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.

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

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

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