bus ride from the center of the city. I am already familiar with the site, as this is my third time here. Most importantly, Puntarenas has a strong tradition of hosting Peace Corps volunteers, and the PANI office already knows the drill. I am not going to be looked at like an alien when I tell them that I left a life of comfort in the US to work with troubled youth in the Puerto. In my specific neighborhood, I am the third consecutive PCV. I am even lucky enough to have Marianne, a PCV late in her second year, to show me the ropes. So while she’s looking forward to heading back to the states, I can transition into the role by taking over her programs while thinking up my own.

My host family looks great. The household is run by Doña Ania; a sweet woman in her early forties who vigilantly looks after her eleven year old daughter, Joseline and her twenty-something year old son Guillermo, a.k.a. Memo. Ania’s “husband” (I’m not sure if they’re married or not) Bairón makes furniture and has promised me that we will be making an armoire for my room in the next week. Bairón is a Nicaraguan immigrant, which is an interesting situation in Costa Rica. Nicaraguans (or “Nicas”) are very similar to Mexican immigrants in America. Fleeing war, violence and poverty, Nicaraguans have come here in droves, taking any work they can find. They have taken most of the work that Ticos consider themselves above doing, and are often resented for taking Tico jobs. Sound familiar? If any Nicaraguan commits a crime, the news broadcasters make it known that the assailant was “Nica,” reinforcing public resentment and fear of the immigrants. Nonetheless, Bairón seems like a good, honest man.

While most of the time Ania is in good spirits and wears a smile, there is a quiet sadness to her. Almost a year and a half ago, she lost her mother, brother, sister and very young son in a car wreck. Last night, Ania confided this information to me and showed me pictures of all of the victims. The little boy couldn’t have been older than six. She seemed pained as she showed me the pictures, but also a bit optimistic. Although her boy is irreplaceable, perhaps she is hoping to find another son in me. We’ll see what happens.

Overall, I am thrilled to be here in-site. While I was promised by Peace Corps recruiters that I would be in the hellholes of the world, working with the poorest of the poor, I am impressed with my community. People here look out for each other and seem genuinely vested in the health of the barrio. I walked around town yesterday and found myself greeted warmly with a “buenas!” from everyone on their porches, and was even invited to sit and visit with one family. Two cups of coffee and three slices of pan dulce later, defending the constitution never tasted so good.