Monday, December 7, 2009

Sustainability

Throughout the Peace Corps experience, the importance of sustainability in projects is drilled into the head of every volunteer. Because we volunteers offer our sites no financial backing for their development, we can only offer our ideas and hard work. The goal is that the results of our work will not fade when we leave our sites. Rather a lasting impact is expected of us; we are expected to plant a seed that the site then cultivates. To simplify: “you give a man a fish; you feed him for a day. You teach him how to fish, you feed him for life.”

To consistently create sustainable projects in one’s site is easier said than done. A volunteer cannot simply create the perfect sustainable project in his or her head and implement it. The volunteer must first consult with counterparts, and tailor projects to their needs. I have had many creative, sustainable project proposals shot down by my school’s director. I have been told by some of my counterparts exactly what they need; these requests are often for unsustainable work. So I have had to find a balance between catering to the desires of the institutions in which I work and working on projects that I feel could be sustainable.

A major problem that many of my colleagues in the Children, Youth and Families program encounter is that sustainability is not easy to measure in educational work. Who knows if what you teach has a lasting impact on the community? How can you tell if the community will take ownership over the information that you share? For most volunteers, you just have to put your work out there and hope that the information catches on somewhere and takes off after you leave.

I am a rare volunteer who has been lucky enough to see sustainability in action. The other day, I was approached by Xinia, the teacher at the school who facilitates the Chicas Super Poderosas group with me. She invited me to a workshop that she was putting on for a small group of students. I happily accepted and did not think much of it.

The next day, I walked into a classroom filled with children laying on mats. I smiled; the kids looked like they were excited about any workshop that involved laying down. As Xinia made her way through the lesson, I became filled with pride. What had me so excited was that the workshop was a variation on one of the lessons we gave during the Chicas Super Poderosas program. It was as if she had torn a page from the manual.

I had always planned on speaking with Xinia about continuing Chicas Super Poderosas after I leave. However, she beat me to the punch by putting on the workshop. Afterwards, we spoke about the coming end of the school year and the Chicas program. We agreed that we would start a new Chicas group the following school year in February. I reminded her that I would be ending my service before the program would end. She told me not to worry, that she would continue it. I beamed.

As I went to leave the school that day, I passed by the small classrooms and then paused. In a poetic moment, I took in what I had just experienced and took note of a group of small fruit trees lining the walkway. A year and a half ago, I had planted the trees as saplings. Now they had taken the form of small trees which would hopefully bear fruit long after I’m gone. I know that the metaphor may be a bit cheesy, but it is valid. I had planted a tree, both real and metaphorical, and now know that they will be there after I’m gone. My hope is that years from now, Chicas Super Poderosas can be identified as a part of the culture of the school just as the trees are part of its landscape.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Museo de los Niños

The adolescent girls at the albergue were pumped. They had completed the Chicas Súper Poderosas program and were ready for their gira (field trip). They had braved the “communication skills obstacle course” lesson, and the famous “day spa stress management” workshop. They were truly chicas super poderosas. The last session of the program: a trip to the children’s museum in San Jose.

The trip took a lot of planning and preparation. I met with the PANI (Costa Rican children’s services agency) director several times, and it seemed like each time we met, some detail of the trip had changed. However, in the end, she really came through. She managed to find the funds for transportation and lunch. A free-lance volunteer from California helped us get free admission to the museum. With an amazingly smooth planning period behind us, we prepared to leave Puntarenas and head for the big city.

I arrived at the albergue last Saturday at six-thirty in the morning, ready for the trip. The girls were all dressed up and ready to go. The tias donned their Sunday best; I was thrilled that they were so enthusiastic. The funniest part of the girls’ wardrobe was the layering. They wore t-shirts covered by long sleeved shirts covered by sweatshirts covered by jackets. For any gringo, San Jose would be considered a warm, tropical climate with temperatures in the low seventies. For these girls accustomed to the oppressive heat of Puntarenas, San Jose may as well have been the North Pole.

Per usual in Tico time, the bus arrived an hour late. But no matter to the girls; the anticipation of visiting the capital city was boiling in their veins. The hour spent waiting somehow turned into a dance party…as it usually does in Costa Rica. The tias were brimming with excitement and had to dance. So at six-thirty in the morning, nine adolescent girls, two tias, and this maladroit gringo boogied down to the dismay of all of the neighbors.

As we embarked on the two hour ride east to the capital, I received the biggest surprise of the trip: the girls were perfectly behaved. They sat still in their seats and gazed at the beautiful mountains as we passed them. The only trouble with the ride came from the mini-bus driver. Like a child with severe ADD, his eyes would stray from the road in front of him to check out a billboard or a stuffed animal that a child was playing with. I had suddenly become my father teaching me how to drive.

“Keep your eyes on the road.” I would say to him.

“Si, si, si!”

“Center your car in the lane.”

“Si, si, si!”

“Now it is raining, this is when you turn on your wipers.”

“Si, si, si!”


And so it went. Quick note to my father: I apologize for having been a 15 year old learning to drive.

We arrived safely and soundly at the museum, no thanks to our space cadet of a driver. As we approached the museum, the girls gasped with excitement. The structure is an impressive site: it is a looming converted prison on top of a hill at the northern edge of San Jose. While the building has been painted bright, friendly colors, it is clear that it used to house convicts with its panoptical design. Regardless, it was an amazing sight for the girls.

We got off the bus and filed into the museum where we met Ana Lucia, the PANI Director. In the first room, the girls participated in a hands-on lesson on the five senses, and how difficult it is to function without one of them. This was done to teach empathy for disabled people. The following exhibits were on space and space travel, volcanoes and earthquakes, and the history of Costa Rica and the evolution of Tico culture. In each room, guides explained the fun, hands-on exhibits while the girls took it in. Giggling from room to room, the girls were having a blast. They were clearly learning and having fun at the same time, which is the goal of every teacher.

We filed through the exhibits. From the rainforest to the human body to electricity, the girls soaked up the information. As we made our way through the museum, I had time to bond with the girls. They all got a kick out of my performance in the hall of mirrors (lets just say that the fat mirror was a big hit for them). Just as importantly, I had a chance to bond with Ana Lucia. Things are always a bit forced and curt when I see her in the PANI office. However, in the informal atmosphere of the museum, we were able to let our guards down and have fun. By the time we left the museum, I was even making her laugh.

After the morning that they had, you better bet that the girls were starving. So we walked down Avenida Central until we came to the golden arches. Yes, we had arrived at McDonalds. The kids were flipping out. For a group used to eating rice and beans every day, this was the best moment of their lives. After everyone had eaten their Happy Meals and ice cream, soft smiles settled on the girls’ faces.

It was time to go home. It had been quite the day, and the girls’ eyelids were growing heavy. We sat in front of the stately Teatro Nacional as we waited for the bus to pick us up (which it did forty-five minutes late). As the girls got into the bus and waved goodbye to San Jose, I couldn’t help but feel proud. I was proud of the girls for behaving so perfectly, proud of PANI for delivering, and proud of myself for getting the trip going.

Only six months left of my service remain. I know that as May comes closer and closer, I will have fewer of these moments of pride and success. So as I observed the girls learning and interacting, I did not take it for granted. I realized that it was a high point in my service, noted it, and was grateful.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Cats! The Invasion

As most of my readers know, I have two cats. Yes, I am a grown man. No, the idea to keep these cats wasn’t mine. When I tell most people that I have two cats, I usually receive grimaces. It’s okay, I grimace along with them. I mean, what active, normal twenty-five year old man has two cats?

Luckily, people still accept me. I am still invited to parties; nobody avoids me in the street. I am doing well for what one friend dubbed, “an old cat man.” It would be nice if the story stopped there regarding my life with cats. However, the cat invasion has only just begun.

It is not abnormal for stray cats to scrounge around one’s back yard for scraps of food. When my host mom, Ania, was here, it happened pretty regularly. She would just spray the strays with a hose, and they’d go away. But once she left, there was nobody to harass them. Moreover, I am usually out of my house all day at the school or the albergues. Result: the cats have invaded.

It started a few months ago when I noticed that a pair of female cats had moved into my back yard. At first, I didn’t mind. For all intents and purposes, cats are cute. I grew up with a great, personable cat named Bruce. However, I realized that they would be a problem after catching them stealing food from Necio’s bowl. It was quite shocking to come home from work to find four cats at the bowl, chowing down (it was actually three, because Necio is a racist and won’t allow Negro to eat with him).

When I catch these cats, they usually run away from me too quickly for me to catch them. Every time I see them, I chase them, they scatter, and I feel helpless to defend the food that Necio has deemed unworthy of defense. I often wonder what I would do if I actually caught one of these cats.

The answer came a few months later. Mid-august, I noticed that my problems were growing, quite literally, exponentially. One of the strays had given birth to a litter of kittens. I looked down at the litter and half of me wanted to say “awwww,” and half of me wanted to empty a can of Raid into their faces. Of course, once these babies were weaned, their main source of food was Necio’s Kitty Chow. Just when I thought that things couldn’t get any worse, the other stray plopped a whole litter of kittens into my back yard. I was suddenly vastly outnumbered.

I now had an army of about seven cats invading my house. I thought things were bad when they tried to steal Necio’s food. Little did I know that they would actually move in.

Every night, once I go to sleep, the army invades. They cuddle up on my couches, pull down my curtains with their puny little paws, and use various corners of my living room as a latrine. Necio and Negro seemed to have no problem with this. However, among the invading cats, there have been disagreements. I can’t tell you how horrifying it is to wake up with a jolt in the middle of the night to brawling and screaming cats in your living room. Once they started shitting on my floor, I knew that it was time for war.

I started dreaming in my head about what I would do if I caught one. I would snap its neck. Or no, better, break its legs. Spray its face with Raid? It got to the point where I had to shake myself out of such fantasies. One day, I got up, looked myself in the mirror, and asked myself: “am I the kind of person who could kill a kitten?” I am embarrassed that I mulled the question in my mind for a while before answering, “maybe?”

And then one day it happened. I walked into my house after an afternoon at the albergue and saw one of the cats asleep on my couch. Quietly, I put down my bags and tiptoed over to the cute little bastard. As I made my final approach, he woke up, and made a run for it. He made it across the living room with great speed, but I was faster, and as he made the leap for the back window, I intercepted him like Troy Polamalu.

He was clawing at the windowpane; I had him by the back leg. I had looked forward to that day for some time. Yet strangely, I had no idea what to do. I looked at the little guy who stared right back at me. “Okay, I’ll snap his leg,” I thought. But as the cat began crying, I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill a kitty. I would have to let him go. But then something happened that I’ll never forget.

He shat on me. My toaster oven got a good shot as well, but my left hand got the worst of it. It took a second to register what had happened, but then I let go of the beast and began to holler. I yelled all kinds of obscenities as I looked down at my soiled hand and toaster oven. Yessenia, alarmed by my shouts, called out, asking if I was okay.

“I’m okay!” I shouted back (our houses are open air, so she can usually hear anything that is going on in my house and vice versa). “I just got shat on by one of the stray cats in the yard!”

Laughter. Her whole family cracked up from behind thin walls as I began cleaning my hand. I felt like a fool; I had not taken into account biological weapons. Even worse, I had learned that I was incapable of any kind of counter-attack. The cats had won.

Every now and then, I get a good kick in when I catch one of the invaders off his guard. The strays know never to come into the house when I am present and conscious. However, I guess that until Bairón and Ania return and kill all of the cats with great joy, I will just have to deal with them.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Transitions

It has been quite a while since my last blog post…I must apologize. Any writing that I have been doing lately has been dedicated to law school applications. A few days ago, I submitted my last one, which is a huge relief. I can now focus my writing efforts on this blog.

The past month has been one of transitions. The populations in the albergues have been changing. Many of my projects are coming to a close, while others are just beginning. And I often take a step back, and find that I am changing as a person.

A few months ago, there was an influx of new children at the green albergue. We received a Nicaraguan boy of about 12 who had a black eye. Two brother-sister pairs were brought in. A boy with holes in his teeth came. One boy had a skinned nose. It is when I see the physical damage that some parents have done to their children that I begin to understand how different the children at the albergue are. Because I am so involved in their daily lives, I often forget that they have been abused. The new arrivals often serve as a shocking reminder.

As September came to a close, we started losing many of these children. The boy with the black eye was sent to the children’s services of Nicaragua. One boy was returned to his parents. Many found functioning family members to care for them. What remained was something that I was unprepared for: Toddlertown.

Never before in my Peace Corps experience had I worked with an albergue comprised of strictly toddler children. Most of the activities that I had in my arsenal were for older kids who could say more than a few words. I tried to think of exciting educational activities that could stimulate their minds. After a few failed attempts, I learned a valuable lesson: toddlers just want to draw, poop themselves and laugh. Once I learned this, the fun started.

I now look forward to hanging out with the toddlers more than anything else. In what other situation in my life will people unequivocally love me, jump on me, and hug me upon my arrival? We draw a lot; I usually stick to animals so that I can teach them animal names. We also play “the animal game,” in which I draw an animal and the kids have to guess what it is. If the kids get it right, I make the sound that the animal makes. The kids love it; the Tias are entertained by it. My cow impression gets the best response. Now whenever a cow is drawn, I am hit with a cacophony of loud “MOOOOOOOOs.” We also pass a lot of time flying paper airplanes, and playing tag in the yard.

In the adolescent girls’ albergue, we just finished a career planning/personal finance class. After examining the pre and post tests, I was proud to see that the girls had actually retained the information that we went over in our sessions. Hopefully they will use what they’ve learned in their lives.

I had similar success with my Aula Abierta students. The elementary school dropouts really took to the themes and lessons of the career planning/personal finance class. Perhaps it hits home for them, as many are already in the workforce. I have grown so proud of these students in particular because they have surprised me with how much that they have learned.

A few weeks ago, I considered ending my English class with the Aula Abierta students. My logic was that it is impossible to learn a language if one does not study at home, or have more than two classes a week. So I gave the students a comprehensive test of all that we had learned so far. Since the students do not respond well to formal exams, I made it in the enjoyable form of a Jeopardy game. I was shocked and thrilled when the students responded correctly to all of the questions. We have since moved on to a new verb unit in which the students are successfully conjugating and using verbs.

There is an old saying: “those who can’t, teach.” I didn’t realize how wrong this was until I stepped foot into a classroom. Being a teacher is one of the most difficult jobs I have ever had. Imagine standing in front of a class of students that you are totally responsible for. Then imagine all of them ignoring you, cursing at you, telling you that they don’t care, and even leaving the school in the middle of a class. These situations do not happen often, but they do happen. It is the most frustrating thing imaginable.

I have gotten into a routine in which I teach at the school in the mornings and work in the albergues in the afternoons. Because life has become normal, and the experience is no longer novel, I find that I have become tired of being a teacher. Like any other job, it has grown old. I have learned that while I have been successful here, I am not meant to be a school teacher.

Peace Corps has been an incredible experience thus far. However, I find myself looking forward to post Peace Corps life. Between my disillusion with the classroom and the excitement of applying to law school, I feel ready to move on.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Going Home, in Costa Rica

This past weekend, I went to San Jose to celebrate my second Rosh Hashana in country. At this point, I have become close enough to the synagogue’s director, Guita, for her to invite me and my fellow PCV, Emily, to her home for a traditional Rosh Hashana dinner. I didn’t realize how much it would mean to me until I arrived.

Before the dinner, Emily and I went to the beautiful synagogue for Erev Rosh Hashana services. It felt so good to be in a synagogue again. I laughed to myself as I walked in; it had been almost a year since I had worn a blazer and slacks. I put on my yarmulke, and found my seat in the sanctuary. I felt normal, like I was home again. In many ways, I was.

The cantor wailed out the traditional prayers which brought me great comfort. As I chanted along with the rest of the congregation, I did what all Jews are meant to do on Rosh Hashana: reflect. I thought back to the previous Rosh Hashana and was alarmed by how quickly the time had passed. It was at this point last year that I was able to get passed any issues that I was having with my Peace Corps experience. Last September was a turning point in my service; after the Jewish holidays, I fell into a rhythm and consistently turned out successful projects.

I took a brief trip into the past as the minor Hebrew harmonies of the prayers passed into my ears. Month by month, I thought about what had happened in my life. What had been good? What had been bad? The main question was what I needed to atone for. I plucked sins from these memories, and examined them as one would examine blotches on one’s skin. After filtering these memories, I was surprised to find that there was not a plethora of sins to atone for like most years. It could be that my Peace Corps life is too boring to do much in the way of sinning. Personally, I think that it is God trying to even the scales before I enter the field of law.

Once the service was over, I reunited with my friend Emily in the lobby (men and women are separated in Orthodox synagogues). We then met Ricardo, Guita’s husband. A gentle man of about sixty, he led us to his car. As we drove to his house, I got to know him. Born in Chile, Ricardo moved to Costa Rica about twenty-five years ago. When asked why he moved here, he smiled and said “Guita.”

The house was big and impressive. After parking in a two-car garage, we entered their traditional Jewish home. Familiar smells of roasting chicken and gevilte fish wafted into my face as I was greeted at the door by Guita. It was like Ricardo’s car somehow drove me all the way back to New York City.

Guita’s family was genial and welcoming. Guita and Ricardo have three teen-aged children who were outgoing and mature. Her sister was there, along with two other families. Everyone was friendly, interesting and urbane. Ricardo’s Argentinean architect friend was there with his wife, and I sat at the giant dinner table next to an affable man who owned a chain of children’s boutiques. His wife was Colombian; we were like a miniature United Nations. The young people were seated at a kids’ table…it was the first time I had seen one since coming to Costa Rica. It was the little things that made me so happy to be around my people.

Before we started the meal, Ricardo said the brucha over the wine and bread. Then, Guita directed our attention to a plate in the center of each table. The plate contained several odd foods including, ehem, a raw fish head. Each food was symbolic, and had a story to go with it. The fish head symbolized the beginning of the new year (Rosh Hashana literally means head of the year). The rings found in the steamed leeks on the plate symbolized the cycle of the year, as did the round challah. We ate apples with honey which represents the coming of a sweet new year. After we ate the foods on the plate, we began the meal.

Between forkfuls of gevilte fish, I spoke with the families about Peace Corps and what we do. They were interested in Peace Corps, it seemed to make sense to them. It was very interesting because most Ticos I know can’t wrap their minds around the concept (“you came here to work…for free???). By the time the matzoh ball soup came, I was learning about Argentinean food and wine from the architect.

The main course was unbelievable. It was a complete one-eighty from the traditional Tico meal. There was a green salad with strawberries and vinaigrette. An entire spread of roasted vegetables was presented to us, along with a giant platter of honey baked chicken. There was no rice to be found. Beans? I don’t think so. I was in heaven.

The entire evening was home to me. The Jewish families treated me as if I was a member of their own family. What makes me so happy about being with Jews so far from home is that I am a member of their family. In the middle of Central America, the Rosh Hashana dinner is the same as it is in New York, Paris or Jerusalem. We are so few and the bond of the tradition is so strong that it is in our instincts to welcome other Jews.

As Ricardo drove Emily and I home, I felt extremely proud to be a Jew, to be part of such a tight network. Having experienced such generosity from the families that night, I vowed that one day, I would open my home the way Guita and Ricardo did for me.

To all my brethren out there, Shana Tova!

Thursday, September 17, 2009

15 de Septiembre

15 de Septiembre is one of the most important days in the Tico calendar: Independence Day. Ticos are a particularly proud people; they flaunt the selling points of their nation relentlessly. I am constantly being reminded that they do not have an army, and that everyone in the Americas (including the U.S.) longs to immigrate here. Therefore, it was no surprise to me that their independence day was a raucous celebration of Tico culture.

About a month ago, I entered the school and was greeted by a cacophony of drums and a kind of portable xylophone called the lyra. I was confused, because the year before, I worked hard with the previous director to form a band. After lobbying the Ministry of Education, we were both disappointed by the lack of funds available to us for a band project. With the new drums ringing in my ears, I went into the director’s office and asked her where the school got the new band equipment. She gave me a coy smile, and told me that she wouldn’t tell. She could have some impressive pull at the Ministry of Education; they could have fallen off the back of a truck. I didn’t care. I was glad that the students would finally have the opportunity to participate in the proudest moment for Ticos: the Independence Day Parade.

I was asked to help the lyra class. The school had hired a music teacher to teach the group of girls a few tunes. Since I can read music and had played the piano in the past, I was able to work with Don Alvaro to show the girls the basics. We turned out to be a good team.

For those of you who are not familiar with the lyra, imagine somebody repeatedly hitting the hell out of a flagpole with an aluminum pipe. That is what it sounds like, but with notes. Now imagine teaching this instrument to a group of elementary school girls at seven in the morning. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the migraine!

Hopped up on Excedrin, I was able to survive the brain-piercing sound that the lyra creates. I am now wondering if my childhood piano teacher was popping something more than her hard candies. Once the throbbing in my head subsided, I was able to enjoy teaching the class. The girls learned very quickly, and were thoroughly enjoying themselves. It is very rare for a teacher to actually witness a child learning in front of his or her eyes. I was privileged to see the girls correct their mistakes, and master their songs. Moreover, I was glad that they were acquiring a skill and participating in an extra-curricular activity. The pastime in my community has been watching television. Now all the neighborhood kids are practicing their lyras or drums after school.

This past Tuesday, I woke up to two things that seemed to punch me in the face: the relentless Puerto heat, and the pounding of the drums. It was 15 de Septiembre. I put on light clothes, sunscreen, and headed to the school to prepare the students for the parade.

I was shocked by what I found. The band uniforms had arrived, and looked fantastic. The kids looked crisp, clean and unified. The flag bearers wore their school uniforms and black berets. The baton twirlers donned blue and white cowgirl-themed outfits, complete with big white boots and hats. My lyra girls wore pleated skirts and royal blue polo shirts with our school name embroidered onto their chests. The drummer boys had the same shirts which were complemented by crisp white shorts and Keds. The entire group looked so proud, as were all of the teachers who were helping them get dressed.

Since I have very big muscles, my job was to pack and carry giant coolers of water. I didn’t think too much of the job until we got of the bus on the parade route in downtown Puntarenas. You could fry an egg on the pavement. The sun was strong and there was no shade to be found. I realized that keeping the kids hydrated was a serious concern, as we were to participate in the parade from eight in the morning to two in the afternoon. The second the kids were in place on the route, they began to beg me for water. So I gave some to each child, and wondered what the hell I was going to do with the enormous coolers of water as we walked the parade route. Luckily my compañero Don Luis drove the coolers down in his car, and would take some of the coolers to the end of the parade route.

The parade was both incredible and miserable. It was incredible because the kids performed so well. I was proud of my lyra girls as they chimed away in sync. The drummers were hugely popular with the crowds who danced to the beat. The baton twirlers were fantastic, although I was a bit alarmed by the nauseating comments that came from creepy old men in the crown. The performers were thrilled and bursting with pride. The teachers were as well; this was the first time that my school had ever participated in this tradition.

When I say that it was miserable, I am referring to the fact that the parade route was around the circumference of the sun. It was as if someone put me on a treadmill…in a steam room…and then heaved a fifty pound cooler on my shoulders. I was happy to toss packets of water to the kids as we inched our way down the main thoroughfare of Puntarenas; I wanted that weight off me.

As anyone could have predicted, we ran out of water about a third of the way through the parade. I felt awful as I told the kids that there was no more, but also grew worried that some of the kids wouldn’t make it. It was a very long route, and the midday sun takes no mercy. One of the baton twirlers had to give up a few blocks before the end. My poor lyra girl, Wanda, kept slurring her words as she walked alongside me. Many were stumbling along by the time we reached the end of the route. Thankfully, Luis was there waiting in the shade with water, iced tea, and a lunch of arroz con pollo. As the kids cooled off and regained their strength, I could see an immense happiness wash over them. They had worked hard, and it had paid off. It was a huge victory for the school, and the entire community.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Hanging Out With Giant Turtles

This past weekend, I traveled with my friend Hillary to take advantage of a seasonal spectacle: the homecoming of the giant green turtles. Every July, on the black sand beaches of the small barrier island of Tortuguero, massive female sea turtles arrive from all over the world to lay their eggs. Having been born in Tortuguero themselves, the turtles follow their internal GPS to deposit their eggs in nests that they themselves once crawled out of. It was a truly amazing sight.

After three busses and one boat ride (nine hours of travel) from my site, we finally arrived at Tortuguero. There are no cars allowed on the island, and none of the pathways are paved. The village is nothing more than a group of houses, restaurants and cabinas resting on foundations of sand. Without the drone of traffic, the crashing of the waves serenades the entire island. While a recent tourism boom has developed the village over the past decade, it remains fairly poor. For this reason, Ben and Millie, an older Peace Corps married couple, are stationed on the tiny island.

Feeling relaxed in the Caribbean atmosphere, Hillary and I enjoyed the traditional coconut flavored food, and took in the beauty of the Atlantic coast. Walking along the beach, we found giant depressions in the sand along the dunes. We were told by locals that these are the turtle nests, and not to disturb them. All around the nests we found empty eggshells; apparently the Leatherback turtles had already hatched and swam off into the open ocean. After checking out the beach in the afternoon, we headed back to our cabinas to meet our guide for a night tour.

Our guide was an affable native of Tortuguero. Before we got started, he explained to us the system that the conservation program had put in place for turtle viewing. The beach, he explained, we divided up into several sections. In each section, spotters cruised the beach searching for nesting turtles. On walkie-talkies, they informed the tour guides which section to go to. Once in our assigned section, we joined five other groups of about eight people. When the spotters gave us the okay, we got in line behind the other groups and approached the turtle.

The enormous shell was covered with sand from having dug a fifty centimeter deep hole in the sand for the eggs. She was illuminated by the special red flashlights the tour guides used. About a meter long and half a meter wide, the female hovered over the nest and laid several eggs at a time. She was calm, the guide explained, because turtles go into a trance-like state while depositing their eggs. After watching her for a minute or so, we stepped back so that other groups could sneak a peek.

Before our second viewing, we were led a few meters down the beach to see a different turtle heading back to sea. Having finished laying her eggs, she lumbered across the beach. Throwing one fin in front of the other, she inched her way to the water’s edge making tractor-like tracks in the sand. When the foamy water crashed into her face, she stopped for a few moments, as if to say “holy crap, am I tired.” After a few minutes, she disappeared into the dark sea. She will only return to lay more eggs, and will sadly never know her babies.

Returning to the first turtle, we found that she was already starting to cover up the nest. With great thrusts of her hind fins, she heaved sand into the hole. Her aim, I must say, was not impeccable; she flung sand all over us and our guide. With her nest buried, we left the giant creature to head back to sea alone.

In about two months, the eggs will hatch, and the little babies will make their instinctual race from their nest to the sea. This will be no easy task. Out of a nest of one hundred, only about two will return to lay their eggs. The little guys have to avoid attacks by dogs, birds and humans before even reaching the ocean. Once in the ocean, the babies have to make the long swim to the nourishing kelp forests offshore. Along the way, they are eaten by sharks and other fish. For this reason, the poor mother wears herself out by filling the large nests.

I was so glad that I had made the long trip from coast to coast to see such a beautiful natural wonder. I am forever in the dept of the turtle watcher program that organized the process so well. Before the program, I was told, the beaches were mayhem, and several poor members of the community would steal the eggs from their nests to sell. Since the program was started, turtle counts are up 300 percent. This just goes to show that while conservationists may be idealists, they can have a significant impact on the ground. In most cases, there is a direct conflict between conservation and local economies. However, because of the turtle conservation in Tortuguero, the local economy is booming with the eco-tourism industry. If only every conservation effort was so simple.

The next day, Hillary and I had dinner with Ben and Millie. They had been evacuated from Peace Corps Bolivia when the civil unrest started there. Over a good meal, they told us what it was like to be in such a complicated situation, and what life is like in their new site. I was thoroughly impressed with them. They were my parents’ age, yet seemed like my peers. Full of energy, they seemed to enjoy their life on the tranquil island. They gave me hope; perhaps I will feel that young when I am their age.

The turtle nesting at Tortuguero is a unique event that makes Costa Rica special. As I check months off the calendar, I realize that I only have about ten months left to see everything the country has to offer. This past weekend made me see that for certain Costa Rican highlights, a nine hour bus ride just may be worth it. If the turtles can swim hundreds of miles to Tortuguero, I can have the courtesy to take the bus.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

El Verano de San Juan

A few days ago, I co-facilitated the Second Annual PANI National Youth Congress. Co-sponsored by PANI and Peace Corps, each youth representative from every canton’s Junta de Protección (youth advocacy group) was brought from every corner of Costa Rica to participate in the three day convention. Each Peace Corps volunteer paired up with a PANI officer to represent their region and supervise their region’s youth representatives. In my case, I represented the Central Pacific Region, along with the Francis: a PANI social worker from the Oratina office. Having acquainted ourselves with the youth representatives at the regional pre-congress meeting (see June’s blog), we packed up the PANI van, jumped in, and headed for the cloud forests north of San Ramon.

Throughout the entire congress, my fellow PCVs and I referred to the event as “the all-star game.” We were taken aback by the intellect, creativity, character and radiance of the youth with which we worked. Each participant was eager to participate and learn. They immediately became best friends with each other, and exchanged songs played on their guitars. All high school aged, they were mature; they took the congress very seriously. As foreseen by PANI staff and PCVs, several romantic relationships sprung up within the first day. One PCV noted that we’d have to make an effort to keep them from running off into the bushes together at night. Another volunteer countered: “no way. The mixing of this gene pool is probably the best thing that could happen in Costa Rica right now.” After a good laugh, nobody really disagreed.

The camp site was particularly beautiful. High in the cloud forests, we were surrounded by natural wonders. Rolling hills covered by dense jungle could be seen from every area of the camp. The mollifying sounds of rivers and waterfalls could be heard in the dining hall as we took our first meal. Everyone seemed relaxed as the congress began, which made the meat and potatoes of the event come easily.

The first theme of the congress was networking. We emphasized that the youth representatives were the future leaders of Costa Rica and were the voice of Costa Rica’s youth. We encouraged them to stay in touch both on a regional and national level. Each group made a presentation to the entire group about their region. My group sang an original song, put on a skit and painted a poster. The group from Limon passed out gingerbread cookies and other local foods. It came as no surprise that they were the most popular. Once we finished, the camp opened its recreational activities to the kids. They spent the rest of their night roller-skating around the gym, playing ping-pong, wall climbing, and socializing.

The next morning, the group was offered an array of adventure activities. Split into four groups, we all competed in the highlight of the congress: Retoselva (jungle challenge). Retoselva was an army-like obstacle course through a muddy path in the jungle. Each team made their way through muddy bogs, ropes challenges, and other obstacles. By the end, everyone was covered in mud, and not a single article of clothing retained its original color. Having bonded via filth, we washed, changed and prepared for the afternoon workshops.

The second theme of the congress was participation. To illuminate the concept, we PCVs created a fun and engaging workshop. Our aim was to show the kids that they had the right to participate in the civic management of their communities. The voice of the youth, we emphasized, was to be heard and considered in the decision making process of Costa Rica as mandated by law. We had a few fun lessons, and found a way to make the reading and interpretation of the law enjoyable (cue creative presentations of each article). After the aforementioned and following activities, the conclusions and plans of the youth representatives were compiled and published. The report was the official recommendation of youth to be distributed to PANI and every other public organization in Costa Rica. I take great pride in knowing that Costa Rican policy regarding youth may have been influenced by the workshops that I planned and facilitated.

Heading home, I accompanied the youth representative from Paquera (on the Nicoya Peninsula) to the ferry terminal at the end of Puntarenas. Having left the damp gray of the cloud forest, I was lifted by the radiance of the Puerto sun. The sea shimmered in its five o’clock rays, making for a perfect Sunday evening. Riding home in the front seat with the van driver, I realized that something strange was going on: it wasn’t raining. Since the first day of the rainy season arrived in May, not one afternoon was spared a shower. I mentioned the rarity to the driver who I had been chatting with. He looked at me, patted me on the shoulder, and gave be a big grin. “Es el verano de San Juan” he said. I smiled too, and spent the rest of the ride watching the throngs of people walk through the Puerto sun toward the beach.

El verano de San Juan (summer of San Juan) is a hole in the rainy season. For a few weeks in July, the clouds hide, and let the beach goers get back to work. It is no coincidence that all students have a two week vacation during this time. It is also no surprise that it is this time of year that the city of Puntarenas puts on its annual festival: Las Fiestas Virgen del Mar.

The ten day long festival has served as a reminder for me of all that is good in Puntarenas. For these days, the heavily populated city of San José empties into the Puerto making for a raucous party. Glad to be away from the cold, damp Central Valley days, Ticos fill the Puerto’s beaches, waterfront cafes and hotels. All along the Paseo de las Touristas, booths line the walks; they offer everything from syrupy, icy granizados and carne asada to winged armchairs with ottomans. This past Sunday, I took the children from the albergue to the final day of the festival. It was an unforgettable day.

It was surely the best day I have ever had in which I was vomited on. The kids were wide eyed and excited as we stepped off the bus into the festival. I had never seen the streets of Puntarenas so full. It must have been the way Detroiters felt when the Super Bowl came to their city. Cafés that usually sit empty were packed to the brim. All along the beach, families had set up camp in the shade of trees. Babies slept in their mothers’ laps while they dished out homemade arroz con pollo to the rest of the family. Friends chatted in the sun while holding sweaty beers. Raisin-faced ladies sold vigarones from their stalls: sizzlin’, cracklin’ hot chicharones served on shredded cabbage, covered in chimmichuri and wrapped in an almond leaf. Holding hands as we walked, we stopped every so often to investigate one of these wonders. The kids were enticed by the cheap Chinese toys for sale; I couldn’t stop looking at the packs of scantily clad Ticas.

After making our way through the packed crowds and the pushy salesmen, we had found El Dorado: the rides. I thought that the kids’ eyes were going to pop out when they caught glimpses of the roaring rollercoasters. Each child grabbed and pulled at my clothing in sync and asked if they could go on (what seemed to be all of) the rides. With PANI money, the tia (literal translation: aunt (tio is uncle), PANI live-in albergue caretaker) and I paid for tickets. Excited as hell, we ran for the bumper cars and hopped in. Bairón and I shared a car and wasted no time in wasting our friends. Next, we mounted the haunted house ride, which was markedly tame. After the carousel, we concluded that we were done, and headed for the beach for the main attraction.

A boat’s whistle blew, and thus started the cruise of the Virgen del Mar. Making their way from the tip of the peninsula of Puntarenas toward the pier, dozens of boats held their annual parade. Each ponga, lancha or fishing boat was colorfully decorated. They all followed the lead boat which mounted Carmen: la virgin del mar (the virgin of the sea). Carmen is the patron saint of fishermen, and thus, Puntarenas. The hundreds of people packing the boats raised their glasses to her as their boats bounced along the ocean. The crowds of people lining the beach waved to them. They waved back.

With the parade over, we turned away from the beach and headed for a marisqueria for a lunch of seafood. It was when we made our first steps toward the restaurant that the vomit came. Bairón, hot in the sun and dizzy from the rides, unloaded the contents of his stomach onto the boardwalk. I asked him if he was okay, and he said that he had a stomachache. Needless to say, he did not order seafood when we sat down at the marisqueria. After taking a few sips of the ginger ale that we ordered him, he vomited two more times in the restaurant. Luckily, the waitress was a saint and helped the tia and I clean up while the other children enjoyed their arroz con camarones. Somehow, some way, none of the vomit had gotten on me.

After eating, we walked over to the beach where the kids played in the surf and I sat in the shade with the tia and the reposing Bairón. All around us were families laying together. There was a feeling of family in the air. This was a rare time that Tico dads could enjoy a touch of sun with their kids, and a spot of shade with their wives. Even the albergue kids felt it and treated each other like siblings. Bairón kept calling me “papa;” I continually corrected him. “Tio,” I would say while patting him on the back. “Soy su tio.”

When the kids had finished with the beach, we said goodbye to our neighbors and walked back to the bus stop. As we were walking, I thought about how much I missed my family. The authentically Tico nature of the festival would have been appreciated by my family. I then looked around at the sleeping albergue kids on the bus ride home and got chills. I realized that I had become their family. The tia smiled at me, looking a Bairón’s head resting on my side. I smiled back, feeling quite happy about the fantastic day we were ending. That was until I heard a familiar gurgle, and found my legs covered in puke.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Rhapsody in Blue

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then what might be the quantitative value of a song? I often find myself saying, “oh! I love this song; I’ve got great memories attached to it.” When this happens, I usually think of something that was playing at the end of a particularly successful date, or a poignant moment of triumph in my life. At this moment, I am listening to a particular piece that transcends all moments. For me, it has come to be the theme of my hometown of New York. I’m listening to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.

The piece is just so quintessentially New York. As the piano notes crescendo, Woody Allen’s voice takes over my inner monologue. Suddenly, I am trapped in the film Manhattan. I look at the New York themed photo collage that I have pasted to my wall, and enter a New York montage. Imagine myself on the Brooklyn Bridge, looking out on the skyline. I peek into a street where Gershwin himself may have walked down, and hummed the beginning of the jazz melody that would one day play here in this Costa Rican neighborhood. As I look through my photo album, I find myself in a ballfield in Central Park. I have just finished playing in a game in which my high school team has won. I grab a handful of infield dirt, smell the freshly cut grass, and look up at the stately towers of the Upper East Side.

I have always wanted to be like Woody Allen. He is an icon of New York, a man who appreciates its beauty, and works the city into his art. I guess that it doesn’t hurt that he is a short, bald man who consistently dates beautiful women in his films. Even though he is a famous writer/director/actor, and I am an anonymous New Yorker, I see myself in him.

Like Woody, I am a native New Yorker. I consider the city’s and my history to be shared. I have never become disappointed by or fed up with its spirit.

My friend Emile was with me every step of the way in my discovery of the city. Throughout adolescence, we embraced several parts of New York that had significant meaning for us: the gourmet food stores where we would gorge ourselves on free samples of high end cheese and olives on the way home from school; the BYOB jazz club that would turn a blind eye to minors enjoying forties while tapping their feet to the music. Certain sidewalks bled memories for us on streets where we had broken up with girlfriends, or made new ones. Emile always shared with me an unwavering adoration of the city that raised us.

Now, Emile is ready to leave New York. He feels betrayed by the way the city has changed. The gentrification began long before Emile and I began knowing the city’s jazz clubs and museums. However, as of late, it has reshaped the face of the neighborhood that we grew up in. Buildings that held the beloved barber shops, corner stores, and restaurants that shaped our identities have been bulldozed to make way for luxury high-rises. When we were kids, the neighborhood was strictly middle class. Now, one-bedroom apartments go for a million dollars.

While the transformation of my city saddens me at times, I feel that New York still has (and will never lose) the spirit that inspired Gershwin, Woody and me. It is still the pinnacle. If you want to be the best at anything, you’d better be ready to spend some time in New York. Art and creativity seep out of the city’s every pore. When places are gentrified, they are sometimes reborn: the nightlife scene that started in a reblushed Lower East Side has played a major role in the evolution of rock and roll. I am not saying that it is not a shame that thousands of people had to move out because they could not afford the astronomical rent hikes. I am saying that the spirit of New York would never allow its changing face to become boring. No matter what rents are like, the subway still shakes your feet, and the city still never sleeps.

I close my photo album, and the piece ends. I look out my window at my mango tree and smile. While I miss my city, I know it will be there waiting when my service ends. It is not perfect. It has probably changed a great deal in my absence. But I know that it will always be the place where Gershwin’s notes fall in harmony with the sounds and sights of the city. It will have the streets I know by heart. It will have Monet’s Water Lilies, and Van Gough’s Women Picking Olives. It will have my family; it will have my Yankees. It is my town, and it always will be.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Moment of Clarity

Every now and then, I take a step back from the insanity that is life as a Peace Corps volunteer. I focus my outlook like the lens of a camera, and realize that I am living in a truly extraordinary place.

This often happens on a Friday night, at the end of a long, busy week. As Shabbat rolls in, I pour myself a glass of red wine, and look out my doors. As the sun inches its way toward the horizon, the cloud ridden sky becomes illuminated. The clouds over the mountains in the east reflect the calm colors of the sunset in a purple glow. Like Monet’s water lilies at dusk, the mango tree in my back yard takes on a new beauty. Heavy with scarlet-ripe fruit, it hangs its branches in the glow. I never thought my small patch of yard could bring me such comfort.

When I first arrived in my site, I complained to my mother that Costa Rica does not have much fine art to speak of. Coming from the city of museums and artists, paintings had always been a vital part of my life. The walls of the apartment I was raised in are filled with all kinds of art: paintings, drawings, photographs. In her conciliatory voice, my mother told me to forget all that. “The country is the art,” she told me. “The forests, the mountains, the beaches, the people: this is the art you must appreciate.” She couldn’t have been more right.

As I have accustomed myself to laid-back life in Costa Rica, I have learned to take joy in its pastimes. I now find myself enjoying an afternoon spent sitting on a wire rocking chair in the shade, watching the clouds pass through the sky. I almost relish the regular bus ride from my site to downtown Puntarenas. Looking out the window, I take note of the beauty found in the little things. A group of kids playing soccer, a pair of auto mechanics sharing a cigarette, a mother holding a baby. These are all scenes that I must not forget to appreciate.

In the past year, I have talked my fair share of trash about Puntarenas. However, I have managed to knock myself back to my senses as of late. Puntarenas is a unique place. As I have said before, it is a seedy port town, but it’s my seedy port town. “The water is dirty,” I used to complain. But who am I to complain about dirty water? I was raised by two big, dirty rivers, the Hudson and the East; they served me well. In the waters off the Puntarenas piers, exciting things happen. Giant pelicans glide above the water in flocks, and dive like missiles toward the surface when they come upon a school of fish. Creating an explosion of water, they startle the nearby herring gulls and come up with mouths full of fish. I’ve seen men haul up meter-long tuna from the water using only a spool of line and a baited hook. The water is filled with life.

Lately, I have truly been able to appreciate Ticos. It was not easy to do so earlier on in my service; the negative aspects of the culture were so in-my-face that they were difficult to get past. Maybe my Spanish has reached a level in which I no longer have any problem communicating with Ticos. I’ve had a year to travel and get to know the country; I’ve been able to meet many different kinds of Ticos, each with something different to offer. Moreover, I’ve been here so long, that I no longer feel like an outsider, but rather one of them. I constantly find myself doing classic Tico things, and thinking like a Tico. I use Tico dichos, or slang. Never before in my life would I catch myself thinking, “looks like it’s about to rain, maybe I should cancel classes for the day.”

Yesterday, I helped run a planning meeting for the PANI (Tico children’s services) national youth congress. The meeting was attended by the youth representatives of each region’s children’s advocacy group. PANI personnel accompanied the youth from as far away as Quepos to a beautiful nearby hotel; I was amazed that they could get teenagers to give an entire Saturday for such a meeting. However, not only did they come, they were engaged. None of them knew each other at the start, but within an hour, they were chatting it up as if they had known each other all their lives. They worked hard and are all very excited about the upcoming national congress.

What I admired most about the youth, and all the participating Ticos, came at the end of the meeting. I was very surprised when I came to the end of the agenda to find “3:00 PM: Dance Party.” I looked skeptically at my gringo friends and said “only in Costa Rica.” So after getting through the meat of the agenda, the PANI personnel, youth representatives and we Peace Corps Volunteers made our way to the dance floor. Within a few minutes, all of the kids were dancing like crazy. The PANI workers, the bus driver, the hotel owner, and we three gringos were in the mix too. We danced for hours until we had sweat through all of our clothing. I thought things were going to slow down at around five, when the dance instructor sat down to take some coffee. However, this was when the karaoke took off. These kids who had never seen each other had their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, belting out their favorite songs. By the time we split up to get on different busses, they were already texting each other on their phones, and preparing to Myspace each other. It was so classically Tico.

On the bus home with my fellow PCV, Casey, I noted how fantastic it was that Ticos could make friends so quickly. “Imagine,” I said “if the New York Administration for Children’s Services had a youth outreach meeting, you think it would have been anything like that?”

“You kidding?” replied Casey with eyebrows raised.

“Exactly.”


Like the sunset drenched mangos in my backyard, or the open-air houses I pass on the bus, I have found beauty in the Costa Rican people. It is not that I never appreciated Ticos before, it is that I am becoming more and more enamored with the culture. I am starting to think that maybe Ticos have got certain things right that Americans could learn from. Maybe Americans need to dance more. Perhaps family should trump all, the way it does here. Maybe it isn’t unreasonable to clear one’s schedule on account of the rain. As I take a minute to stop and take in the Costa Rican beauty, I feel both fulfilled and sad. For these are the things that I will miss when I leave Costa Rica and return to the American way.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Mid Service Training

Sixteen months down, eleven to go! As our half-way point in our service (excluding the 3 month training period) came and went, we volunteers were called in from our Costa Rican diaspora to the Central Valley for a Mid Service Training (MST). It was a week-long retreat and seminar focused on reflection, rest, planning and motivation. It was exactly what we needed.

The first four days of the week were held at a retreat center in the mountains high above San Jose in Tres Rios. This place is sacred for all volunteers; it is the first place we were taken after we first got off the plane all those months ago. The air is cool and clean, a stark difference from most Peace Corps Costa Rica sites. Surrounded on all sides by coffee fields, I was relieved of the tuna plant stink that I have become used to in Puntarenas. There were no car horns to wake me up at night. We all felt a collective calm when we arrived, and it lasted all through the week.

In a speech given by my program manager, Dan, he told us that MST was like halftime in a football game. A time to evaluate what happened in the first half, address any weaknesses and strengths, and give any necessary congratulations. We were also told that it was a time to rest. Take a breath, enjoy the grounds. Finally, we were to plan the second half of the game, and get motivated. That is exactly what we did.

The first day of the training was reserved for the rest that we so desperately needed. The forty-seven of us Tico 18ers threw our bags on our rustic bunks, and took to the sports fields for ultimate frisbee, basketball, and schmoozing. Many of us hadn’t seen each other in several months, and enjoyed catching up. We shared our successes and challenges faced in our sites. We exchanged books. We broke bread on the fine cuisine of the fantastic dining hall. It was a moment of general comfort.

The next day, our staff arrived and began the packed schedule of meetings, workshops and presentations. All of Tico 18 was split into its specific project groups, mine being Children, Youth and Families (CYF). My specific group was asked in advance to prepare a fifteen minute speech regarding one specific project that had worked in our sites to share with the group. I found this to be the most important part of the entire training.

It was amazing to see how successful my colleagues had been in their sites. The pride on each volunteer’s face as he or she described the details of their work was quite moving. I learned about children’s rights workshops in the north, Boy and Girl Scouts programs in the south, life skills trainings in the east, recycling programs in the west, art therapy classes in the center, and Chicas Poderosas programs all over. It was very important for me to learn about such programs, as I am in the process of planning my second year of service. I got good ideas exactly at the right time.

I proudly presented my Albergue Poetry Workshop to my colleagues. I shared with them the Poetry Collection that we had created; it was a big hit. I explained the method, the skills the children learned, and how other PCVs can use the workshop in their sites. Afterward, I had several PCVs ask me to make a manual for the implementation of the workshop. So now, I am working on such a manual so that my workshop can help children throughout the country, and maybe in other Peace Corps countries.

The other sessions of the training were just as inspirational. A representative from the Fuerza Publica (Costa Rican Police Force) spoke to us about setting up D.A.R.E. programs in our schools. Our assistant country director spoke to us about starting to plan our post-Peace Corps lives, and Dan informed us about existing resources in Costa Rica that could help in our development work. All gave me good ideas that I know will be useful in the year to come.

We also received a full medical battery. I can’t tell you how many jokes were made in the three day course of our stool sample collection. While we got a kick out of it, it was important for the medical staff to know if anything was living in any of our digestive systems. After a physical and dental appointment, we were cleared for a second year of service.

On the last day of MST, Dan gave us our “Aspiration Statements” that we wrote prior to our arrival in Costa Rica. They contained our hopes, goals, expectations, predictions and thoughts about our upcoming service. As I read mine, I felt proud that I had fulfilled most of my hopes and goals. We were then instructed to write a second aspiration statement for the second half of our service. This letter was meant to contain goals that we wanted to have accomplished before our Close of Service Conference in eight months. I wrote in mine that I needed to spend more time with Ticos in a social setting. Yes, I spend all of my days working with Ticos, but rarely have I kicked back and had a beer with any of them. Needless to say, I found it incredibly fulfilling when I accomplished that goal the next night. I met a certain beautiful Tica with my friends in San Jose. I never knew that following my Peace Corps game plan could be such a pleasant experience.

It was important for me to take a moment and step back from the madness that is my life as a PCV. I made several good insights into the meaning of my service. Mostly, I learned that I am doing a good job. My projects are successful, the people in my site like me, and I am growing as a result of my work. My hope for my second year is that I can continue to be productive, grow further on a personal level, and expand my positive influence on the children with whom I work.

I know from experience that one week in the Peace Corps can be paramount, while others can be profoundly difficult. Hopefully I can effectively implement what I learned over the past week. If I do, eventually the good weeks will outnumber the bad, making my service even more meaningful than it has been over the past year. ¡Si Dios Quiere!

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Chicas Súper Poderosas: La Gira

As I explained in an earlier blog, I run a girls’ empowerment group in my school called “Chicas Super Poderosas.” We have successfully completed workshops on leadership, communication, decision making, career/future planning, self-esteem, sexuality and relationships. All of these classes have gone well, and I have had the privilege of seeing the girls grow and bond as a group. The aim of the program is to put the girls on a career track, rather than the common fate for women in my barrio: have kids, shack up with a guy, and spend the rest of one’s life in the house.

The culminating event of the program is the gira (field trip). After several weeks of planning and stressing, I finally nailed down the destination of our gira: the pacific campus of Universidad de Costa Rica. I met with the university’s orientadora, Marta, and she suggested that I bring the girls to the university’s health fair. I thought it a good idea, and agreed.

While the plan seemed simple enough, the trip took a lot of planning and preparation. The hardest part was getting my school’s new director on board. She is the third director that we have had this year. This has made my life harder, because all of the plans that I made with the past two directors have to be re-approved by her. When I went over the gira with her, she seemed a bit wishy-washy. I firmly explained to her that the plans had already been approved by her predecessor, and that the plans are set in stone. “You don’t have to plan anything,” I said to her. “And to mettle with the gira would damage relations that you are developing with the girls, and any relationship we have with the university.” She seemed to respond positively to my firm stance, and gave the gira her blessing. All I needed from her, I told her, was permission slips to distribute before the next “Chicas” session.

This proved more difficult than one would think. I asked her for the permission slips nine days before the gira. The Monday before the gira, I asked if she had made the permission slips. She said no, but she would have them for me the next day. The next day, I went to her office and got the same response. That night, I typed up a permission slip to give to her. The next day, I told her that I had made one, and that all she had to do was paste the school’s letterhead to the top and sign it. “No, no,” she responded. “I have to do it.”

“My ‘Chicas’ session starts in two hours.” I said to her with a skeptical look.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make it, find all of the girls in class this afternoon, and have them bring it in tomorrow.”

“Ummm, okay.” I started to walk out of her office, but stopped and looked back at her. “Do you even know which girls are in the group?” She grimaced. I slid the list of names under her nose and walked out fuming.

I woke up the next day, Thursday, knowing that the director had not done what she promised. I had heard too many horror stories from friends about months of planning projects for naught because counterparts did not do their job. I was not about to let this happen. I walked into the director’s office to find that she had, in fact, printed out and signed the permission slips. However, none of the girls had them. The trip was the next day. I decided to take things into my own hands.

I buttered her up with all kinds of compliments. “You are doing such a good job here…the transition is going so well…I don’t know how you juggle so much at one time, you are always so busy!” She smiled and thanked me. “So listen, since you are so busy, let me handle the permission slips. She agreed, and I went to find the teacher who is my “partner” for the “Chicas” program. I asked her if she knew where any of the girls are, and she told me that most of them didn’t even have class that day.

“It looks like you and I are going to be the only ones on this gira!” She laughed, thinking she was being clever. I looked at her straight faced and asked her for the addresses of all the girls in the class. This was not funny. I had planned this trip for weeks. She told me that she didn’t know the girls’ addresses. I explained to her that they are on all class lists, not believing that she did not know this information. So she stopped chuckling and helped me gather the information. I spent the rest of the day going to each girl’s house, and having their mothers sign permission slips. Once I got them all, I brought them to the director, who looked at them with genuine shock.

“You are welcome to join us if you like,” I said before turning and leaving.




The gira was everything I hoped it would be. Eleven of the twelve girls showed up for the trip, along with the partner teacher, a parent chaperone, and my incredible friend and PTA president: Yessenia. Early in the morning, a fancy minibus pulled up to the school. The words “Universidad de Costa Rica” were painted on the side. Marta emerged and introduced herself to the girls. They immediately had a good rapport, and got on the bus together. There was something majestic about having the girls in the university bus, driving through the barrio. It was like a performance for the whole project: we are going to the university, how cool are we? Kids ran alongside the bus, tapping its side as if to ask “can we come too?” Looking at the girls smiles, I could tell that the trip was going to be a success.

We pulled up to the campus, and I heard several “oooh” and “ahhhs.” It is a beautiful site: on the water with grass courtyards and several picnic tables filled with conversing students. The girls were filed into chairs in the university’s open-air auditorium where they participated in a yoga demonstration and dance performance. Once this opening ceremony was completed, the girls were introduced to their guides for the day: several spunky and affable college students. There was an immediate connection between them; the kids fired off questions as they led us to our first classroom.

I was thrilled to see that the girls were engaging with the students. They, being college students, were obviously the coolest people on the planet to the girls. My hope is that they remember how cool they are when they think about attending university in seven or eight years. I wanted the girls to think: “maybe one day I can be that cool.” I’m pretty sure that that was the case for every single one of them.

The first classroom was split into three sections regarding personal hygiene. The girls watched hygiene themed puppet show in the first section. In the second, they learned the proper way to wash their hands and feet. In the final section (I don’t know how this relates to hygiene), the girls had a lesson on children’s rights. All of these lessons was planned and run by college students.

The next classroom involved a health themed English lesson. Again, there was a puppet show, a short skit, and a sing-along session. The girls seemed a bit lost when the university students started speaking in English about stomach aches and nutrition, but I think that they got the point. Again, the girls were thoroughly engaged with the students, and had to be torn from the classroom.

Our third room was one of the most enjoyable for the girls: a lesson in karate. A karate instructor taught the girls several self defense methods. The girls loved this, and got a kick out of fake-punching their friends in the throat. I made sure to emphasize what the instructor said: “only do this if you are being attacked by someone. Do not perform this attack on any of your friends or me.” Of course, I found myself being karate-chopped by the girls for the rest of the day.

Next, we had an aerobics class. The girls got a chance to do some spinning on stationary bikes, exercises on yoga balls, and a bit of weight lifting. This activity was cut short by our call to eat lunch at the university soda.

After lunch, the girls were led to the computer lab where they were taught how to use the internet. By the time our session was done, we literally had to pry them out of the chairs to get to our next session. This prompted Yessenia to mention to me that we really need to get our computer lab together. We have the computers and air conditioning; all we need are computer tables. “We’ve got to get on that” she said. I agreed and made a personal note to follow up on that.

We were led to the penultimate classroom where paramedics were waiting. No, nobody was hurt; they were there to teach the girls first aid and emergency response. The brave Ashley volunteered to play the victim in our little demonstration. Giggling the whole time, she was stabilized as a spinal injury victim. Ending up strapped to a board with a neck brace, she and the class thoroughly enjoyed the presentation and the friendly paramedics.

The last class was a workshop on how to make arts and crafts out of products that we usually consider to be trash. The concept is called art recycling. Out of plastic bottles, the girls made chalices. Out of milk cartons, they made vases. Several bags of “trash” were turned into beautiful works of art, which the girls happily took home.

We had to pry the girls out of the university building. “Can we stay until five? Six?” they asked over and over again. “Can we come back?” they asked Marta.

“Of course you can come back” she replied as she put us on the bus. The chaperones and I grinned at each other. The girls had never seen a university before. The concept had been obscure and intangible to them. But now, they were familiar with the university, and had very positive memories associated with it.

I remember that my high school grades jumped significantly after my first college visit. I knew that there was a reason to study hard: college. My hope is that the girls remember their visit throughout elementary and high school. Perhaps our one visit will prompt at least one of those girls to apply to the university, and si dios quiere, enroll.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

The Ridiculous/Terrible Things That Are Happening To Me

The Animals Have Taken Over…Again

It was midday, hot as hell. I sat at my kitchen table with a fan an inch from my face. I was working on a lesson plan, sipping iced coffee, when I heard footsteps in the shed area on the side of my house. Keeping in mind that I have been mugged twice so far, I grabbed a kitchen knife from a drawer. Moving as swiftly and silently as possible, I made my way out the front door toward the side of the house. I scaled the wall like James Bond, thoroughly entertaining all watching neighbors. I turned the corner and saw something truly puzzling.

I put down the knife and stared for a while. Sitting in a circle, facing each other, was a group of six cats. I had intruded upon a kitty party. They may as well have been holding cocktails and wearing nice shoes. Among them was my cat, Negro, who looked at me like an embarrassed teenager. “Dave! Get out of here; you’re embarrassing me in front of my friends!” his eyes communicated. I took a few steps back and left them.

These were clearly the cats that had been stealing Necio’s food and pissing all over my house. And since Negro didn’t even ask me if he could have company over, I went into my room and grabbed my soccer ball. Running at them full force, I heaved the ball at the group, completely missing them all. They scattered, fitting themselves through thin cracks in the roof. Feeling vindicated, I grabbed my ball and turned around to head back into the house. I blushed when I found that I had an audience of about five neighborhood kids. They were dying on the floor, laughing. I threw my ball into my room and looked at Negro, who was thoroughly disappointed.

I hate these cats.


The Second Plague

In an earlier blog, I explained how a frog couple decided to move into my shower drain. I must admit, it was cute at first. They would hop around my kitchen, my shower, my feet while I was in my shower, etc. I like frogs. They are cute. At least that is what I felt before the shit came.

For such small animals, frogs have the biggest shit. They must shit about a third of their body weight. And it is not like scentless rabbit poop; it stinks up the entire room. One of the reasons why I agreed to take Necio (I had no choice regarding Negro), was that there would be no touching of poop of any kind. The cats are good; they trek out to the bushes to make their deposits. But I have become fed up with cleaning up these frog messes. Therefore, I have declared war on the frogs.

It has been going like Vietnam. Every time, I catch a frog, I throw it out of my back door. Every time I kick one, it just sits there as if to invite more kicks. They are so stupid, that after I launch one into a bush, it hops right back to where I’m standing. They are like the Jesus Christ of amphibians, always turning the other cheek. While I have made significant captures, the loads of shit keep coming. And I keep cleaning it up.

I once held a can of raid to a frog, but found that I could not pull the trigger. I was not ready to use chemical weapons. I could not cross that line. I was hoping that Necio could help me get rid of these frogs. Turns out, he’s got bigger problems to manage.


Necio’s Got An Eating Disorder

Living up to his name, Necio is the most annoying cat ever. He doesn’t cuddle; he doesn’t like to be around people and is generally worthless. All he ever approaches me for is food. Food, food, food. Let me take you through a typical day with Necio as a roommate.

I am dreaming. Scarlett Johanson is making out with me on a mansion in the clouds. She stops kissing me for a second and gestures toward the bedroom. She leads me by the hand, and we start walking. Just as we are about to pass through the doors, the dream slowly melts away and I open my eyes.

Necio is sitting on my face. He is meowing at full volume, and scratching my chest. When he sees that I am awake, he stands on my chest, looks me in my eyes and starts yelling at me. He scratches my arms and shoulders. If he could ball his puny little paws into a fist, he would punch me in the face. He does not stop this until I get out of bed.

Before I can feed Necio, I must do what all men do when they wake up: go to the bathroom. Since I have the house to myself now, I leave the door open, as all bachelors are obligated to do by law. Necio does not respect the concept of bathroom privacy and jumps at my legs while I relieve myself. Necio does not know how very dangerous this is for him, and that one day, I may accidentally lose my aim.

Finally, the moment he has been waiting for: I pour his food into his bowl. He attacks it like a linebacker attacking a QB. Negro watches this with disgust. He is lounging on the floor with his cocktail, waiting for his date to arrive. After clearing out an entire bowl, Necio begs for more. I give him more. He vomits on the floor. I hate this cat.

No matter how long I’ve been out, he always begs for food when I return. His bowl may be completely full, but no matter to Necio. He wants to be fed. My psychiatrist friends have diagnosed him with Reactive Attachment Disorder, because he has moved homes so many times. I just think that he’s an asshole.


The Admirer

For some strange reason, the women in this country find me attractive. It may be the light hair and blue eyes, it may be the enormous biceps; I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. So a very strange thing happens when I walk down my street in gym attire: I get cat calls. Lots of them. At first, I was very flattered. As time passed, I became used to it. Most of the ladies are just joking around, having fun with me. I’m pretty good humored about it. I tell them how beautiful they look, and ask when they are going to turn twenty so that we can finally run away together. These women are fat, unattractive and old. We have a good time with it.

There is one woman who is not kidding around. She has always been a bit more serious with her cat calls than the other women. One day, she called me over and I abided. Very casually, as if she was offering me a cookie, she said that since I am alone, and she is alone that we should get married. Now, in Tico culture, I am sure that this is how many relationships start. I laughed and told her I couldn’t. Serious now, she demanded to know why not. Did I have a girlfriend? No. Was I gay? No. Than why not? I just told her that I didn’t really want a relationship and got out of there as quickly as I could.

A few weeks later, her friends called me over to their porch where my admirer was sitting. Again, I humored them and sat down with them. “Listen,” said my admirer’s neighbor, “why don’t you want to be with her?”

“I don’t want a serious relationship right now!” I responded.

“Well how about this,” she said, looking devilishly around to her friends and my admirer, “just one night together. No strings attached.” My face flushed, and I immediately became super uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t” I said, starting to get up. “I’m too romantic.”

My neighbor sat me down with her hand, and smiled. “Well then, she can cook you a romantic dinner, then you can have one night together.” I laughed. She was totally serious. I looked at my admirer. She was nodding her head vigorously.

I thanked the ladies for their offer, and escaped to my house. I concluded that the only way to fend the women off was to tell my admirer that I thought she was a total dog. Not wanting to do this, I decided that I would have to simply tolerate the hilarious harassment.

Now, every time I pass her house, my admirer offers me coffee. I have come up with every excuse in the book as to why I can’t drink coffee. It keeps me up all night. It gives me diarrhea. I am allergic and it will kill me. Still, she offers a cup daily.

Last week, she waved me over, and said that there is something that she needed help with in her house. This is actually not unusual for my neighbors to do; they often need things translated. I walked into her house, and her friends on the porch immediately closed the door and locked it. I was trapped inside with this lunatic. I looked her in the face and said “you have a beautiful house. It is very clean. Now please let me out.” She did. I laughed it up with the ladies, and told them that it was a hilarious joke, but not to ever do it again. They all roared with laughter. I walked away. I’m having trouble deciding in my head whether or not this is something I will miss when I return to the United States.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

Success Stories

When asked about how one adjusts to life as a volunteer, my predecessor plainly said: “life here just becomes normal.” No conscious coping mechanisms, no cultural battles; Peace Corps life simply becomes life. As I enter my fifteenth month here, I see exactly what Marianne meant. I’ve found it to be fantastic.

One of the challenges of Peace Corps is adjusting to the overwhelming differences between American and Tico life. I have become so busy lately that I do not even notice the differences anymore. In the beginning, the job was so difficult because one has to make his own work and projects here; the task can be daunting for someone who does not have a professional network or strong language skills to work with. Now, I have become so integrated into both my professional and residential communities that I have more work than I know what to do with. During the month of April, I worked nine to five days.

So why is this fantastic? One of the most difficult adjustments to make in the beginning is how to manage your free time. In Peace Corps, free time can often be a killer. Free time often harbors feelings of worthlessness, loneliness and homesickness. Since I have been so busy with work, I feel super productive; I feel like I am a good volunteer. With such a packed schedule, I enable myself to truly enjoy my free time. Because I’ve earned it, it is something to relish rather than dread. This balance that I have found has made me truly happy as a Peace Corps Volunteer here in Costa Rica.

My happiness has a lot to do with seeing the fruits of my labor. So often in Peace Corps, one invests his time and effort into projects that will never reveal tangible results. Hours invested in starting a computer class may be for naught when your counterpart suddenly changes his mind about the value of the class. But this has not been the case with me in April. I’ve experienced some major victories.

I experienced my most happy and proud moment of Peace Corps a few days ago when my albergue kids and I finally completed our collection of poetry created in our weekly poetry workshop. It is bright and colorful and something for the kids to be proud of. For them to see their names in print makes them feel important and purposeful. In the collection, each child’s page includes a giant color portrait and their poetry. Each photo in the collection is a product of our photo workshop. It is fun to read and the pictures are cute as hell. We are going to have an economics lesson in a few days in which we price the collection to sell at our culminating poetry slam. Regardless, please email me if you would like to purchase a copy (dhlarkin@gmail.com).

As you may have read in a previous blog, I have been working for months to get my “Chicas Super Poderosas” group off the ground. Thankfully, it got going three weeks ago and has been rolling along perfectly. The girls love the group (partly because of my fantastic jokes, partly because of the activities). Over the past three sessions, we have discussed and worked on children’s rights, communication skills, leadership skills and self-esteem. This is done via fun games (e.g. blindfolded obstacle course to work on communication), and bonding activities. The last few sessions include a field trip, a mural painting and a party, all of which I am busy planning.

I am also continuing with the old faithful: my English classes with Aula Abierta. The students have continued to impress and surprise me. When we started the school year in February, I did not expect them to remember much from the previous year’s classes. I expected to have to start all over again. Wrong! They remembered everything, and were enthusiastic about it. Every month or so, I give a Jeopardy-type evaluation to the class. Each time we start, I worry that I made the questions too difficult. However, I am consistently surprised and delighted when the students not only answer the questions correctly, but get enthusiastic about it. I can see it in their attitude that they are even prouder than I am. They are learning a new language; I know from experience, that it is quite the thrill.

Sometimes I wonder why I joined the Peace Corps. I could still be at my legal assistant job, pulling in a nice salary. I could still have my harbor view apartment with granite tabletops. However, there are poignant moments that quickly and suddenly define one’s Peace Corps experience. Such moments shock me, and quickly validate my decision. One such experience took place last week:

I passed through the doors of the adolescent girls’ albergue for a session of our poetry workshop. I asked the girls to go get their writer’s notebooks so that we could begin. Most of the girls’ books are empty, save the work we create in class. However, Paola, one of the girls I have known for the longest, pulled me aside. She asked if we could sit away from the other girls for a minute, and I told her we could. Sitting on the couch, I was overwhelmed with pride and excitement as she revealed to me page after page of poetry that she had written on her own. She caught the poetry bug and it doesn’t look like she plans to lose it anytime soon. I looked at her and told her how proud I was of her, and to keep writing. And she has.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

The Earthquake

It is so damn hot.

I took a shot of Listerine this morning; it was the temperature of hot tea. I leaned against my bedroom wall as I put on my shoes; it was as if I had put my hand to a heater. After washing my clothes, I hung them out to dry in the sun; it took less than an hour. Necio has spent the entire day laying on his back under my kitchen table. It is thirty-six degrees Celsius here. You do the math.

When it is this hot in my town, things start to slow down, like a walkman running out of batteries. Things get cancelled. Entire families lay on their tiled floors and sleep the day away. Stray dogs cower from the sun in patches of shade. Everyone acts as if they are stoned: their stride is a bit wobbly, thoughts don’t come out as clearly as they should, and all anybody wants to do is eat and watch TV.

It was in this sun-stroke state of mind that I found myself sitting on the corner of my bed this morning, a half-inch from my fan. I was hazily working on a lesson plan, while consistently drinking cool water. Then I felt something.

At first I thought that it was something as tame as Necio jumping onto the bed that made it move. I looked up from my work and found that I was alone in the room. My floor fan was wobbling, but aside from that, nothing was out of the ordinary. I felt dizzy, and I began to think that I was going crazy from heat-stroke or dehydration. But when it ended, I realized. I had just felt my first earthquake.

It was as if somebody had placed the foundation of my house on wheels, and let it drift around. My house was suddenly floating in the Pacific, and I felt sea-sick. Like my house, I had lost my mooring.

I went to the school to teach my English class a short while later. It was immediately clear to me that I wasn’t the only one who had lost my mooring; the students could not focus. Everyone sort of floated around the classroom, the way my house had floated around my property. We were there, but we weren’t. After class, I got home and fell into bed. I fell asleep in the middle of the day for the first time since college.

I was fascinated by my first earthquake experience. It was almost mystical the way a short vibration can affect one’s state of being. Like the quake shakes you into an orbit different than that of the earth. Maybe it shakes the reality from you.

Or maybe it is just too damn hot.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Ladies and Gentlemen, We Have Lift-Off!

For a Children, Youth and Families volunteer here in Costa Rica, January is a pretty worthless month. It is in the middle of the schools’ summer vacation, and we volunteers are often left without a whole lot to inscribe on our work reports. February, on the other hand, is very busy. As a response to the lethargy of January, the average volunteer attacks the beginning of the school year with ambition and energy. With beginning of the year staff and planning meetings, there are several opportunities to put one’s project ideas on the table and get the ball rolling. By the time March rolls around, the goal is to have some projects in action and gaining steam. I am thrilled to say that this has been the case for this Peace Corps Volunteer.

I have been continuing my work with the “Aula Abierta” program at the elementary school. The program offers drop-outs a fast track to their elementary school diploma. This eclectic group is one of my favorites. Some of the kids are there because they simply didn’t put enough effort into school and ended up repeating the third grade four times. Many of the students are victims of abuse, and were never sent to school by their negligent parents. A few dropped out to have children (one of which made an appearance at my last class). This mix provides us with 16 year old fourth graders and nine year olds who had never even been to school before. To say the least, the group is never boring.

Within the group, there are different “types.” There are the shy, quiet girls. There are the teenage moms. And then there the more colorful kids: the chapolinas. The best way that I could describe them in English is “thugs.” They smoke a lot of pot, hang out on the corners and whistle at girls, and are probably familiar with the people who have mugged me. One time, one of the boys told me that he loved to smoke crack. I told him, half-joking, that if one really gets heavy into crack, he will have quite a future of oral sex for pay in his future. His face dropped, and he told be that he was kidding. I told him the he sure as hell better be, because it sounded like a terrible future. He never made that joke again.

Regardless, I see the most potential in these boys. They are street smart, and are well versed in survival methods of the hood. When I give a lesson on how to perform at a job interview, they pay attention; they know from experience that it is important.

With the Aula Abierta group, I have done life skills training with them where we learned budgeting, job search methods, and healthy living practices. Last year, we also had a weekly English class. This year, I am upping the ante. In addition to HIV/AIDS and sex education, I will be teaching two English classes per week. They seem to really enjoy it, mostly because I use a non-formal approach. This entails games, competitions and hands on type lessons. My logic is that if the copying from the blackboard didn’t work the first three times they took second grade, it won’t work now. You can imagine my satisfaction with my first class of the year when I learned that the group remembered much of the material that we covered during the previous year. We are now moving forward at a good pace, and I am hopeful that by the end of this school year, I will be able to have conversations in English with the group.

My other major anticipated project at the school is called “Chicas Super Ponderosas.” “Chicas” is a three month long girl’s empowerment program. The project’s aim is to build the self-esteem; communication, organizational, leadership, decision making and planning skills; and a sense of membership and citizenship among a group of at-risk girls. I have paired up with a female teacher at the school to plan and carry out the program, which is very important if the program is to be sustainable. We have each of the eleven sessions planned, and are geared to launch the program in mid-April.

The “Chicas Super Ponderosas” program is more important to me than most of my previous work. This is because so many of the girls who attend my school are at risk of falling victim to the rampant sex trade of Costa Rica. Unlike a country like The Netherlands which regulates its sex trade, prostitution in Costa Rica is unregulated. This brings about an onslaught of very serious problems, among which is the spread of HIV/AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases. However, the most grave of problems I find with the unregulated legalization of prostitution in Costa Rica is the facilitation of the commercial sexual exploitation of children. After Thailand, Costa Rica is the second most popular destination for sex tourism. This opens the floodgates for pederasts to come over by the thousands and take advantage of underprivileged girls like those who attend my school. My hope is that the program can get the girls focused on a track that leads them to high school and a career, and out of the brothels.

The positive trend has continued with my work in the albergues. The poetry workshop has been so successful that we now have enough work to publish a collection. I spoke with my counterpart at PANI (the children’s services of Costa Rica that runs the albergues), and he has offered to cover the printing costs, or even print the collection in the PANI office. Once the collection is put together, we will have a big poetry slam where we will sell the published collection.

I have also started a computer class with my albergue kids. It started out one day when I brought my laptop to the albergue for the poetry workshop. The kids were fascinated by the computer, and I showed them how it works. Within a few weeks, I was having formal computer classes with the kids. They have been learning how to use windows and have really enjoyed it. However, I knew that my laptop alone would not suffice if the kids really wanted to know how to work a computer in the twenty-first century; they needed to become familiar with the internet. So one day, I asked the owner of my local internet café if he would donate a few hours of internet access a week to the children. He agreed, and we’ve been surfing the web since. I even set the kids up with gmail accounts so that they can learn how to use email. As long as they steer clear of the worlds of internet porn out there, I only see good things happening with the class.

January for lassitude, February for planning, and March for flight. I am so glad that so many of my programs have gotten off the ground. In the Peace Corps, one’s happiness and emotional stability often correlates with the success of one’s projects. Gracias a Dios, the correlation has been positive in my case. I only hope that my projects continue to thrive and expand.

Saturday, February 28, 2009

The Zoo

When I first told people that I would be living in Costa Rica, most people assumed that I would be living in the rainforest, swinging from tree to tree like Tarzan. I must confess that when I got my assignment, I pictured the same sort of thing (loincloth and all). However, when I arrived at my site, I couldn’t help but liken it to Detroit with palm trees. In my barrio, there aren’t many trees at all, just concrete-slab government built houses and half paved roads. We don’t have monkeys swinging from trees; we have sneakers hanging from electrical wires.

Regardless of the setting outside of my house, I found it to be a jungle inside. My host family had quite the collection of pets: two dogs, four kittens, four rabbits and a rooster. At first, I found this charming, until the latter of these pets woke me up every morning at dawn. I can’t tell you how terrible it is to wake up every morning with a cock in your ear.

The kittens were gradually taken in by my host sister, Joseline. One day a little orange kitten would be at my feet; the next day I’d find a little black one. Once I woke up to find four of them scratching my legs as I ate breakfast. Ania’s attitude toward the whole thing reminded me of my late Mom-Mom’s approach to pets: “Get away! Get away you annoying cat! GO AWAY!” She would then take a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, and toss a bit of food down to the cat, “here you go, eat sweetie.”

Regardless of whether or not Ania liked the cats, they were quite the financial burden. She could barely feed the mouth of her daughter; to feed four cats was not feasible. So one morning Joseline and I were at the breakfast table, eating our normal breakfast of toast and coffee, when Ania asked us if we noticed anything different about the house. Joseline and I looked around, looked at each other and shrugged. “We are missing a few cats, aren’t we?” Joseline immediately darted her eyes around the room, and then opened them up wide. She looked at Ania who was coyly smiling, then bolted for the bathroom and slammed the door.

Bairón and Memo were laughing hysterically. I could faintly hear Joseline sobbing in the bathroom. I watched the two rolling on the floor laughing, and could picture the scene in my head: the two of them gathering up the kittens in the middle of the night, driving down an empty road, laughing as they tossed them off a bridge. I do not know if this actually happened, but I would not be surprised.

Luckily for Joseline, they let one cat stay. It was the one they called Negra, but had to change to Negro once its balls dropped.

With all of this animal chaos, you can imagine the look on Ania’s face when I told her I was bringing Necio home with me. Luckily she didn’t care. She probably figured that it would be one more mouser in the house. Little did she know that Necio is afraid of mice.

One evening, I was laying in bed with Necio, talking on the phone with a friend back home. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something crawl out from under my dresser. I glanced over and said to my friend “whoa! How could a crab get so far inland—.” The hair on my arms stood on end, and I told my friend that I would call her back. I got out of my bed, grabbed a magazine, and walked over to get a better look. My first instinct was to crush it with my magazine, but I took a few seconds to look. I had never seen a tarantula before.

I stared at it for a while, then took a shot at it with the rolled up magazine. I missed horribly, and it skittered back underneath my dresser. I looked at Necio purring comfortably on my spot in bed. “You are supposed to kill these sorts of things!” I yelled at him. He closed his eyes and kept purring away. That night, I slept like Andy Dufrane during his first night at Shawshank.

The next night, I was laying on my bed reading when it crawled out again. We locked eyes. Neither of us moved for a while. As we stared, I could just hear him speaking to me in the voice of Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. “Dave. Dave. Dave, you shouldn’t have done that, Dave. You shouldn’t have tried to kill me Dave.” He slowly backed into his lair. Again, I slept poorly.

This happened for several nights in a row. I would try to kill the tarantula that I began to call Hal, and he would eventually come out to stare at me and threaten me in that monotone computer voice. Sometimes, Necio would walk over to it, sniff it, and go about his business. Worthless.

After about a week of sleepless nights, I finally wised up and bought a can of raid. I emptied about half of the can into his lair and hoped for the best. The next day, I got home from teaching to find a funeral march of bodybuilder ants carrying away the deceased Hal. While I was glad that I could finally sleep, and wouldn’t wake up one day to find a tarantula on my face, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sad for the guy. I gave him a quick salute before sweeping him and the ants out of my door, into the yard.

Not long after the Hal incident, I awoke in the middle of the night to a rustling sound next to my bed. I was sure that it was a mouse. I jumped up and got my flashlight and a t-shirt to use as a net. The rustling continued. I cleared away a few papers, and shone the light on the culprit. I was relieved and allowed myself a chuckle. For there, hopping around my art supplies bin, was a big fat bullfrog.

I threw my t-shirt at the guy, but he hopped out into the depths of Hal’s lair. I cursed and got back into bed. At least I didn’t have a mouse running around near my bed. A frog I could live with. But after a few minutes, I heard a rustling on my dresser. I arose once again, shirt in hand. I flipped on the light switch to find the big guy hopping around my deodorant and sunscreen. This time, I was able to trap him with my shirt. I released him into my back yard. A friend once told me that if cats bite into frogs, a chemical is released that could kill the cat. I tossed him as far away from the house so that neither of the cats would get to him.

Since we are now in the dry season, I have been coming across frogs in the house every day. I would jump into the shower, only to have a frog crawl out of the drain and start hopping around. I walked into the bathroom the other day to find a big one doing laps in my toilet. Initially, I would catch each one and release it outside. Necio may be a pain in the ass, but I surely don’t want to see him poisoned.

Then one evening, I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I switched on the kitchen light to find Necio and a frog, side by side, eating cat food from Necio’s bowl. The two looked totally at peace. They even seemed friendly with each other, like two friends sitting at a bar. It reminded me of the time I caught a mouse in a bag of bread and gave it to Necio only to have him look at me, puzzled, as if to say “what the hell do you want me to do with him?” I shut the lights and left the two to their late night snack.

Now, I let the frogs hop freely around my house. With my new pets, I have noticed that there are far fewer mosquitoes in my shower, and I am yet to find a cockroach. They are like nature’s exterminators.

I may not be in the jungle. However, I have found myself in my kitchen surrounded by geckoes, spiders and frogs, all doing the job that Necio is supposed to be doing. Sometimes geckoes fall off the ceiling onto my head. The frogs are consistently bumping into me in the shower. At moments like these, I just smile and say “Ahhhhh, Peace Corps.”