tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42175178668985262062024-03-14T02:23:02.290-07:00The Tico Adventure: Dave's Peace Corps BlogDave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-38551921317124395932010-05-17T12:16:00.000-07:002010-05-17T12:25:24.204-07:00Saying GoodbyeI am writing this final blog from my home in New York. It feels strange to write this anywhere other than my kitchen table with its view of my mango tree. It also feels strange for it to be almost mid-day and not be sweating.<br /><br />The last week of my Peace Corps service was illuminating. Goodbye after goodbye, I learned what my presence in my site really meant for those with whom I had contact. The first such instance occurred at my <em>despedida </em>(goodbye party) at the girls’ albergue. On a weekday afternoon, I sat down in the home and spoke with the girls and the tias about my departure. The girls were baffled by the fact that I would be traveling in a plane (“does it hurt? Isn’t it scary? Will you crash?”) They then, one by one, handed me cards and letters thanking me for taking care of them. After the cards and kisses, the spunky Tia Ruth gave me a picture frame and a card. Then the girls surprised me with a giant <em>tres leches </em>cake.<br /><br />After eating a big slice of cake, and chatting with the girls, I got up to go. After saying my goodbyes, Tia Zobieda approached me. A stark contrast to the loud and grabby Tia Ruth, Zobieda is taciturn to the point of awkwardness. Casey and I used to call her "The Turtle" because she rarely spoke or moved in our presence. She was always kind, just shy.<br /><br />As I went to say goodbye to Zobieda, she pulled me aside and thanked me for my work in the albergue. For the first time in the two years in which I worked there, she opened up. She held me close and told me that my work with the girls had really given her a chance to breathe. My classes and workshops were great, she told me. <em>“Vamos a hacer mucha falta de usted, David,”</em> she said. We will miss you very much, David.<br /><br />I was quite touched by Zobeida’s words. A struggle that I constantly had to deal with throughout my service was the feeling that nobody appreciated my work. It made me question the value of my presence in my site. Because of this, a simple “thank you” affected me deeply.<br /><br />That Sunday, I had my <em>despedida</em> at the children’s albergue. It was a bright, hot afternoon. I had my new friend Nick with me; he was the volunteer who would be replacing me at the albergues. His new site was a kilometer or so down the road from me.<br /><br />Walking into the green albergue is always an inspiring experience. I approach the gate and yell <em>“UPE!” </em>which is Spanish for “knock-knock.” There is then a chorus of shouts; “DAVID! DAVID!” A clamoring of footsteps is then heard, and finally a dozen kids crash against the gate and give me high-fives. After we were welcomed in the traditional manner, the kids led us to the back porch where Nick and I were immediately given heaping plates of <em>arroz con pollo</em>. After introducing Nick to the tias and children, we feasted.<br /><br />This party was quite different from the girls’ party. Most of the children are quite young or mentally disabled, so they couldn’t quite wrap their minds around the fact that I was leaving for good. So I made sure that they got to know Nick, while I got sentimental with the tias over yet another cake. At one point, I looked out into the yard to see the kids playing soccer with Nick, and smiled. My little guys would be cared for. Before leaving, the tias gave me presents and said tearful goodbyes. They told me that I always have a home here and that I am welcome back anytime.<br /><br />After putting Nick on a bus back to his new site, I walked home. On my way, I stopped and said goodbye to my neighborhood acquaintances. I walked to my gym, and said goodbye to Jorge and Luis Carlos. We exchanged information, and they told me that I always have a home here and that I am welcome back anytime.<br /><br />I popped into my green grocer and told him that I was leaving. He looked shocked, and then disappeared into the back room. When he came back, he presented me with two ripe avocados. We shook hands firmly, and then he said to me that I always have a home here and that I am welcome back anytime.<br /><br />I then went to my barber shop and told him that I was leaving. He told me that I was a good guy, and not to worry about balding. We shook hands firmly, and then he said to me that I always have a home here and that I am welcome back anytime.<br /><br />I then said goodbye to my video store friend, Yaco. His wife made a big fuss, and took a lot of pictures. He gave me a handful of DVDs and told me to come back soon. We shook hands firmly, and then he said to me that I always have a home here and that I am welcome back anytime.<br /><br />The bike repair guy and I then said goodbye. I think that he appreciates me because I always shook his hand as I passed his shop even though they were usually dirty. After a few words, we shook hands firmly, and then he said to me that I always have a home here and that I am welcome back anytime.<br /><br />I then walked down my street in the ghetto project called Jireth (I could never previously reveal the name of my site due to security concerns). I passed by my neighbors and waved to them until I came to the house of my admirer. She was sitting on her porch, swaying in her rocking chair. I went up to her, and told her that I would be leaving in a few days. She got up and hugged me, and told me that it was nice to have me around. As I turned to leave, she said “I’m sad that you are leaving,” I smiled. “But if you want, stop by my house before you leave for a quickie.”<br /><br />That night, Yessenia had a <em>despedida</em> dinner for me. She and her warm husband, Coca, thanked me for my service. It was strange for me to be thanked so much, because these were the first sentiments of thanks that I had received in my time in country. Coca, Yessenia and I passed my last night in Puntarenas drinking beers, getting sentimental and talking about the past two years. When I left, I did not feel sad. Yessenia is a true friend and I know that I will be seeing her soon.<br /><br />The next day, I made my way to San Jose. That afternoon, I had lunch with Mama Ligia, my training host mother. After eating a hearty lunch of <em>Olla de Carne</em>, I wandered around my former training community of Patarra. I said goodbye to Lucila, Casey’s training host mom. I then went to Marjory’s house (where Julie stayed). I spent an hour or so discussing the future with Marjory (who can only be described as “salt of the earth”) and her family. After more teary goodbyes, I got on a bus and headed back to San Jose.<br /><br />After a few hours at the Peace Corps office spent signing papers and doing exit interviews, I was no longer an active Peace Corps volunteer. I received certificates proving my service, and language fluency. What struck me most though was my Description of Service: a two page long document signed by the country director outlining my main accomplishments as a volunteer. As I read through each bullet on the paper, I grew proud. It had been two long years of hard work, and I was done. I realized that I had accomplished my goals here, and could leave feeling satisfied and without regrets. And leave, I did.<br /><br />Yesterday, I boarded my flight home feeling quite anxious. I wasn’t worried about anything in particular, yet found myself grinding my teeth. Then we took off, and I felt sad. The land was so beautiful, and I was leaving it. The mountains, so richly covered in green rainforest; the water so blue and clean. As we headed north, we flew over the Poas volcano. I looked directly into the crater and saw the turquoise water shimmering in the sun while sulphury plumes of smoke burst forth from the surface. The land is so alive, I thought as we passed over the border into Nicaraguan airspace. I am going to miss Costa Rica, a land bursting with life.<br /><br />I slept a few hours. As we made our descent, the New York skyline came into view, and my mood changed. Costa Rica is alive with volcanoes and rainforests and monkeys, but New York is alive with a different kind of energy. I can’t say that one is better than the other, they are both awesome. On the ride home from the airport, we passed through my favorite neighborhoods on a perfect, sunny Sunday afternoon. And as I saw the streets, so full of life, and the beautiful women in short skirts, I knew that I would be okay.<br /><br />I am thankful to the Peace Corps for giving me the opportunity to see another kind of land and life. I am grateful to the Tico people for introducing me to their culture. I would like to thank my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, my family and close friends for their support over the past two years and three months. Lastly, I would like to thank my fellow PCVs for getting me through. You know who you are.<br /><br /><br />Thanks for reading, and pura vida!<br /><br />Dave LarkinDave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-28334791722806797092010-05-05T13:35:00.000-07:002010-05-05T13:41:21.668-07:00What I will miss about Costa RicaWhat I will miss about Costa Rica (in no particular order):<br /><br />1. The Sun<br />Every morning, I wake up to a brilliant sun. Even in the depths of the rainy season, the morning hours welcome rays that burn off the remnants of the previous night’s rain. These rays bring with it a heat that makes sleeping past eight impossible. I never get that rainy day gloom that makes you want to stay in bed all day. I always hop out, look to the sun, and start my day.<br /><br />2. The Two Crackheads on my Corner<br />Ever hear of a crackhead with a heart of gold? Well, they exist. Every morning, on my way to the track for my daily run, I pass a lovely crackhead couple. They always chat with me, and remark what a beautiful morning it is. They never hassle me for money; they just want to get to know their local gringo. The woman always tells me to run some laps for her. They tell me “God bless you,” and I tell them the same.<br /><br />3. Yessenia<br />My neighbor Yessenia is the most put together person in my entire site. She makes sure that her kids go to school and do their homework, an aberration here. She is a known leader in the community; people look up to her. When we dine together, I do no get the usual Tico conversation about the weather. Yessenia has educated herself. We often find ourselves talking about women’s rights in Costa Rica, Tico politics, and education. She is the only person in my site that I trust.<br /><br />4. Travel<br />Whenever I meet tourists on my travels in Costa Rica, I feel sorry for them. Even on a long vacation, there is no possible way to see all the wonders that Costa Rica has to offer. I am thankful that I have had two years to explore the country. I’ve been all over, from the super touristy to the remote sites of fellow volunteers. I’ve had the privilege to get used to cloud forests and howler monkeys. I’m terribly afraid that I am going to return to the beaches of the Northeast to find myself thinking “you call this a beach?” Something tells me I’ll be back.<br /><br />5. My Gym<br />When I first arrived, I started working out at a gym owned by a guy named Choppa. Choppa is about five foot five and two hundred pounds. The measurements of his biceps may rival that of most people’s waists. If anyone saw him running anywhere, one could wonder if he wasn’t out looking for his neck. He is huge, as if he had jumped out of a weightlifting magazine. He is a good natured fellow, prone to doing irresponsible things like slapping me in the belly as I bench pressed. I liked going to his gym, but then one day (strangely the day after I made my monthly payment) he closed down shop.<br /><br />I was then forced to join a different gym which turned out to be better. Jorge’s gym is closer to my house and nicer. Jorge is quite different from Choppa; physical trainer certificates hang above his desk. He creates custom workout plans for his members. He is lean and outgoing, and doesn’t make crude jokes or unsavory comments to the women of the gym like Choppa did. Also at the gym is Luis Carlos, my favorite. Luis Carlos is super friendly, and makes a point to say hello to and check in on all of the members. Usually, I don’t like to be interrupted during my workout. However, I don’t mind when Luis Carlos wanders over to shoot the shit with me. He is learning English and likes to practice with me.<br /><br />After my workout, I usually spend a few minutes hanging out with the two. It is hard to find people my age that are cool and fun to be around, which is what makes seeing Jorge and Luis Carlos so enjoyable. Therefore, going to the gym has been more of a social experience than part of a routine.<br /><br />6. My Porch<br />The best part of my house is the big front porch. After I wake up, I usually sit out there on my rocking chair with a glass of juice and toast and watch the day unfold. In the evenings, I like to sit in the same spot and watch the sky grow pink behind my neighbors’ houses. Behind the house across the street from me is an average palm tree. There is nothing special about the tree. But as the sun goes down, the palm fronds form beautiful comb-shaped silhouettes which sway and click in the breeze. Farther behind the palm, to the south, a giant oak tree hides the horizon. From the oak, hundreds of birds sing as the clouds reflect the rich colors of the sunset. Most evenings, I sit in my rocker and take the scene in until the darkness comes and washes it all away.<br /><br />7. Other PCVs<br />My friend Max closed service just a few months after I began mine. Shortly before leaving, he said “the best part of Peace Corps is Peace Corps Volunteers.” I couldn’t agree more. I have made several friends who I know that I will be close with for the rest of my life. I have also met some PCVs who are not so great, but for the most part, PCVs are good people. The only problem with the PCVs in Costa Rica is the severe lack of hot Jewish women with proclivities for short, balding men.<br /><br />8. Solitude<br />When my host family moved away, leaving me with the house for my second year, it was the first time in my life that I lived alone. I’ve always had roommates or house-mates. At first, I was a bit worried because I am a social person. However, it only took a few days for me to realize how sublime life alone can be.<br /><br />The transition was stark: I went from a loud host family crammed into a small house without a hint of privacy to having my own little haven. At first, I celebrated the freedom by making lavish dinners for myself and drinking glasses of wine every evening. But then I got used to having my own house and fell into a smooth rhythm. Doing laundry, going to work, cleaning up. Never before was I in charge of everything, and I liked it.<br /><br />Most important was the line that my house drew in the sand: work is out there, leisure time is in here. When living with a host family, one is on the clock twenty-four hours a day. A volunteer is obligated to speak Spanish, learn about customs, and help out around the house, all of which can be exhausting. Living on my own allowed me to end the workday once I got home in the evening. And once alone, after a day of screaming children, the solitude was delicious.<br /><br />9. Puntarenas<br />Puntarenas is authentic. It is the most Tico city that I’ve seen in Costa Rica. You would never find anything written in English. Whenever I see gringos walking around, I ask them in my head “are you lost?” Even though the heat here in “the Puerto” is known to be the worst in the country, nobody here has air conditioning. The Puerto has baked its traditions into the small spit of land that it occupies. The spirit of the Puerto remains strong year after year. Fishermen haul fish from the waters off its shores, and chefs brine it to make <span style="font-style:italic;">ceviche</span>, the flavor of the Puerto.<br /><br />Sundays in the Puerto help me to see the beautiful side of a Tico culture that I often find myself at odds with. Upon stepping off the bus, I notice that the center of the city is deserted. Shops are closed, the streets are empty. The desolation reminds me that it is okay that I am not working, and that it is okay to relax. As I walk south toward the beach, I sense a vibration, a hum of activity. By the time I smell the salt air, the streets are more crowded. As I step onto the <span style="font-style:italic;">“Paseo de las Touristas,”</span> the transition is complete and I am mobbed with people. Vendors are set up every ten feet selling everything from snow-cones to <span style="font-style:italic;">carne asada</span> to beach sandals. Across the street from the ocean walk is a row of restaurants offering fresh seafood. Lines of shower stalls fill some lots, mostly for the people enjoying the beach before heading back to San Jose.<br /><br />What I like most about the Puntarenas beach is that the people are all Ticos. Most of them are from the area, but many are from San Jose and the central valley. For most Ticos, this is the beach. Before touristy beach towns sprouted up all along the central pacific coast, Puntarenas was the only real option. And the San Jose Ticos have been faithful. They come back to the Puerto for the traditions like salsa dancing on the beach and the <span style="font-style:italic;">pescado frito</span>. Puntarenas is a Tico beach.<br /><br />As I walk along the beach on a Sunday afternoon, I see Ticos at their best. Families bring tents and tables and chairs and set up camp. They heave giant pots of homemade <span style="font-style:italic;">arroz con pollo</span> onto their tables and eat as a family after playing in the surf or lying in the sand. Babies stumble around naked as fathers teach them how to navigate the hot sand. Raisin-skinned old ladies sit together under the shade of the coconut trees looking out onto the surf. Couples kiss unabashedly; husbands slap their wives scantily clad asses. And I sit on the seawall drinking cold coconut water, taking it all in.<br /><br />10. <span style="font-style:italic;">Chepe Despiches</span><br />For my lack of a desire to incriminate myself, I’ll keep this portion short. Allow me to explain, <span style="font-style:italic;">“Chepe”</span> is a nickname for Jose. Therefore, <span style="font-style:italic;">“Chepe”</span> is also a nickname for San Jose. <span style="font-style:italic;">“Despiche”</span> is Spanish for “shit-show.” So as you can imagine, <span style="font-style:italic;">Chepe Despiches</span> are weekends in which the lonely, bored volunteer leaves his or her site to go a little crazy. In our sites, everyone knows us, and we volunteers must be on our best behavior. However, we are anonymous in San Jose. We can let loose, which is exactly what we usually do.<br /><br />I always feel excited as my bus pulls into San Jose, and always incredibly relieved as it pulls out. The partying is always great, with an extra buzz of excitement because we can speak English and see friends whom we have not seen for long stretches of time. But it never feels good to wake up in San Jose, a city of grime. So while the <span style="font-style:italic;">despiches</span> are fun and necessary, it always feels good to get on that bus and back to my site.<br /><br />11. The Albergues<br />The albergues have been the keystone of my work here in Costa Rica. I love the kids. I have grown into a family member for most of them, <span style="font-style:italic;">Tio</span> David. While many of the kids come and go, there have been a few who are long-term residents. There are only two who I have known during my entire service, and I feel especially attached to them. However, I hope that I have been able to make the traumatic experience that is life in an albergue a more positive one for the many children who I’ve known for only a handful of weeks or months. I will miss the albergues more than anything else in Costa Rica.<br /><br />12. Catcalls<br />I will probably never again get them. But I like them. It lets me know that, no matter what I feel about my appearance, somebody out there finds me attractive, even if that person weighs more than I do and has no teeth.<br /><br />13. Fireflies<br />When I turn the lights off at night, and lay awake in bed, I am never alone. Fireflies hover over me, floating across my room. My eyes follow them for as long as they can before closing and trailing off into sleep.<br /><br />14. Eating My Site<br />In my back yard there is a dead lemon tree, a live mango tree and a chili pepper plant. During my first year of service, my host mom would pick lemons off the (then live) tree and make lemonade with them. At the beginning of the rainy season, my mango tree bears fruit. There is something amazing about eating a purple, ripe mango that you have seen grow from the size of a pea to the size of your fist. And to cook anything spiced with a fresh hot pepper from the yard adds a special something to the dish.<br /><br /><br />There are countless more things that I will miss about Costa Rica and my Peace Corps experience. I am thinking about including them all in a book that I may or may not write using material from this blog.<br /><br />I know that I said this last week, but this could be my last blog entry. If it is, thank you for reading it. If you have any questions, you can email me at dhlarkin@gmail.com.<br /><br />-DaveDave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-38187733984257205202010-04-27T11:37:00.000-07:002010-04-27T11:40:30.085-07:00Three ShowersIt has now been two years, two months and two weeks since I left New York for the Peace Corps. Just to write that sentence gives me pause. Has it really been that long? At times, my service seems like it has passed in the blink of an eye. Other times, I wonder if the Peace Corps hasn’t tricked us and secretly kept us here for seven years in stead of two.<br /><br />A lot has happened during these years. When I left, George W. Bush still had a whole year in office ahead of him. The Yankees still hadn’t started their final season at the old Yankee Stadium. The economy was booming. The Michigan Wolverines had just beaten Tim Tebow and Florida in the Capital One Bowl. Things sure have changed.<br /><br />I have about two more weeks left. As I approach May 16th, 2010, the last day of my service, I vacillate between two thoughts: “I will miss this place,” and “get me out of here.” I think a lot about what I will miss, and what I am looking forward to in my new life in NYC. But before getting too nostalgic, I decided last week to take one last trip across the Nicoya Gulf to one of my favorite places in Costa Rica: Montezuma.<br /><br />Montezuma is a small, heady beach town at the tip of the Nicoya Peninsula. My friend Meaghan lives just outside of Montezuma in a small town called Cobano, so we often find ourselves meeting for beach weekends. Throughout my service, Montezuma has become comfortably familiar; I find myself saying hello to acquaintances whenever I walk down the main street. The town always seems available to me; each time that I leave, I feel that I will return. However, it dawned on me the other day that I only had one more chance to get out there. So last weekend, I called up Meaghan and told her to meet me there for the weekend.<br /><br />After a hot, sweaty trip across the gulf and the peninsula, I stepped off the bus and found myself facing the endless Pacific Ocean. The smell of the salt calmed my nerves. I remembered why I needed one last taste of pure, clean Tico beach. Unlike Puntarenas, the sand is silky and wildlife abounds. I left the beach and met Meaghan on the corner where I gave her a swampy hug. We then walked uphill to where our hotel was tucked into the mountain.<br /><br />Luna Llena is a beautiful half-hostel, half-bed and breakfast. The porch smelled richly of incense and was tastefully decorated. The German woman who runs the place exudes the spirit of <span style="font-style:italic;">“Pura Vida,”</span> which is especially prominent in the town some call Monta-fuma. She gave us keys to our spartan room, and then pointed out the hotel’s best asset: the view. Beyond the porch stretched a slope of mango and palm trees falling into the village and ocean. We put or bags in our rooms and then sat for a while catching up and watching the waves crash below us.<br /><br />I then took the best shower of my life. The shower that I selected was a free-standing structure at the edge of the compound. Two walls faced the rest of the hotel, while two were made of windows that overlooked the forest and ocean. The water was cold, which I relished as it relieved my overheating skin. I looked out past the trees into the setting sun and was glad that I had decided to make one last trip. As the rippling sea turned purple, I realized that this weekend was about more than seeing a nice beach, but about saying goodbye. The goodbye is not just for the village of Montezuma, but to the natural Costa Rica that I have grown so fond of. I looked out the window again to find a family of howler monkeys munching mangoes not twenty feet from where I was bathing.<br /><br />That night, Meaghan and I had dinner at my favorite place in Montezuma: El Sano Banano. El Sano Banano is also a hotel where I have stayed several times with family and friends from back home. Behind the hotel, Meaghan and I dined on fresh seafood that was undoubtedly caught earlier that day in local waters. This was the very patio where my mother had an interesting experience with a hungry blue jay, and where my college buddies and I nursed hangovers. The memories were all around me. With only days remaining before my departure, I felt the need to point them out.<br /><br />The next morning, I took my second nature shower. I saw the early morning sun dance across the face of the Pacific while listening to the morning birds. The shock of the cold water woke me up and felt great. I wondered if I would ever take cold showers back home. I once read that taking cold showers helps prevent depression. However, I quickly realized that on a winter’s day, cold showers would probably do more to depress me than cheer me up.<br /><br />After a bit of breakfast, Meaghan and I hiked through the morning heat to perhaps my favorite place in Costa Rica: the Montezuma waterfalls. They look as if they were peeled off postcards. Surrounded by forest, the cool pools are like oasis. The first waterfall stands at about seventy five feet tall, pouring water over jagged rocks. Meaghan and I took a dip in the first pool to cool off, and then continued climbing to the second waterfall. It is the second waterfall that holds the fondest memories for me. I remember my college buddies and I gathering enough courage to stand at the edge of the falls, look down forty feet into the pool below and jump. It is a place that, as one tourist told me over a year ago, is “fucking paradise!”<br /><br />I stood at the edge once more. To stand at the lip never fails to put butterflies in my stomach. As I pushed off, I recognized the metaphor in my act. I was taking the plunge: jumping into something new, leaving the past behind. As I sailed through the air, my mind emptied of all of these thoughts. My mind was clear, empty of all the apprehension that I feel regarding the closing of my service. For one second, there was no vacillation. No premature nostalgia. Just the feeling of weightlessness as my body hurled past the falling water, then <span style="font-style:italic;">splash</span>.<br /><br />The rest of the day was spent relaxing on the late afternoon beach. As I lay in the sand, I thought about the weekends spent in the library that this fall would inevitably bring. While I am really looking forward to law school, I especially appreciated the beach at that moment. God only knows the next time I’ll be able to just hop on a bus for the weekend and wind up on a tropical beach.<br /><br />That night, I took my third and final shower. Sand fell off my body and gathered in the corners of the basin. So much of my life in Costa Rica revolves around sand, sunscreen, heat, sweat, open air houses and being outdoors. I thought about the enclosed showers I’ll be taking back home in the enclosed homes. Everything here is open: houses, doors, windows, families. Ticos live truly open lives. While this has oftentimes frustrated me and denied me of the privacy that I, as an American, need, it has taught me something. Ticos are open and happy. So as I stepped out of my open shower, I thought about my future in New York. I’ll be studying, working, and probably stressing way more than necessary. With all that going on, I should probably refrain from closing myself off. I’m going to try and be more open.<br /><br />I am now back in my site, where the apprehension and goodbyes continue. Yesterday, I watched Casey say goodbye to the Albergue kids, then said goodbye to him myself. It really is ending. Knowing that only a handful of days separate me from my flight out, I’ve continued to take note of and appreciate the meaning in the little things, the way I did in Montezuma.<br /><br />This very well may be the last blog that I write from Costa Rica. Knowing this, I must acknowledge the joy that writing the blog has provided me. I hope that you, my readers, have gotten something out of it as well. See you all when I get home.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-86344249017734753392010-03-10T10:18:00.000-08:002010-03-12T11:27:48.996-08:00PotentialThroughout my two years here in Peace Corps Costa Rica, there have been two students whose potential has caught my attention. Juan* is one of the elementary school dropouts in my “<span style="font-style:italic;">Aula Abierta</span>” class. Jordy is the bright star of the “green” <span style="font-style:italic;">albergue</span> for younger children. Both kids never cease to impress me with the quickness in which they process my lessons and themes. My observation of their intelligence leaves me feeling both hopeful and apprehensive. Both of these children are going to need a significant amount of support and guidance if they are to realize their potential.<br /><br />The other kids in <span style="font-style:italic;">Aula Abierta</span> call Juan “<span style="font-style:italic;">Gordo</span>.” Juan embraces the nickname and sometimes even introduces himself as “<span style="font-style:italic;">Gordo</span>” to new teachers and students. However, the dub is a misnomer. Juan may have a bit of a pot belly, but is hardly fat. He is a gifted soccer player, and carries himself with grace and poise. His face is round, but handsome. Juan is confident to the point of cockiness, but has his anxieties. The adoption of “<span style="font-style:italic;">Gordo</span>” hints at such self-consciousness. While Juan participates in his fair share of horseplay in the classroom, he respects it. He listens intently to my lessons and the thoughts of his classmates. It is as if there are two Juans hidden under that thick skin: “<span style="font-style:italic;">Gordo</span>:” the class clown, and Juan: the genius.<br /><br />To say that Juan comes from a troubled family is an understatement. On my fourth day in my site, I went for a run along the ocean-hugging road known as “<span style="font-style:italic;">La Costanera</span>.” Not long into my run, I was accosted by seven young men on bicycles. They stopped me, put a .22 to my chest, and took my money. Several months later, Juan told me an interesting story. As he was walking along the beach with his uncle at the Puntarenas carnivals, his uncle spotted me in the crowd with the albergue children in tow. He pointed me out to Juan and told him about the time he and his buddies held me up for the equivalent of four dollars. The uncle laughed, but Juan didn’t. His family had attacked a teacher for whom he had shown nothing but respect.<br /><br />Juan’s grandmother sells drugs. His mother sells drugs. It is not such a shocker that in his mid-teens, Juan is selling. One may look at this child and consider him a goner. But he still comes to school. When I arrived in the Aula Abierta classroom in May of 2008, he was there. During the academic year of 2009, he was there. However, as the year wore on, he would start showing up less and less. During the last months of the semester, he was nowhere to be found. But each year, including this one, he turns up again. Sitting at his desk with a smile and an open notebook, he puts “<span style="font-style:italic;">Gordo</span>” aside and reveals the real Juan.<br /><br />Juan lights up the classroom. He shows great enthusiasm for the English language, and learns faster than anybody else. Every now and then, he annoys me by asking me to translate all words pertaining to the smoking of marijuana. But for the most part, Juan pays attention, participates, and helps me keep the other students in check. When we are working on a new concept in English, I observe the wheels turning in his head. I see that English comes easy to him. In a country like Costa Rica in which English equals a career, his potential is limitless.<br /><br />I once heard Warren Buffet explain why he was a liberal. He told his audience that being born is like a lottery. One can get lucky and be born into a comfortable, supportive family, or be unlucky and be born to a disadvantaged family. He explained that he got to where he is today by winning that lottery. How easy it could have been for him to be born into poverty! It was therefore his responsibility to do what he could to help those who were not as fortunate as he.<br /><br />His explanation struck a cord in me. Where would I be if I was born into a family where the cards were stacked against me? A family in the South Bronx? A township in South Africa? I surely would not have received the quality education that I was lucky enough to get. With this concept of the “birth lottery” in my head, I often wonder: what would happen if Juan was born into a family as educated and supportive as mine?<br /><br />The thought of Juan in a clean home, doing homework with his father is too much for me. With his charisma and critical mind, I imagine how he would whoop ass in a college classroom. When I bring myself back to reality, I realize that in all likelihood, this will not happen. I do what I can to provide him with skills he can use to pull himself out of Jireth. He has the mind, he has the attitude. But the “crabs in a bucket” syndrome runs deep here. All I can do is maximize the time I have with him, hope for the best, and let him go.<br /><br /><br /><br />Jordy is very different from Juan, but shares the same challenges. Those who don’t know Juan call him a “<span style="font-style:italic;">vaga</span>” (bum), and are legitimately afraid of the drug dealer. However, Jordy comes off as a well-bred, wholesome kid. People say hello to him on the street because he and his little brother, Bairón, are outgoing and well-known in the community. Like Juan, Jordy is extremely intelligent. I see it when we study for tests together. The “ah-ha!” moment comes all too quickly for Jordy. Jordy is also incredibly perceptive. With his deadly combination of book and street smarts, his potential is overwhelming.<br /><br />Juan’s family may be a band of unsavory characters, but at least he had one. Jordy and Bairón are wards of the state. The only thing that we know about his parents is that they were refugees from Nicaragua. Bairón has severe mental disabilities, which imply a lack of proper prenatal care. Despite the fact that their parents were incapable of caring for them, Jordy and Bairón are amazingly functional.<br /><br />Jordy has beaten the odds and has been thriving in the <span style="font-style:italic;">albergue</span>. This may be because the <span style="font-style:italic;">tias</span> in the <span style="font-style:italic;">albergue</span> do a good job of caring for the children. He is fed and clothed. The <span style="font-style:italic;">tias</span> make sure that he goes to school every day and does his homework at night. It is not unusual to have a kid enter the <span style="font-style:italic;">albergue</span> with egregious signs of abuse: lacerations, burns, bruises, dental and nutritional problems. However, after a few months in the <span style="font-style:italic;">albergue</span>, these children usually fill out and appear healthy again.<br /><br />However, an orphanage is not enough to provide Jordy with the life he needs. Jordy comes off as a normal kid, but much lies beneath the surface. He has a complex mind that has been evolving. Jordy is one of the few children at the <span style="font-style:italic;">albergue</span> who I have known for my entire service. Over the past two years, I have watched him learn and grow. What I have recently observed worries me.<br /><br />At the precarious age of twelve, Jordy is changing both mentally and physically. His muscles are becoming defined; his face is taking on a more mature expression. He is still excelling in school, but adopting a different attitude. He is talking back to the <span style="font-style:italic;">tias</span>, bossing around his brother and the other smaller children in the <span style="font-style:italic;">albergue</span>. I often find him disciplining Bairón, and have to explain to him that I am the adult and that discipline is my job. But this logic is not followed by Jordy who is, in fact, becoming an adult. When I first met Jordy, he was happy being a child. But new hormones are pumping through his veins; I can tell that his coming of age will be at odds with <span style="font-style:italic;">albergue</span> living.<br /><br />Adolescence is arguably the most fragile time of a person’s life. I remember how difficult it was for me to get through. Everything gets turned upside down. Suddenly those who got bad grades were the coolest. Hanging out with and being accepted by one’s peers becomes priority one. For me, it felt like I was walking on a tightrope: a future of trouble was one wrong step away.<br /><br />In elementary school, I was a good kid. I got straight As in school, did what my parents asked. However, things got a bit shaky in the eighth grade. I got in trouble at school. My grades were no longer that string of pearly As. But my parents and brother were there to keep me moving along that tightrope. My family was then, and still is, my advocate. They spoke to me about the changes that I was going through, and helped me deal with the tremendous drama that was life as an adolescent. They were the safety net under that line. The problems we dealt with helped build me as a person, and made me the man I am today. I am pretty sure that I turned out okay.<br /><br />The invaluable support that a family provides at such a turning point in one’s life is what Jordy is missing. Sure, a <span style="font-style:italic;">tia</span> can get one through such childhood dilemmas as losing teeth or wetting the bed. But the complexity of adolescent issues requires a real family. Jordy knows this, and has become angry. What gets me is that compared to the mess that accompanies adolescence in most people, Jordy would be easy. He listens. He wants to do well, and makes good decisions. That anger and uncertainty in him could easily be mollified by a competent parent.<br /><br />I do what I can to help Jordy in this transition. We take walks, and talk about the issues in his life. When he gets into a rage, I take him to the park to throw the Frisbee around. The repetition calms him, and eventually cheers him up. Once his nerves are cooled, he always opens up.<br /><br />The role I play helps, but is not enough. It tears me apart. Sometimes I contemplate adopting the brothers. But that dream quickly evaporates as I consider the sea of debt I am going to be in over the coming years. And how, exactly, am I going to raise two Tico boys in New York, without any income while getting my JD? Bairón calls me Papa. A twinge of pain goes through my heart as I correct him. “<span style="font-style:italic;">Tio, Bairón</span>,” I say. “<span style="font-style:italic;">Soy su Tio.</span>”<br /><br /><br /><br />My role in the lives of Juan and Jordy are exactly what my job description requires of a volunteer in the Children, Youth and Families program. I am happy to play such a part, but can’t help but wonder if my work will yield results. The two boys are walking the tightrope, and I don’t know how much my efforts will do to keep them steady. For them, the stakes are higher than they were for me; I had a safety net.<br /><br />As I prepare to leave Costa Rica for good, I hold onto the hope that my involvement in the lives of my students will make a positive impact, no matter how small. I did not come here expecting to “save” my community or the children in it. Juan may continue selling drugs. He may become addicted to drugs. Jordy may fall in with the wrong crowd and damage his academic record. However, if something that I did helps either of them to choose a healthier path, then I have succeeded. The hard part about leaving is that I will never know. But something tells me that the real Juan and the bright Jordy will be all right. And it is that intuition that makes it possible for me to prepare to say goodbye and close my Peace Corps service in Costa Rica.<br /><br /><br />*The names of people mentioned in this post have been changed for their protection.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-90295079589498301122010-02-17T11:25:00.000-08:002010-02-17T11:29:16.055-08:00Hiking CorcovadoLast week, my girlfriend Elizabeth took a short break from her life as a Teach for America member in Miami, and came to visit me. Elizabeth (everyone calls her “Z”), comes from an outdoorsy family, which is just like mine, if you consider the sculpture gardens of museums outdoors. Since I have discovered an affinity for the great outdoors during my time here in Costa Rica, Z and I decided to take our five days together and hike across Costa Rica’s largest and most remote national park: Corcovado.<br /><br />Every time Z arrives in Costa Rica, I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. She is classically beautiful and very intelligent. She works in the Miami-Dade public school system as a geography and civics teacher in a “D” middle school. The neighborhood in which she works is unsavory, and the children can be difficult. Z grapples with the same problems that I do as a Peace Corps volunteer. With so much in common (we both went to Michigan, have similar work, have an unhealthy obsession with fine foods and wines), it was only a matter of time before we came together. For the first time in years, I have found myself in love.<br /><br />With Z in my arms, we boarded our small Nature Air plane headed for Puerto Jimenez. Normally, I am quite frugal here in Costa Rica. However, the bus ride to Puerto Jimenez lasts ten uncomfortable hours, whereas the flight lasts forty-five short minutes. So Z and I splurged and bought ourselves two extra days of vacation by winging our way south toward the desolate Osa Peninsula of the south Pacific coast. I peered down as we flew, admiring the blond mountains of the central valley, the Cathedral point peninsula of Manuel Antonio, the unique “whale’s tail” spit at Bahia Ballena, and finally the untouched wilderness of the Osa. Staring down at Corcovado as our tiny plane descended, I whispered to Z, “there’s nobody there.” I was right.<br /><br />The heat smacked us in the face as we deplaned. It was welcoming for me; the weather of Jimenez is comparable to that of Puntarenas. This was Z’s first time in the overbearing Costa Rican heat. We were both glad that we had an air-conditioned room waiting for us at the fantastic Cabinas Jimenez.<br /><br />We strolled through the small town, passing marisquerias, sodas and the promenade that lines the shores of the Gulfo Dulce. Immediately, I knew that Puerto Jimenez would be very different from the towns I know on the central Pacific. It was calm, safe, and clean.<br /><br />That night, we took it easy. We had a short meeting with our guide, Rodolfo, at the tour company’s office. Pointing to the map, he showed us our route, and mentioned animals that we may see along the way. Rodolfo was a handsome Tico, who was clearly very experienced. After thanking the genial Rodolfo, we went to a restaurant where we ate fish that was clearly caught that day. Back in the room, we got our packs ready, and went to sleep.<br /><br />When the alarm went off a bit after four in the morning, I jumped up and got myself ready. Z looked at me like I was crazy and caught a few more minutes of sleep. After coating myself in a film of sunscreen and bug spray, I was ready for the adventure to begin. Little did I know that what was coming my way would wipe the boyish smile off my face.<br /><br />Rodolfo and his driver picked us up in a white, four-door pickup at five-thirty. I didn’t really give much thought to him when he said that my pack was a bit heavy as he tossed it in the back of the truck. I told him that it was the two big bottles of water that I had packed. “Uh-huh,” he said.<br /><br />We drove on a newly paved road that was evidence of the growing popularity of the Osa. We stopped for breakfast at a little shack of a soda. As Z and I put away fried eggs, gallo pinto, coffee and avocado halves, I chatted it up with the proprietors and Rodolfo. I was giddy.<br /><br />After a few kilometers, we pulled off the paved road and left civilization. At one point, we stopped and Rodolfo pointed out a pair of toucans eating their breakfast in the trees. The toucans were fun to look at. Their bodies are small, yet their beaks are huge. It is a wonder that they can fly with those neon colored things hanging off of their faces. Rodolfo then pointed to the other side of the road, where several scarlet macaws were playing in the branches. For those who are unfamiliar with scarlet macaws, think big parrots, but with deep red, blue and yellow feathers. The colors are so strikingly beautiful that it looks as if someone had painted them on. After watching them fly around, we got back in the truck and kept driving toward the park entrance.<br /><br />A few kilometers further, we came to a river that split the road in two. “Shit,” I thought. “The road is out. What are we going to do?” My heart missed a few beats when I realized that the driver was not slowing down, but speeding up. With a few bumps, he flew the truck into the river, and drove right through it. After this happened a couple of times, I learned that the roads in those parts simply went through rivers if they weren’t deeper than two feet. So through the rivers we went until we reached the wooden structures of the Los Patos ranger station: the entrance to Corcovado National Park.<br /><br />The driver waved to Rodolfo, Z and I, and drove off, leaving us with forty-five kilometers of hiking ahead of us. Each of us sprayed liberal amounts of high-deet bug spray onto our limbs and began our hike. The first day of hiking was through primary rainforest, which meant that it had never been touched by humans. With the lush foliage walling either side of the trail, we made our way up and down the hills. My hands immediately began to swell, and my arms started to tingle from all of the poisonous deet I had applied. Up and down we went, and before I knew it, I had sweat through every item of clothing on my body. Worried about dehydration, I took big gulps from my bottle. <br /><br />Rodolfo led us through the paths effortlessly. He wore a small backpack and a tiny water bottle. Z walked behind him, and I behind her. As difficult as it was, we kept up with Rodolfo, who had the manner of a boy taking a light walk though the woods. We clipped away the kilometers at a rapid pace, which made both Z and I incredibly tired. I biffed it a few times, rolling my ankle on the omnipresent tree roots.<br /><br />Regardless of the pace, I was happy. I kept thinking about how lucky I was to get to see such a beautiful place. My mind wandered to pure places. I thought about God, and how only he could create such beautiful birds and trees and animals. My mind was floating; I was high on the rainforest.<br /><br />After a few hours, we stopped at a river to take a break. Z and I took several swigs from my bottles, while Rodolfo sat on the bank, smiling at the sun. We already looked worked, yet Rodolfo had not even broken a sweat. He took a small sip from his bottle and looked at me.<br /><br />“You sweat a lot, eh?”<br /><br />“Yeah,” I replied. “That’s why I packed extra water. I sweat so much that I get dehydrated quickly”<br /><br />“What do you mean extra water?”<br /><br />It was at this point, that Z and I realized that Rodolfo did not have the two big bottles of water that he told us he would bring. The smile on my face fell away. Z and I gave each other looks that said “oh, fuck.” Rodolfo picked up on this and said “this river water is fresh. It is safe to drink.” I looked up at Z who gave me a sharp, warning glare.<br /><br />“I’ve already had Giardia once,” she said. “You go ahead if you want to.”<br /><br />I stopped drinking my water and put the bottle away. Dehydration is one thing, parasites are another. We stood up to continue the hike.<br /><br />“How much ground did we cover?” I asked<br /><br />“About five kilometers,” Rodolfo responded. “We have about nineteen more to go.” I frowned at Z. “But the rest of the hike is flat.” I smiled at Z. “So we are going to have to pick up the pace!” I grimaced.<br /><br />So we left the riverbank, and hiked so fast that I felt like I was running. At this point, I was already exhausted and began the long process of keeping my mind off of the immense amount of ground that we had to cover. At first, it was exciting; I imagined that I was Daniel Day Lewis in the climax of <span style="font-style:italic;">The Last of the Mohicans</span>. The music started playing in my head, and for a while, it worked. After a bit, I fell out of the role that my head had created for myself. Somehow, “Old MacDonald had a Farm” crept into my head because Rodolfo had mentioned something about pigs. This played in my head for a good while, until I realized what was happening and made it stop. I can assure you, at this point, I was feeling the beginning stages of dehydration.<br /><br />I switched the song in my head to "Fugee-La" by The Fugees, and that raised my spirits for a moment. Then I became so miserable, that I wanted to punch my past-self for floating on air at the beginning of the hike. I began to thing of all the possible ways that the hike could be worse: if I was in Nam, and Charlie was behind those giant trees; if someone was chasing me with a knife; if I didn’t have Z there with me; if I was lost; if I had a hangnail on my toe; if I had the flu. This is what ran through my mind as my body rapidly leaked water that I didn’t have to replace it.<br /><br />As we hiked the final kilometers of our journey, things got pretty bad. I, of course, did not tell this to Z or Rodolfo, because I am a man. However, I do remember us stopping and Rodolfo pointing out a unique tree. I looked at the tree and it slowly began to morph into different sizes and shapes as if I was on acid. “That’s a nice tree, Rodolfo,” I slurred. “Now, let’s go.”<br /><br />With a kilometer or so to go, I found myself more stumbling than walking. By this time, I had developed an unbearable chafed rash between my legs, and my hiking shoes had cut into my ankles, drawing blood. Rodolfo stopped us, went into the jungle, and came back holding two lemons. He cut one in half and handed Z and I some lemon. I looked at him with total confusion. Would the lemon quench my thirst? Are the liquids enough to make an impact? I sucked juice from the lemon and looked back at Rodolfo with pure anger. The lemon was sour as hell and only made me thirsty. At this point, I was not sure what was going on.<br /><br />After twenty-four kilometers of hiking, we emerged from the jungle into a clearing. Across a great green lawn was the Sirena ranger’s station. Z and I heaved off our packs, took off our mud-soaked shoes, and sat down on comfortable Adirondack chairs. Rodolfo brought us each a giant bottle of water, which we promptly downed. Several people were sitting on the porch of the compound, and looked at us with interest. These were all people who had arrived by boat or plane. A couple of them began asking us questions which I answered in a language that was not entirely English. Z and I kissed, and sat for a while regaining our strength. Rodolfo came over and informed us that we had done the 24 kilometers in six and a half hours: half an hour short of his record.<br /><br />The Sirena ranger’s station is a surreal place. Surrounded by untamed rainforest for dozens of miles in every direction, the compound is completely isolated. About three-hundred meters down a grass landing strip from the beach, all supplies and materials are brought by boat and plane. The place was an oasis for us, a hallucination.<br /><br />After catching our breaths on the porch, Rodolfo showed us around the grounds. We would be staying in a tent which was in a shared, screened-in room. There was a dining hall, a few dorm rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom with showers. He told us to shower, and then check each other’s whole bodies for ticks. I looked at Z and gave her a wanton look. We smiled for the first time in hours.<br /><br />After peeling ticks off of our bodies, we suited up again for our late afternoon hike to the beach. Feeling rejuvenated by the water and shower, I was chatty again. We were on our way to the mouth of the Sirena river. After a paltry kilometer’s walk through the woods, we emerged onto the most deserted beach that I have ever seen. For miles, there were no people, houses, buildings, or any sign of civilization. We realized just how remote Sirena was.<br /><br />My whole life, I have been obsessed with sharks. I did projects on them in elementary school; Shark Week is a holy time for me. Therefore, my excitement grew as we strolled along the beach toward the river mouth known to be the best shark watching spot in Costa Rica. This was the moment that I was waiting for.<br /><br />The sun inched its way toward the horizon, seeming to hover over the blue ocean. We gazed out at the spot where the river meets the ocean, looking for fins. Suddenly, there they were: big bull sharks. They looked black with the sun behind them. Sporadically, one would pop its dorsal and tail fin out of the water, revealing its size. Stalking the shallow waters for fish popping out of the river, the sharks always can be found at Boca Sirena. After years of studying sharks, I finally saw one in the wild. It was exhilarating.<br /><br />After a bit of shark-watching, Rodolfo took us away from the ocean to the banks of the Sirena River. Z and I stepped up and felt very glad to be on the south bank; on the opposite side lounged three giant crocodiles. One lay with his mouth open, exposing rows of large, white, razor-sharp teeth. Two of them seemed very relaxed, but one was walking around. As we watched them sun themselves, we grew as tired as they must have been. As the sun sank lower and lower, we abandoned the beach and made our way back to the station.<br /><br />After a surprisingly good dinner in the dining hall, Z and I crawled into our tent. We curled up together and asked Rodolfo what time it was. 6:55. We spent the rest of the evening telling each other stories of how we met, which surely induced the vomiting of everyone else in the room. That night, we slept like logs.<br /><br />Once again, we were awake at four, and hiking by a bit after five. This time, I had no illusions about what I was getting into. We had nineteen kilometers to hike, half of which was on the sandy beach. The cuts on my ankles made every step feel as if someone was cutting my Achilles tendon with a razor. My inner thighs were on fire from the rash, which made me walk bow-legged. My shoulders felt like they were being stabbed with daggers because my pack was so heavy. I was not a happy camper.<br /><br />For someone who generally likes long walks on the beach, I was miserable. Every step was difficult because the sand gave so much. I found myself winded before we even ate breakfast. I admired Z for making it look easy as she glided across the deserted beaches. Rodolfo still had not released a bead of sweat, which made me hate him a little. Soaked with sweat, I took it one step at a time: “mule consciousness” as my father calls it.<br /><br />While grueling and painful, the hike was exciting. Right away, we saw the rare Tapir running on the beach and bathing in a river. We saw monkeys, pisotes, anteaters, toucans, scarlet macaws and many interesting trees. The beach itself was both beautiful and haunting. At dawn, the beach looked smoky and mysterious. Shedding trees loomed over the sand and off of the bluffs and headlands. We were the only ones for many miles, swallowed by the massive park.<br /><br />This time, I did not think about Vietnam or The Fugees. The pain of the hike was all-encompassing. It made it impossible to think about the beauty around me. Because of this, I collapsed in joy when we reached a resort at the exit of the park. Z, Rodolfo and I drank water, and relaxed after crossing the park’s south boundary. I slept in a hammock for half an hour before realizing that we still had three more kilometers more to hike on the beach to our rendezvous point with the white pick up. Feeling a bit revitalized by sleep, I strapped on my sandals and joined Z for the last leg of the journey.<br /><br />These were the worst moments of my life. I had to stop frequently and rest. Z was a saint and walked with me. I was ready to kill Rodolfo for no reason other than the fact that he still hadn’t broken a sweat. By the time we reached the truck, I was considering the possibility that Rodolfo was a robot. I still ponder this sometimes.<br /><br />The two hour ride from the town of Carate back to Puerto Jimenez was just pure. Z and I had done it: 45 kilometers in a matter of hours. When it came time to get out of the truck, neither of us could walk; our muscles had seized up. After falling into our rooms, we showered, checked for ticks and went to sleep.<br /><br /><br /><br />It is only a few days since I returned from Corcovado, and my body still aches a bit. Looking back on it, I am very proud. Was it miserable? Yes. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely. Would I do it again? No.<br /><br />I am glad that I had an opportunity to see a place that people rarely get to see. I am thrilled that I was able to do it with someone that I care about. As for our tour guide, I am still a bit angry that he never broke a sweat. Overall, Corcovado was an amazing experience. As I begin to close my Peace Corps service over the following months, I cherish these experiences. Before I know it, I will be back in New York, dreaming about sharks and tapirs and crocodiles. Until then, I will just have to take advantage of the fact that I am living the Tico adventure.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-35718027812136155072010-01-11T12:18:00.000-08:002010-01-11T12:38:40.207-08:00Ticos: A People of ContradictionsTicos are a mysterious people. Just when I think that I’ve got them pinned down, they surprise me with new behavior. I am finishing my second year in country, and am yet to fully understand them. I try not to make generalizations about Ticos, but have found it to be impossible. When an individual is integrated so completely into a culture, one cannot help but pick up on patterns. As I begin to close my service here in Costa Rica, I have found Ticos to have a fantastic culture. However, it is one riddled with contradictions that have made Ticos difficult to understand.<br /><br />The most prominent contradiction that I have observed relates to the way women are treated in Tico culture. Having seen the detrimental effects of the “<em>machista</em>” way of life on women here, I have grown to appreciate the equal opportunities women are granted in the United States. The <em>machista</em> culture instills in the minds of young girls and women the idea that they are not deserving of all the educational, professional and cultural opportunities that males are entitled to. I know that this is not unique to Latino culture, or that of any other country. However, it is difficult for me to see my brightest female students hindered by teenage pregnancy, abusive male figureheads and a <em>status quo </em>that expects them to stay in the home.<br /><br />I discovered the detrimental effects of sexism in Tico life early on in my service, and let it embitter me. I resented Ticos for being so shortsighted and obtuse in their perspective. But then I began to notice a glaring difference between a public, macro treatment of women, and the private, micro attitude that I had initially observed. What first caught my attention was the large amount of professional women that I work with. Granted, I am working in institutions of education and social work; however, I saw that women were not only included in the workplace, they oftentimes ran it. I noticed that the directors of most of the schools in the area were women. The director of the Puntarenas PANI office is a woman, as are most of her subordinates. What really piqued my attention took place this past June, when a woman named Laura Chinchilla won the leading party’s primary to become the current frontrunner for next month’s presidential elections. If trends continue, the next Tico president will be a woman! How does that happen in a culture that has been traditionally <em>machista</em>?<br /><br />The only sense that I have been able to make of such a discrepancy is that I have been living in the most impoverished population of Costa Rica. When I meet wealthier families in Escazu, I don’t see teenage pregnancy or stay at home wives. So is wealth the golden ticket? Does the amount of opportunity for women increase with the size of the family bank account?<br /><br />In short, yes. In my opinion (and I do not think that I am the first to say it), the more money one’s family has, the higher their level of education. With education comes open mindedness and a pattern of planning. This means that a teenage girl knows to use condoms, because her parents have spoken with her about them. This means that a young girl will do her homework because her father in helping her because he has the time to, and wants her to live a life of continued wealth. Don’t get me wrong, there are outliers: wealthy denigrated women and poor empowered ones. However, my observation has been that the poorer the population, the less opportunity there is for girls and women.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The strangest contradictions that I observe in Tico culture stem from the Catholic Church. For all intents and purposes, Ticos are Catholic. It is the proud national religion; most people go to church on Sundays with great joy and enthusiasm. What has made me scratch my head is that Catholicism is so ingrained in the culture, yet much behavior of Ticos does not reflect Catholic values. For example, it is illegal to get an abortion in Costa Rica. This is a clear reflection of the Catholic way of life on Tico public policy. However, prostitution is legal here. Not only is it legal, but it is unregulated. I may be wrong, but I think that such a policy stands in stark contrast to Catholic values. I am yet to understand the thought process that brought such a contradiction to be.<br /><br />I once had a hilarious conversation with a fellow teacher at the school. She was hosting an American student studying abroad in Puntarenas. Having observed the study abroad students, she snapped her fingers and said to me <em>“los estudiantes gringos son muy PROMISCUOUS!”</em> She told me of how she had seen the study abroad students dancing in the bars and having sex on the beach. She snapped her fingers again when she told me about the giant bulk box of condoms she had found in her guest’s room. I told her that it was true, American college students do like their casual sex. I told her though that after college, we Americans usually calm down a bit and eventually start families. She furrowed her brow and said “huh! You Americans have a lot of sex, then get married, then have children. Us Ticos, we do it the other way around!” I laughed until I got stitches in my sides.<br /><br />After I caught my breath, I realized that she wasn’t kidding. Most Ticos do have sex and children out of wedlock. Most couples that I know don’t even get married, they simply cohabitate, which eventually becomes a “<em>Union Libre</em>.” What puzzles me is that such a Catholic people could create such a pattern. Could it be that my American conception of Catholic law is different from the Tico paradigm? Is this okay by Tico Catholic standards? In a country that finds the church valuable enough to influence its laws, how is it that basic rules of marriage are sidestepped? I do not make judgment on the Tico family structure; I wonder why the contradiction exists.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Costa Rica is considered by the entire world to be an environmentally friendly nation. All foreigners who visit these shores expect Costa Rica to surpass the green initiatives of their countries. They expect recycling, clean air, clean water and the preservation of all of the wildlife that their native countries have already purged by their eco-unfriendly ways. For the most part, their expectations are met because they are usually escorted to the tourist villages that dot the Costa Rican map. They usually interact with Ticos who are in the tourism industry, and other tourists. What most visitors do not see is the average Tico town.<br /><br />In the average Tico town, littering is not unusual or discouraged. I have seen people on the beaches of Puntarenas bring bags of trash from their homes, and heave them into the ocean. My town does not recycle. Following Tico tradition, many Ticos burn their trash. In the past, this was the only way to get rid of it. So even though my town gets trash pick-up twice a week, people still burn huge piles of plastic and chemicals, releasing untold amounts of carcinogens into the air.<br /><br />I am not trying to tarnish the Ticos’ green reputation. They do have an unusually small carbon footprint and are successful conservationists. I just noticed that there is a discord between the policies of Costa Rica and the behavior of its people.<br /><br />One of Costa Rica’s green policies is unrivaled in its dedication to preserve its unique biodiversity: its national park system. As I mentioned in a previous blog, about a quarter of all Costa Rican land is protected. The Costa Rican government is wise in protecting such land; it is this land that tourists fly thousands of miles to see. However, two trends are likely to threaten the protected and unprotected natural beauty of Costa Rica: development and population booms.<br /><br />Costa Rica is a small country with a small population. About four million people live in Costa Rica and about three million of those live in the densely populated Central Valley. This means that Costa Rica can afford to devote a quarter of its land to preservation. When there are few people who depend on that land for farming or developing, fencing it off is easy. A fellow volunteer once asked me the million dollar question: what happens in a few years when the population doubles?<br /><br />Costa Rica is a very different country now as opposed to twenty years ago. It is becoming developed and more crowded. Thousands of foreign expatriates live here and tens of thousands of tourists visit each year. In the past several years, the country has been infused with tourist money which it has used to develop itself. With new roads, new hotels and even new towns, more land is being cleared. The writing on the wall says that Costa Rica has only just begun to grow.<br /><br />So if the population keeps growing at such an exponential rate, how long will Costa Rica be able to keep its eco-friendly stamp? I do not know. However, I do know that one simple product can alleviate the problem: the condom. Families here are huge. The size of the families here has little to do with the church or the country’s obsession with babies; it is the absence of family planning.<br /><br />Planned pregnancies here are rare; most happen because of a lack of knowledge regarding contraception. This phenomenon can be changed via education. A case-in-point is the role of the condom in America. My generation may be the first to come to expect condom use. In college, if two people were having sex, it was assumed that they were using condoms or birth control pills. My parents’ generation was not the same way. The generation before? Forget about it.<br /><br />I feel that when I teach condom use in my community, its benefits are twofold: protecting people from unwanted pregnancy and disease, and protecting the environment. If Costa Rica can plan pregnancies, it can remain a small country. If it can remain a small country, its natural beauty should remain safe. If the population continues to burgeon, who knows what will happen to the protected areas?<br /><br />Ticos are full of contradictions. But what people are not? I am from a country that is “fighting war for peace.” France prides itself on its lack of dirty coal energy, yet has several of its nuclear plants on its border, upwind of Germany. So I guess Ticos are fairly normal in their culture of contradictions. I just thought that it may be a good idea to acknowledge them in order to learn from them.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-77757042857136929592009-12-07T12:22:00.000-08:002009-12-07T12:27:00.360-08:00SustainabilityThroughout 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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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 <em>Chicas Super Poderosas </em>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.<br /><br />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 <em>Chicas Super Poderosas </em>program. It was as if she had torn a page from the manual.<br /><br />I had always planned on speaking with Xinia about continuing <em>Chicas Super Poderosas </em>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 <em>Chicas</em> program. We agreed that we would start a new <em>Chicas</em> 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.<br /><br />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, <em>Chicas Super Poderosas</em> can be identified as a part of the culture of the school just as the trees are part of its landscape.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-23404374929772804582009-11-18T11:39:00.000-08:002009-11-18T11:42:57.973-08:00Museo de los NiñosThe adolescent girls at the albergue were pumped. They had completed the <em>Chicas Súper Poderosas</em> program and were ready for their <em>gira</em> (field trip). They had braved the “communication skills obstacle course” lesson, and the famous “day spa stress management” workshop. They were truly <em>chicas super poderosas</em>. The last session of the program: a trip to the children’s museum in San Jose.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <em>tias</em> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Keep your eyes on the road.” I would say to him.<br /><br /><em>“Si, si, si!”</em><br /><br />“Center your car in the lane.”<br /><br /><em>“Si, si, si!”</em><br /><br />“Now it is raining, this is when you turn on your wipers.”<br /><em><br />“Si, si, si!”</em><br /><br />And so it went. Quick note to my father: I apologize for having been a 15 year old learning to drive.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />After the morning that they had, you better bet that the girls were starving. So we walked down <em>Avenida Central </em>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.<br /><br />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 <em>Teatro Nacional </em>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.<br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-10966652504579538792009-11-13T10:34:00.000-08:002009-11-13T10:43:28.925-08:00Cats! The InvasionAs 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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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!”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-72932646548776979582009-10-22T12:19:00.001-07:002009-10-22T12:19:27.599-07:00TransitionsIt 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-90435163900049791362009-09-22T13:21:00.000-07:002009-09-22T13:22:50.950-07:00Going Home, in Costa RicaThis 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />To all my brethren out there, Shana Tova!Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-74463452595064130642009-09-17T15:50:00.000-07:002009-09-17T15:51:18.919-07:0015 de Septiembre15 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-74222673646530153492009-07-27T13:55:00.000-07:002009-07-27T13:57:24.839-07:00Hanging Out With Giant TurtlesThis 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.<br /><br />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 <em>cabinas</em> 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.<br /><br />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 <em>cabinas </em>to meet our guide for a night tour.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-2047658999203232352009-07-22T12:37:00.000-07:002009-07-22T12:47:10.492-07:00El Verano de San JuanA 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 <em>Junta de Protección</em> (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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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: <em>Retoselva</em> (jungle challenge). <em>Retoselva</em> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. “<em>Es el verano de San Juan</em>” 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.<br /><br /><em>El verano de San Juan</em> (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: <em>Las Fiestas Virgen del Mar</em>.<br /><br />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 <em>Paseo de las Touristas</em>, booths line the walks; they offer everything from syrupy, icy <em>granizados</em> and <em>carne asada </em>to winged armchairs with ottomans. This past Sunday, I took the children from the <em>albergue </em>to the final day of the festival. It was an unforgettable day.<br /><br />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 <em>arroz con pollo </em>to the rest of the family. Friends chatted in the sun while holding sweaty beers. Raisin-faced ladies sold <em>vigarones</em> from their stalls: sizzlin’, cracklin’ hot <em>chicharones</em> served on shredded cabbage, covered in <em>chimmichuri </em>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.<br /><br />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 <em>tia </em>(literal translation: aunt (<em>tio </em>is uncle), PANI live-in <em>albergue </em>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.<br /><br />A boat’s whistle blew, and thus started the cruise of the <em>Virgen del Mar</em>. Making their way from the tip of the peninsula of Puntarenas toward the pier, dozens of boats held their annual parade. Each <em>ponga</em>, <em>lancha</em> or fishing boat was colorfully decorated. They all followed the lead boat which mounted Carmen: <em>la virgin del mar </em>(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.<br /><br />With the parade over, we turned away from the beach and headed for a <em>marisqueria </em>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 <em>marisqueria</em>. 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 <em>tia </em>and I clean up while the other children enjoyed their <em>arroz con camarones</em>. Somehow, some way, none of the vomit had gotten on me.<br /><br />After eating, we walked over to the beach where the kids played in the surf and I sat in the shade with the <em>tia </em>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 <em>albergue </em>kids felt it and treated each other like siblings. Bairón kept calling me “papa;” I continually corrected him. “<em>Tio</em>,” I would say while patting him on the back. “<em>Soy su tio</em>.”<br /><br />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 <em>albergue </em>kids on the bus ride home and got chills. I realized that I had become their family. The <em>tia </em>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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-41265694661796860942009-07-06T10:11:00.000-07:002009-07-06T10:12:31.649-07:00Rhapsody in BlueIf 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 <em>Rhapsody in Blue</em>.<br /><br />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 <em>Manhattan</em>. 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <em>still</em> never sleeps.<br /><br />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 <em>Water Lilies</em>, and Van Gough’s <em>Women Picking Olives</em>. It will have my family; it will have my Yankees. It is my town, and it always will be.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-55360667721981940602009-06-21T13:29:00.000-07:002009-06-21T13:34:55.662-07:00Moment of ClarityEvery 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <em>my</em> 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.<br /><br />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 <em>dichos</em>, 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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?”<br /><br />“You kidding?” replied Casey with eyebrows raised.<br /><br />“Exactly.”<br /><br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-76061207647842569732009-06-15T16:20:00.000-07:002009-06-15T16:21:32.656-07:00Mid Service TrainingSixteen 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-28082723069562947072009-05-26T15:03:00.000-07:002009-05-26T15:04:37.301-07:00Chicas Súper Poderosas: La GiraAs 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />“My ‘Chicas’ session starts in two hours.” I said to her with a skeptical look.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“You are welcome to join us if you like,” I said before turning and leaving.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-29144683634536864722009-05-02T12:36:00.000-07:002009-05-02T12:37:45.214-07:00The Ridiculous/Terrible Things That Are Happening To MeThe Animals Have Taken Over…Again<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I hate these cats.<br /><br /><br />The Second Plague<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />Necio’s Got An Eating Disorder<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />The Admirer<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?”<br /><br />“I don’t want a serious relationship right now!” I responded.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“I’m sorry, I just can’t” I said, starting to get up. “I’m too romantic.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-37170676481008482992009-04-30T15:00:00.000-07:002009-04-30T15:02:33.999-07:00Success StoriesWhen 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-48905454254654908272009-03-11T16:02:00.000-07:002009-03-11T16:05:53.069-07:00The EarthquakeIt is so damn hot.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Or maybe it is just too damn hot.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-89008863416824693772009-03-09T14:49:00.001-07:002009-03-09T14:49:45.449-07:00Ladies 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-14813201344746753672009-02-28T11:39:00.000-08:002009-03-02T10:04:10.653-08:00The ZooWhen 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-72269319039056902442009-02-12T13:46:00.000-08:002009-02-12T13:49:19.909-08:00The Roller CoasterThe last few months have been quite the roller coaster ride. In late December and early January, my parents came to visit me. I actually started to write a long post about all the beautiful places we went, the fun things we did. But then I went into a bit of a funk after I got held up at gunpoint for my phone. It being the second time somebody has pointed a gun at me since I got here, I became angry and, to be honest, scared. It has taken me nine months to build a relationship with this community. I have learned to trust it, to call it home. When the mugging took place, it rattled my trust, my sense of belonging. It didn’t matter how integrated I had become. To anyone outside of my barrio, I was still a gringo walking around where I don’t belong.<br /><br />My parents’ trip was fantastic. We went to every corner of the country, where my parents and I were constantly amazed. We saw active volcanoes erupting, howler monkeys howling, and hotel clerks overcharging. My parents loved every site they saw, but were consistently cheated or overcharged from the car rental counter to the last check out desk. It was an ugly part of Tico culture that I was sorry they had to deal with. It is a good thing that my mom is a New Yorker to the bone, and left each clerk shaking. Luckily, I was able to introduce mom and dad to some of the good guys: the members of my community.<br /><br />The highlight of the trip was when Deb and Ralph got to meet the children in the albergue. My mom had an immediate rapport with the girls; she spent most of her time cuddling with them on a park bench. My dad had a good time taking goofy pictures with the boys. It was a good experience for all.<br /><br />Between then and now, a lot has changed. A few days after my parents returned home, I put on a soccer camp and tournament for my community. To help me deal with the crowd of over one hundred, my friends Mario and Meaghan came to chip in. After a successful first day of camp, the three of us sat at a beach café in Puntarenas, watching cruise ships come and go. I felt so good, I just grinned as I drank my beer. After seeing the beauty of Costa Rica with my parents, I had a newfound love for the country. I had completed a camp in which the entire community turned out in support. I felt like a good volunteer. I looked at my friends and said something that I will never forget: “I think that I finally love the Peace Corps.”<br /><br />The universe has a twisted sense of humor. In a matter of days, a relationship that once was, was no longer. I got mugged. It being the last days of summer vacation, I didn’t have a surplus of work to keep me occupied. I felt shaky. One night, I was so spooked that I opened up the knife on my Leatherman tool, and placed it on the floor next to my bed for protection. The next morning, I looked at the two inch knife and laughed. Not only was it a ridiculous idea in the first place, but the size of the blade made it more absurd. I picked the Leatherman up off the floor and used it for its true purpose: clipping my fingernails.<br /><br />I’ve eased up now. The school year is beginning, so I have been busy planning projects, and attending staff meetings. The albergue kids have been great. I feel as if I’m getting back into the swing of things. Who knows, maybe in a short while, I’ll be as happy as I was toasting beers on the Puntarenas beach. And now that I am no longer romantically involved, I can look forward to the March arrival of the new Tico 19 group; I am fairly certain that they will be mostly beautiful Jewish girls with proclivities for short balding men.<br /><br />See, I told you I’ve eased up.<br /><br />Next week, I turn twenty-five, while simultaneously celebrating my first complete year in country. With such milestones approaching, I’ve been doing quite a bit of reflection. I’ve concluded that I like the path that I’ve taken over the past quarter-century, especially over the past year. Peace Corps is not what I expected, and has been difficult in ways that I did not foresee. However, I’ve done some good work with some good people. I now speak Spanish, something I could not say without rolling my eyes a year ago. I only pray that the next year is as good, if not better and more rewarding than the past one.<br /><br />A good friend once asked me how I could believe in an imperfect God. I responded by saying that there is perfection in imperfection. You can’t have highs without lows; no good without evil. And it is that balance that keeps me here. There are terrible days and nights; never before has my mettle been tested like this. But there is a beauty in the despair; it makes that one great day possible. The Peace Corps has been a roller coaster ride, and that is what makes it worthwhile.Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4217517866898526206.post-52047998517827281992008-12-19T16:13:00.001-08:002008-12-19T16:13:39.883-08:00It Is Good To Be Back!It has been a busy few weeks. Between going home for Thanksgiving, making two trips to the Nicoya peninsula, and graduation week at the elementary school, I’ve had a full schedule.<br /><br />Thanksgiving was incredible. Just being with my family and friends was comfort enough, but the festivities were over the top. The first weekend was occupied by a two day party with my college friends with whom I celebrated the end of the worst season of Michigan football ever. People came from LA, Chicago, Philly and DC, and I was truly touched that people would travel that far for me. We caught up, discussed the Michigan season the way the Germans must now discuss World War II, and stayed up till morning at my friend Derek’s apartment. It was the most fun I’d had in a while.<br /><br />The rest of the week was spent enjoying intimate time with my family, and eating. I got to eat Indian food, bagels, and my mother’s world famous chili. Regretfully, I did not get to eat Thai or Chinese food. This is something I will get to if I go back next Thanksgiving.<br /><br />When I got back from New York, I was surprisingly at peace. Before the trip, I feared that I would get back to Costa Rica and want to go back home or become depressed. But in New York, I saw that I wasn’t really missing too much. People are getting laid off, fed up with the jobs they are lucky to have, or being pounded by graduate school work. While my job is hard in the fact that it can be unorganized, lonely, and stressful, it is no worse than what I would be doing in the US.<br /><br />I also found perspective. I had glorified New York in my mind during the lonely times here in Costa Rica. I fantasized about everything that I loved about it. But in going back, I saw that the city is still just the city, and that eighty degrees and sunny is better than freezing and cloudy. I realized that New York will be there when I get back, and this is where I need to be right now.<br /><br />It felt great to be home. My family seemed to have genuinely missed me and was glad to have me back. I felt the same way. In a place that has consistently made me uncomfortable, I felt comfortable. That night, I doused my rice and beans in hot sauce, and ate them with a smile. It wasn’t my mom’s chili, but it did the trick.<br /><br />The next week, my friend Meagan asked me if I would help her with a nature camp she was putting on with a park ranger in her site on the Nicoya Peninsula. Since the trip is only a ferry ride away, I agreed, and packed my bags. However, in the great Tico tradition, the camp was postponed.<br /><br />“Do you still want to come?” Meagan asked. I looked at my bags.<br /><br />“Why not!”<br /><br />So I headed across the Nicoya gulf and went to pay Meagan a visit. I disembarked in the small town of Paquera where I got on a bus to the small beach town of Montezuma. Meagan met me on the bus where we chatted about America until we pulled into town.<br /><br />We found a backpackers’ lodge a bit outside of town and decided to stay there. The place had two cabins built into the jungle, with large porches. After Meagan and I put our stuff in our room, we lay in hammocks on the porch and enjoyed the late afternoon sun. Not five minutes had passed before we heard a racket in the trees. We got up, looked around, and found about a dozen Cappuchin monkeys on the branches of the trees, and even sitting on the deck. They seemed pretty comfortable with humans, and got close enough for people to hand feed them bananas. We hung out with the monkeys for a while, then headed into town for dinner.<br /><br />That night as we lay in bed, we could hear the crashing of the waves, and the sounds of the jungle. It felt good to be back in Costa Rica.<br /><br />The next day was hot and sunny. We decided to hike up the river to the town’s famed waterfall. We hiked with two Swiss girls from our lodge; one could speak English, and one could speak Spanish. So while climbing through the cool river, I made myself dizzy going back and forth between English and Spanish. By the time we got to the waterfall, I didn’t know what language I was speaking.<br /><br />But I didn’t have to speak. The sight of this five-story high waterfall was captivating, and we all stood and watched for a while. In the middle of the jungle, the waterfall crashed its way into a deep pool where we swam. Around the pool were outcroppings of rock from which we jumped into the pool. We even got to climb behind the waterfall and stand in the loudest place in the world. Jumping into the waterfall was, more than anything, a comical experience. After a second in mid air, the water pounded me into the water with great force, and before I knew it, I was ashore. While climbing rocks to do some diving, a European man turned around, looked at me and said, “It’s fucking paradise man!” It really was.<br /><br />The next week, I went out to the peninsula again, this time to do actual work. Meagan did eventually get the camp together, and I did a nature themed art project with the kids. It was fun, and the kids really liked it.<br /><br />Now, I am attending graduation events at the elementary school and planning my schedule for the next school year which starts in February. I have also started a new photography workshop with the Albergue kids, in addition to the poetry workshop we started a few months ago. And in a few days, my parents will be here to visit!<br /><br />As the holidays and vacation approaches, I hope that everyone back in the states is well. To all my Jewish brethren, Happy Chanukah! To my goy friends, Merry Christmas!Dave Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11047986313498222074noreply@blogger.com1