Throughout the Peace Corps experience, the importance of sustainability in projects is drilled into the head of every volunteer. Because we volunteers offer our sites no financial backing for their development, we can only offer our ideas and hard work. The goal is that the results of our work will not fade when we leave our sites. Rather a lasting impact is expected of us; we are expected to plant a seed that the site then cultivates. To simplify: “you give a man a fish; you feed him for a day. You teach him how to fish, you feed him for life.”
To consistently create sustainable projects in one’s site is easier said than done. A volunteer cannot simply create the perfect sustainable project in his or her head and implement it. The volunteer must first consult with counterparts, and tailor projects to their needs. I have had many creative, sustainable project proposals shot down by my school’s director. I have been told by some of my counterparts exactly what they need; these requests are often for unsustainable work. So I have had to find a balance between catering to the desires of the institutions in which I work and working on projects that I feel could be sustainable.
A major problem that many of my colleagues in the Children, Youth and Families program encounter is that sustainability is not easy to measure in educational work. Who knows if what you teach has a lasting impact on the community? How can you tell if the community will take ownership over the information that you share? For most volunteers, you just have to put your work out there and hope that the information catches on somewhere and takes off after you leave.
I am a rare volunteer who has been lucky enough to see sustainability in action. The other day, I was approached by Xinia, the teacher at the school who facilitates the Chicas Super Poderosas group with me. She invited me to a workshop that she was putting on for a small group of students. I happily accepted and did not think much of it.
The next day, I walked into a classroom filled with children laying on mats. I smiled; the kids looked like they were excited about any workshop that involved laying down. As Xinia made her way through the lesson, I became filled with pride. What had me so excited was that the workshop was a variation on one of the lessons we gave during the Chicas Super Poderosas program. It was as if she had torn a page from the manual.
I had always planned on speaking with Xinia about continuing Chicas Super Poderosas after I leave. However, she beat me to the punch by putting on the workshop. Afterwards, we spoke about the coming end of the school year and the Chicas program. We agreed that we would start a new Chicas group the following school year in February. I reminded her that I would be ending my service before the program would end. She told me not to worry, that she would continue it. I beamed.
As I went to leave the school that day, I passed by the small classrooms and then paused. In a poetic moment, I took in what I had just experienced and took note of a group of small fruit trees lining the walkway. A year and a half ago, I had planted the trees as saplings. Now they had taken the form of small trees which would hopefully bear fruit long after I’m gone. I know that the metaphor may be a bit cheesy, but it is valid. I had planted a tree, both real and metaphorical, and now know that they will be there after I’m gone. My hope is that years from now, Chicas Super Poderosas can be identified as a part of the culture of the school just as the trees are part of its landscape.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Museo de los Niños
The adolescent girls at the albergue were pumped. They had completed the Chicas Súper Poderosas program and were ready for their gira (field trip). They had braved the “communication skills obstacle course” lesson, and the famous “day spa stress management” workshop. They were truly chicas super poderosas. The last session of the program: a trip to the children’s museum in San Jose.
The trip took a lot of planning and preparation. I met with the PANI (Costa Rican children’s services agency) director several times, and it seemed like each time we met, some detail of the trip had changed. However, in the end, she really came through. She managed to find the funds for transportation and lunch. A free-lance volunteer from California helped us get free admission to the museum. With an amazingly smooth planning period behind us, we prepared to leave Puntarenas and head for the big city.
I arrived at the albergue last Saturday at six-thirty in the morning, ready for the trip. The girls were all dressed up and ready to go. The tias donned their Sunday best; I was thrilled that they were so enthusiastic. The funniest part of the girls’ wardrobe was the layering. They wore t-shirts covered by long sleeved shirts covered by sweatshirts covered by jackets. For any gringo, San Jose would be considered a warm, tropical climate with temperatures in the low seventies. For these girls accustomed to the oppressive heat of Puntarenas, San Jose may as well have been the North Pole.
Per usual in Tico time, the bus arrived an hour late. But no matter to the girls; the anticipation of visiting the capital city was boiling in their veins. The hour spent waiting somehow turned into a dance party…as it usually does in Costa Rica. The tias were brimming with excitement and had to dance. So at six-thirty in the morning, nine adolescent girls, two tias, and this maladroit gringo boogied down to the dismay of all of the neighbors.
As we embarked on the two hour ride east to the capital, I received the biggest surprise of the trip: the girls were perfectly behaved. They sat still in their seats and gazed at the beautiful mountains as we passed them. The only trouble with the ride came from the mini-bus driver. Like a child with severe ADD, his eyes would stray from the road in front of him to check out a billboard or a stuffed animal that a child was playing with. I had suddenly become my father teaching me how to drive.
“Keep your eyes on the road.” I would say to him.
“Si, si, si!”
“Center your car in the lane.”
“Si, si, si!”
“Now it is raining, this is when you turn on your wipers.”
“Si, si, si!”
And so it went. Quick note to my father: I apologize for having been a 15 year old learning to drive.
We arrived safely and soundly at the museum, no thanks to our space cadet of a driver. As we approached the museum, the girls gasped with excitement. The structure is an impressive site: it is a looming converted prison on top of a hill at the northern edge of San Jose. While the building has been painted bright, friendly colors, it is clear that it used to house convicts with its panoptical design. Regardless, it was an amazing sight for the girls.
We got off the bus and filed into the museum where we met Ana Lucia, the PANI Director. In the first room, the girls participated in a hands-on lesson on the five senses, and how difficult it is to function without one of them. This was done to teach empathy for disabled people. The following exhibits were on space and space travel, volcanoes and earthquakes, and the history of Costa Rica and the evolution of Tico culture. In each room, guides explained the fun, hands-on exhibits while the girls took it in. Giggling from room to room, the girls were having a blast. They were clearly learning and having fun at the same time, which is the goal of every teacher.
We filed through the exhibits. From the rainforest to the human body to electricity, the girls soaked up the information. As we made our way through the museum, I had time to bond with the girls. They all got a kick out of my performance in the hall of mirrors (lets just say that the fat mirror was a big hit for them). Just as importantly, I had a chance to bond with Ana Lucia. Things are always a bit forced and curt when I see her in the PANI office. However, in the informal atmosphere of the museum, we were able to let our guards down and have fun. By the time we left the museum, I was even making her laugh.
After the morning that they had, you better bet that the girls were starving. So we walked down Avenida Central until we came to the golden arches. Yes, we had arrived at McDonalds. The kids were flipping out. For a group used to eating rice and beans every day, this was the best moment of their lives. After everyone had eaten their Happy Meals and ice cream, soft smiles settled on the girls’ faces.
It was time to go home. It had been quite the day, and the girls’ eyelids were growing heavy. We sat in front of the stately Teatro Nacional as we waited for the bus to pick us up (which it did forty-five minutes late). As the girls got into the bus and waved goodbye to San Jose, I couldn’t help but feel proud. I was proud of the girls for behaving so perfectly, proud of PANI for delivering, and proud of myself for getting the trip going.
Only six months left of my service remain. I know that as May comes closer and closer, I will have fewer of these moments of pride and success. So as I observed the girls learning and interacting, I did not take it for granted. I realized that it was a high point in my service, noted it, and was grateful.
The trip took a lot of planning and preparation. I met with the PANI (Costa Rican children’s services agency) director several times, and it seemed like each time we met, some detail of the trip had changed. However, in the end, she really came through. She managed to find the funds for transportation and lunch. A free-lance volunteer from California helped us get free admission to the museum. With an amazingly smooth planning period behind us, we prepared to leave Puntarenas and head for the big city.
I arrived at the albergue last Saturday at six-thirty in the morning, ready for the trip. The girls were all dressed up and ready to go. The tias donned their Sunday best; I was thrilled that they were so enthusiastic. The funniest part of the girls’ wardrobe was the layering. They wore t-shirts covered by long sleeved shirts covered by sweatshirts covered by jackets. For any gringo, San Jose would be considered a warm, tropical climate with temperatures in the low seventies. For these girls accustomed to the oppressive heat of Puntarenas, San Jose may as well have been the North Pole.
Per usual in Tico time, the bus arrived an hour late. But no matter to the girls; the anticipation of visiting the capital city was boiling in their veins. The hour spent waiting somehow turned into a dance party…as it usually does in Costa Rica. The tias were brimming with excitement and had to dance. So at six-thirty in the morning, nine adolescent girls, two tias, and this maladroit gringo boogied down to the dismay of all of the neighbors.
As we embarked on the two hour ride east to the capital, I received the biggest surprise of the trip: the girls were perfectly behaved. They sat still in their seats and gazed at the beautiful mountains as we passed them. The only trouble with the ride came from the mini-bus driver. Like a child with severe ADD, his eyes would stray from the road in front of him to check out a billboard or a stuffed animal that a child was playing with. I had suddenly become my father teaching me how to drive.
“Keep your eyes on the road.” I would say to him.
“Si, si, si!”
“Center your car in the lane.”
“Si, si, si!”
“Now it is raining, this is when you turn on your wipers.”
“Si, si, si!”
And so it went. Quick note to my father: I apologize for having been a 15 year old learning to drive.
We arrived safely and soundly at the museum, no thanks to our space cadet of a driver. As we approached the museum, the girls gasped with excitement. The structure is an impressive site: it is a looming converted prison on top of a hill at the northern edge of San Jose. While the building has been painted bright, friendly colors, it is clear that it used to house convicts with its panoptical design. Regardless, it was an amazing sight for the girls.
We got off the bus and filed into the museum where we met Ana Lucia, the PANI Director. In the first room, the girls participated in a hands-on lesson on the five senses, and how difficult it is to function without one of them. This was done to teach empathy for disabled people. The following exhibits were on space and space travel, volcanoes and earthquakes, and the history of Costa Rica and the evolution of Tico culture. In each room, guides explained the fun, hands-on exhibits while the girls took it in. Giggling from room to room, the girls were having a blast. They were clearly learning and having fun at the same time, which is the goal of every teacher.
We filed through the exhibits. From the rainforest to the human body to electricity, the girls soaked up the information. As we made our way through the museum, I had time to bond with the girls. They all got a kick out of my performance in the hall of mirrors (lets just say that the fat mirror was a big hit for them). Just as importantly, I had a chance to bond with Ana Lucia. Things are always a bit forced and curt when I see her in the PANI office. However, in the informal atmosphere of the museum, we were able to let our guards down and have fun. By the time we left the museum, I was even making her laugh.
After the morning that they had, you better bet that the girls were starving. So we walked down Avenida Central until we came to the golden arches. Yes, we had arrived at McDonalds. The kids were flipping out. For a group used to eating rice and beans every day, this was the best moment of their lives. After everyone had eaten their Happy Meals and ice cream, soft smiles settled on the girls’ faces.
It was time to go home. It had been quite the day, and the girls’ eyelids were growing heavy. We sat in front of the stately Teatro Nacional as we waited for the bus to pick us up (which it did forty-five minutes late). As the girls got into the bus and waved goodbye to San Jose, I couldn’t help but feel proud. I was proud of the girls for behaving so perfectly, proud of PANI for delivering, and proud of myself for getting the trip going.
Only six months left of my service remain. I know that as May comes closer and closer, I will have fewer of these moments of pride and success. So as I observed the girls learning and interacting, I did not take it for granted. I realized that it was a high point in my service, noted it, and was grateful.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Cats! The Invasion
As most of my readers know, I have two cats. Yes, I am a grown man. No, the idea to keep these cats wasn’t mine. When I tell most people that I have two cats, I usually receive grimaces. It’s okay, I grimace along with them. I mean, what active, normal twenty-five year old man has two cats?
Luckily, people still accept me. I am still invited to parties; nobody avoids me in the street. I am doing well for what one friend dubbed, “an old cat man.” It would be nice if the story stopped there regarding my life with cats. However, the cat invasion has only just begun.
It is not abnormal for stray cats to scrounge around one’s back yard for scraps of food. When my host mom, Ania, was here, it happened pretty regularly. She would just spray the strays with a hose, and they’d go away. But once she left, there was nobody to harass them. Moreover, I am usually out of my house all day at the school or the albergues. Result: the cats have invaded.
It started a few months ago when I noticed that a pair of female cats had moved into my back yard. At first, I didn’t mind. For all intents and purposes, cats are cute. I grew up with a great, personable cat named Bruce. However, I realized that they would be a problem after catching them stealing food from Necio’s bowl. It was quite shocking to come home from work to find four cats at the bowl, chowing down (it was actually three, because Necio is a racist and won’t allow Negro to eat with him).
When I catch these cats, they usually run away from me too quickly for me to catch them. Every time I see them, I chase them, they scatter, and I feel helpless to defend the food that Necio has deemed unworthy of defense. I often wonder what I would do if I actually caught one of these cats.
The answer came a few months later. Mid-august, I noticed that my problems were growing, quite literally, exponentially. One of the strays had given birth to a litter of kittens. I looked down at the litter and half of me wanted to say “awwww,” and half of me wanted to empty a can of Raid into their faces. Of course, once these babies were weaned, their main source of food was Necio’s Kitty Chow. Just when I thought that things couldn’t get any worse, the other stray plopped a whole litter of kittens into my back yard. I was suddenly vastly outnumbered.
I now had an army of about seven cats invading my house. I thought things were bad when they tried to steal Necio’s food. Little did I know that they would actually move in.
Every night, once I go to sleep, the army invades. They cuddle up on my couches, pull down my curtains with their puny little paws, and use various corners of my living room as a latrine. Necio and Negro seemed to have no problem with this. However, among the invading cats, there have been disagreements. I can’t tell you how horrifying it is to wake up with a jolt in the middle of the night to brawling and screaming cats in your living room. Once they started shitting on my floor, I knew that it was time for war.
I started dreaming in my head about what I would do if I caught one. I would snap its neck. Or no, better, break its legs. Spray its face with Raid? It got to the point where I had to shake myself out of such fantasies. One day, I got up, looked myself in the mirror, and asked myself: “am I the kind of person who could kill a kitten?” I am embarrassed that I mulled the question in my mind for a while before answering, “maybe?”
And then one day it happened. I walked into my house after an afternoon at the albergue and saw one of the cats asleep on my couch. Quietly, I put down my bags and tiptoed over to the cute little bastard. As I made my final approach, he woke up, and made a run for it. He made it across the living room with great speed, but I was faster, and as he made the leap for the back window, I intercepted him like Troy Polamalu.
He was clawing at the windowpane; I had him by the back leg. I had looked forward to that day for some time. Yet strangely, I had no idea what to do. I looked at the little guy who stared right back at me. “Okay, I’ll snap his leg,” I thought. But as the cat began crying, I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill a kitty. I would have to let him go. But then something happened that I’ll never forget.
He shat on me. My toaster oven got a good shot as well, but my left hand got the worst of it. It took a second to register what had happened, but then I let go of the beast and began to holler. I yelled all kinds of obscenities as I looked down at my soiled hand and toaster oven. Yessenia, alarmed by my shouts, called out, asking if I was okay.
“I’m okay!” I shouted back (our houses are open air, so she can usually hear anything that is going on in my house and vice versa). “I just got shat on by one of the stray cats in the yard!”
Laughter. Her whole family cracked up from behind thin walls as I began cleaning my hand. I felt like a fool; I had not taken into account biological weapons. Even worse, I had learned that I was incapable of any kind of counter-attack. The cats had won.
Every now and then, I get a good kick in when I catch one of the invaders off his guard. The strays know never to come into the house when I am present and conscious. However, I guess that until Bairón and Ania return and kill all of the cats with great joy, I will just have to deal with them.
Luckily, people still accept me. I am still invited to parties; nobody avoids me in the street. I am doing well for what one friend dubbed, “an old cat man.” It would be nice if the story stopped there regarding my life with cats. However, the cat invasion has only just begun.
It is not abnormal for stray cats to scrounge around one’s back yard for scraps of food. When my host mom, Ania, was here, it happened pretty regularly. She would just spray the strays with a hose, and they’d go away. But once she left, there was nobody to harass them. Moreover, I am usually out of my house all day at the school or the albergues. Result: the cats have invaded.
It started a few months ago when I noticed that a pair of female cats had moved into my back yard. At first, I didn’t mind. For all intents and purposes, cats are cute. I grew up with a great, personable cat named Bruce. However, I realized that they would be a problem after catching them stealing food from Necio’s bowl. It was quite shocking to come home from work to find four cats at the bowl, chowing down (it was actually three, because Necio is a racist and won’t allow Negro to eat with him).
When I catch these cats, they usually run away from me too quickly for me to catch them. Every time I see them, I chase them, they scatter, and I feel helpless to defend the food that Necio has deemed unworthy of defense. I often wonder what I would do if I actually caught one of these cats.
The answer came a few months later. Mid-august, I noticed that my problems were growing, quite literally, exponentially. One of the strays had given birth to a litter of kittens. I looked down at the litter and half of me wanted to say “awwww,” and half of me wanted to empty a can of Raid into their faces. Of course, once these babies were weaned, their main source of food was Necio’s Kitty Chow. Just when I thought that things couldn’t get any worse, the other stray plopped a whole litter of kittens into my back yard. I was suddenly vastly outnumbered.
I now had an army of about seven cats invading my house. I thought things were bad when they tried to steal Necio’s food. Little did I know that they would actually move in.
Every night, once I go to sleep, the army invades. They cuddle up on my couches, pull down my curtains with their puny little paws, and use various corners of my living room as a latrine. Necio and Negro seemed to have no problem with this. However, among the invading cats, there have been disagreements. I can’t tell you how horrifying it is to wake up with a jolt in the middle of the night to brawling and screaming cats in your living room. Once they started shitting on my floor, I knew that it was time for war.
I started dreaming in my head about what I would do if I caught one. I would snap its neck. Or no, better, break its legs. Spray its face with Raid? It got to the point where I had to shake myself out of such fantasies. One day, I got up, looked myself in the mirror, and asked myself: “am I the kind of person who could kill a kitten?” I am embarrassed that I mulled the question in my mind for a while before answering, “maybe?”
And then one day it happened. I walked into my house after an afternoon at the albergue and saw one of the cats asleep on my couch. Quietly, I put down my bags and tiptoed over to the cute little bastard. As I made my final approach, he woke up, and made a run for it. He made it across the living room with great speed, but I was faster, and as he made the leap for the back window, I intercepted him like Troy Polamalu.
He was clawing at the windowpane; I had him by the back leg. I had looked forward to that day for some time. Yet strangely, I had no idea what to do. I looked at the little guy who stared right back at me. “Okay, I’ll snap his leg,” I thought. But as the cat began crying, I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill a kitty. I would have to let him go. But then something happened that I’ll never forget.
He shat on me. My toaster oven got a good shot as well, but my left hand got the worst of it. It took a second to register what had happened, but then I let go of the beast and began to holler. I yelled all kinds of obscenities as I looked down at my soiled hand and toaster oven. Yessenia, alarmed by my shouts, called out, asking if I was okay.
“I’m okay!” I shouted back (our houses are open air, so she can usually hear anything that is going on in my house and vice versa). “I just got shat on by one of the stray cats in the yard!”
Laughter. Her whole family cracked up from behind thin walls as I began cleaning my hand. I felt like a fool; I had not taken into account biological weapons. Even worse, I had learned that I was incapable of any kind of counter-attack. The cats had won.
Every now and then, I get a good kick in when I catch one of the invaders off his guard. The strays know never to come into the house when I am present and conscious. However, I guess that until Bairón and Ania return and kill all of the cats with great joy, I will just have to deal with them.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Transitions
It has been quite a while since my last blog post…I must apologize. Any writing that I have been doing lately has been dedicated to law school applications. A few days ago, I submitted my last one, which is a huge relief. I can now focus my writing efforts on this blog.
The past month has been one of transitions. The populations in the albergues have been changing. Many of my projects are coming to a close, while others are just beginning. And I often take a step back, and find that I am changing as a person.
A few months ago, there was an influx of new children at the green albergue. We received a Nicaraguan boy of about 12 who had a black eye. Two brother-sister pairs were brought in. A boy with holes in his teeth came. One boy had a skinned nose. It is when I see the physical damage that some parents have done to their children that I begin to understand how different the children at the albergue are. Because I am so involved in their daily lives, I often forget that they have been abused. The new arrivals often serve as a shocking reminder.
As September came to a close, we started losing many of these children. The boy with the black eye was sent to the children’s services of Nicaragua. One boy was returned to his parents. Many found functioning family members to care for them. What remained was something that I was unprepared for: Toddlertown.
Never before in my Peace Corps experience had I worked with an albergue comprised of strictly toddler children. Most of the activities that I had in my arsenal were for older kids who could say more than a few words. I tried to think of exciting educational activities that could stimulate their minds. After a few failed attempts, I learned a valuable lesson: toddlers just want to draw, poop themselves and laugh. Once I learned this, the fun started.
I now look forward to hanging out with the toddlers more than anything else. In what other situation in my life will people unequivocally love me, jump on me, and hug me upon my arrival? We draw a lot; I usually stick to animals so that I can teach them animal names. We also play “the animal game,” in which I draw an animal and the kids have to guess what it is. If the kids get it right, I make the sound that the animal makes. The kids love it; the Tias are entertained by it. My cow impression gets the best response. Now whenever a cow is drawn, I am hit with a cacophony of loud “MOOOOOOOOs.” We also pass a lot of time flying paper airplanes, and playing tag in the yard.
In the adolescent girls’ albergue, we just finished a career planning/personal finance class. After examining the pre and post tests, I was proud to see that the girls had actually retained the information that we went over in our sessions. Hopefully they will use what they’ve learned in their lives.
I had similar success with my Aula Abierta students. The elementary school dropouts really took to the themes and lessons of the career planning/personal finance class. Perhaps it hits home for them, as many are already in the workforce. I have grown so proud of these students in particular because they have surprised me with how much that they have learned.
A few weeks ago, I considered ending my English class with the Aula Abierta students. My logic was that it is impossible to learn a language if one does not study at home, or have more than two classes a week. So I gave the students a comprehensive test of all that we had learned so far. Since the students do not respond well to formal exams, I made it in the enjoyable form of a Jeopardy game. I was shocked and thrilled when the students responded correctly to all of the questions. We have since moved on to a new verb unit in which the students are successfully conjugating and using verbs.
There is an old saying: “those who can’t, teach.” I didn’t realize how wrong this was until I stepped foot into a classroom. Being a teacher is one of the most difficult jobs I have ever had. Imagine standing in front of a class of students that you are totally responsible for. Then imagine all of them ignoring you, cursing at you, telling you that they don’t care, and even leaving the school in the middle of a class. These situations do not happen often, but they do happen. It is the most frustrating thing imaginable.
I have gotten into a routine in which I teach at the school in the mornings and work in the albergues in the afternoons. Because life has become normal, and the experience is no longer novel, I find that I have become tired of being a teacher. Like any other job, it has grown old. I have learned that while I have been successful here, I am not meant to be a school teacher.
Peace Corps has been an incredible experience thus far. However, I find myself looking forward to post Peace Corps life. Between my disillusion with the classroom and the excitement of applying to law school, I feel ready to move on.
The past month has been one of transitions. The populations in the albergues have been changing. Many of my projects are coming to a close, while others are just beginning. And I often take a step back, and find that I am changing as a person.
A few months ago, there was an influx of new children at the green albergue. We received a Nicaraguan boy of about 12 who had a black eye. Two brother-sister pairs were brought in. A boy with holes in his teeth came. One boy had a skinned nose. It is when I see the physical damage that some parents have done to their children that I begin to understand how different the children at the albergue are. Because I am so involved in their daily lives, I often forget that they have been abused. The new arrivals often serve as a shocking reminder.
As September came to a close, we started losing many of these children. The boy with the black eye was sent to the children’s services of Nicaragua. One boy was returned to his parents. Many found functioning family members to care for them. What remained was something that I was unprepared for: Toddlertown.
Never before in my Peace Corps experience had I worked with an albergue comprised of strictly toddler children. Most of the activities that I had in my arsenal were for older kids who could say more than a few words. I tried to think of exciting educational activities that could stimulate their minds. After a few failed attempts, I learned a valuable lesson: toddlers just want to draw, poop themselves and laugh. Once I learned this, the fun started.
I now look forward to hanging out with the toddlers more than anything else. In what other situation in my life will people unequivocally love me, jump on me, and hug me upon my arrival? We draw a lot; I usually stick to animals so that I can teach them animal names. We also play “the animal game,” in which I draw an animal and the kids have to guess what it is. If the kids get it right, I make the sound that the animal makes. The kids love it; the Tias are entertained by it. My cow impression gets the best response. Now whenever a cow is drawn, I am hit with a cacophony of loud “MOOOOOOOOs.” We also pass a lot of time flying paper airplanes, and playing tag in the yard.
In the adolescent girls’ albergue, we just finished a career planning/personal finance class. After examining the pre and post tests, I was proud to see that the girls had actually retained the information that we went over in our sessions. Hopefully they will use what they’ve learned in their lives.
I had similar success with my Aula Abierta students. The elementary school dropouts really took to the themes and lessons of the career planning/personal finance class. Perhaps it hits home for them, as many are already in the workforce. I have grown so proud of these students in particular because they have surprised me with how much that they have learned.
A few weeks ago, I considered ending my English class with the Aula Abierta students. My logic was that it is impossible to learn a language if one does not study at home, or have more than two classes a week. So I gave the students a comprehensive test of all that we had learned so far. Since the students do not respond well to formal exams, I made it in the enjoyable form of a Jeopardy game. I was shocked and thrilled when the students responded correctly to all of the questions. We have since moved on to a new verb unit in which the students are successfully conjugating and using verbs.
There is an old saying: “those who can’t, teach.” I didn’t realize how wrong this was until I stepped foot into a classroom. Being a teacher is one of the most difficult jobs I have ever had. Imagine standing in front of a class of students that you are totally responsible for. Then imagine all of them ignoring you, cursing at you, telling you that they don’t care, and even leaving the school in the middle of a class. These situations do not happen often, but they do happen. It is the most frustrating thing imaginable.
I have gotten into a routine in which I teach at the school in the mornings and work in the albergues in the afternoons. Because life has become normal, and the experience is no longer novel, I find that I have become tired of being a teacher. Like any other job, it has grown old. I have learned that while I have been successful here, I am not meant to be a school teacher.
Peace Corps has been an incredible experience thus far. However, I find myself looking forward to post Peace Corps life. Between my disillusion with the classroom and the excitement of applying to law school, I feel ready to move on.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Going Home, in Costa Rica
This past weekend, I went to San Jose to celebrate my second Rosh Hashana in country. At this point, I have become close enough to the synagogue’s director, Guita, for her to invite me and my fellow PCV, Emily, to her home for a traditional Rosh Hashana dinner. I didn’t realize how much it would mean to me until I arrived.
Before the dinner, Emily and I went to the beautiful synagogue for Erev Rosh Hashana services. It felt so good to be in a synagogue again. I laughed to myself as I walked in; it had been almost a year since I had worn a blazer and slacks. I put on my yarmulke, and found my seat in the sanctuary. I felt normal, like I was home again. In many ways, I was.
The cantor wailed out the traditional prayers which brought me great comfort. As I chanted along with the rest of the congregation, I did what all Jews are meant to do on Rosh Hashana: reflect. I thought back to the previous Rosh Hashana and was alarmed by how quickly the time had passed. It was at this point last year that I was able to get passed any issues that I was having with my Peace Corps experience. Last September was a turning point in my service; after the Jewish holidays, I fell into a rhythm and consistently turned out successful projects.
I took a brief trip into the past as the minor Hebrew harmonies of the prayers passed into my ears. Month by month, I thought about what had happened in my life. What had been good? What had been bad? The main question was what I needed to atone for. I plucked sins from these memories, and examined them as one would examine blotches on one’s skin. After filtering these memories, I was surprised to find that there was not a plethora of sins to atone for like most years. It could be that my Peace Corps life is too boring to do much in the way of sinning. Personally, I think that it is God trying to even the scales before I enter the field of law.
Once the service was over, I reunited with my friend Emily in the lobby (men and women are separated in Orthodox synagogues). We then met Ricardo, Guita’s husband. A gentle man of about sixty, he led us to his car. As we drove to his house, I got to know him. Born in Chile, Ricardo moved to Costa Rica about twenty-five years ago. When asked why he moved here, he smiled and said “Guita.”
The house was big and impressive. After parking in a two-car garage, we entered their traditional Jewish home. Familiar smells of roasting chicken and gevilte fish wafted into my face as I was greeted at the door by Guita. It was like Ricardo’s car somehow drove me all the way back to New York City.
Guita’s family was genial and welcoming. Guita and Ricardo have three teen-aged children who were outgoing and mature. Her sister was there, along with two other families. Everyone was friendly, interesting and urbane. Ricardo’s Argentinean architect friend was there with his wife, and I sat at the giant dinner table next to an affable man who owned a chain of children’s boutiques. His wife was Colombian; we were like a miniature United Nations. The young people were seated at a kids’ table…it was the first time I had seen one since coming to Costa Rica. It was the little things that made me so happy to be around my people.
Before we started the meal, Ricardo said the brucha over the wine and bread. Then, Guita directed our attention to a plate in the center of each table. The plate contained several odd foods including, ehem, a raw fish head. Each food was symbolic, and had a story to go with it. The fish head symbolized the beginning of the new year (Rosh Hashana literally means head of the year). The rings found in the steamed leeks on the plate symbolized the cycle of the year, as did the round challah. We ate apples with honey which represents the coming of a sweet new year. After we ate the foods on the plate, we began the meal.
Between forkfuls of gevilte fish, I spoke with the families about Peace Corps and what we do. They were interested in Peace Corps, it seemed to make sense to them. It was very interesting because most Ticos I know can’t wrap their minds around the concept (“you came here to work…for free???). By the time the matzoh ball soup came, I was learning about Argentinean food and wine from the architect.
The main course was unbelievable. It was a complete one-eighty from the traditional Tico meal. There was a green salad with strawberries and vinaigrette. An entire spread of roasted vegetables was presented to us, along with a giant platter of honey baked chicken. There was no rice to be found. Beans? I don’t think so. I was in heaven.
The entire evening was home to me. The Jewish families treated me as if I was a member of their own family. What makes me so happy about being with Jews so far from home is that I am a member of their family. In the middle of Central America, the Rosh Hashana dinner is the same as it is in New York, Paris or Jerusalem. We are so few and the bond of the tradition is so strong that it is in our instincts to welcome other Jews.
As Ricardo drove Emily and I home, I felt extremely proud to be a Jew, to be part of such a tight network. Having experienced such generosity from the families that night, I vowed that one day, I would open my home the way Guita and Ricardo did for me.
To all my brethren out there, Shana Tova!
Before the dinner, Emily and I went to the beautiful synagogue for Erev Rosh Hashana services. It felt so good to be in a synagogue again. I laughed to myself as I walked in; it had been almost a year since I had worn a blazer and slacks. I put on my yarmulke, and found my seat in the sanctuary. I felt normal, like I was home again. In many ways, I was.
The cantor wailed out the traditional prayers which brought me great comfort. As I chanted along with the rest of the congregation, I did what all Jews are meant to do on Rosh Hashana: reflect. I thought back to the previous Rosh Hashana and was alarmed by how quickly the time had passed. It was at this point last year that I was able to get passed any issues that I was having with my Peace Corps experience. Last September was a turning point in my service; after the Jewish holidays, I fell into a rhythm and consistently turned out successful projects.
I took a brief trip into the past as the minor Hebrew harmonies of the prayers passed into my ears. Month by month, I thought about what had happened in my life. What had been good? What had been bad? The main question was what I needed to atone for. I plucked sins from these memories, and examined them as one would examine blotches on one’s skin. After filtering these memories, I was surprised to find that there was not a plethora of sins to atone for like most years. It could be that my Peace Corps life is too boring to do much in the way of sinning. Personally, I think that it is God trying to even the scales before I enter the field of law.
Once the service was over, I reunited with my friend Emily in the lobby (men and women are separated in Orthodox synagogues). We then met Ricardo, Guita’s husband. A gentle man of about sixty, he led us to his car. As we drove to his house, I got to know him. Born in Chile, Ricardo moved to Costa Rica about twenty-five years ago. When asked why he moved here, he smiled and said “Guita.”
The house was big and impressive. After parking in a two-car garage, we entered their traditional Jewish home. Familiar smells of roasting chicken and gevilte fish wafted into my face as I was greeted at the door by Guita. It was like Ricardo’s car somehow drove me all the way back to New York City.
Guita’s family was genial and welcoming. Guita and Ricardo have three teen-aged children who were outgoing and mature. Her sister was there, along with two other families. Everyone was friendly, interesting and urbane. Ricardo’s Argentinean architect friend was there with his wife, and I sat at the giant dinner table next to an affable man who owned a chain of children’s boutiques. His wife was Colombian; we were like a miniature United Nations. The young people were seated at a kids’ table…it was the first time I had seen one since coming to Costa Rica. It was the little things that made me so happy to be around my people.
Before we started the meal, Ricardo said the brucha over the wine and bread. Then, Guita directed our attention to a plate in the center of each table. The plate contained several odd foods including, ehem, a raw fish head. Each food was symbolic, and had a story to go with it. The fish head symbolized the beginning of the new year (Rosh Hashana literally means head of the year). The rings found in the steamed leeks on the plate symbolized the cycle of the year, as did the round challah. We ate apples with honey which represents the coming of a sweet new year. After we ate the foods on the plate, we began the meal.
Between forkfuls of gevilte fish, I spoke with the families about Peace Corps and what we do. They were interested in Peace Corps, it seemed to make sense to them. It was very interesting because most Ticos I know can’t wrap their minds around the concept (“you came here to work…for free???). By the time the matzoh ball soup came, I was learning about Argentinean food and wine from the architect.
The main course was unbelievable. It was a complete one-eighty from the traditional Tico meal. There was a green salad with strawberries and vinaigrette. An entire spread of roasted vegetables was presented to us, along with a giant platter of honey baked chicken. There was no rice to be found. Beans? I don’t think so. I was in heaven.
The entire evening was home to me. The Jewish families treated me as if I was a member of their own family. What makes me so happy about being with Jews so far from home is that I am a member of their family. In the middle of Central America, the Rosh Hashana dinner is the same as it is in New York, Paris or Jerusalem. We are so few and the bond of the tradition is so strong that it is in our instincts to welcome other Jews.
As Ricardo drove Emily and I home, I felt extremely proud to be a Jew, to be part of such a tight network. Having experienced such generosity from the families that night, I vowed that one day, I would open my home the way Guita and Ricardo did for me.
To all my brethren out there, Shana Tova!
Thursday, September 17, 2009
15 de Septiembre
15 de Septiembre is one of the most important days in the Tico calendar: Independence Day. Ticos are a particularly proud people; they flaunt the selling points of their nation relentlessly. I am constantly being reminded that they do not have an army, and that everyone in the Americas (including the U.S.) longs to immigrate here. Therefore, it was no surprise to me that their independence day was a raucous celebration of Tico culture.
About a month ago, I entered the school and was greeted by a cacophony of drums and a kind of portable xylophone called the lyra. I was confused, because the year before, I worked hard with the previous director to form a band. After lobbying the Ministry of Education, we were both disappointed by the lack of funds available to us for a band project. With the new drums ringing in my ears, I went into the director’s office and asked her where the school got the new band equipment. She gave me a coy smile, and told me that she wouldn’t tell. She could have some impressive pull at the Ministry of Education; they could have fallen off the back of a truck. I didn’t care. I was glad that the students would finally have the opportunity to participate in the proudest moment for Ticos: the Independence Day Parade.
I was asked to help the lyra class. The school had hired a music teacher to teach the group of girls a few tunes. Since I can read music and had played the piano in the past, I was able to work with Don Alvaro to show the girls the basics. We turned out to be a good team.
For those of you who are not familiar with the lyra, imagine somebody repeatedly hitting the hell out of a flagpole with an aluminum pipe. That is what it sounds like, but with notes. Now imagine teaching this instrument to a group of elementary school girls at seven in the morning. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the migraine!
Hopped up on Excedrin, I was able to survive the brain-piercing sound that the lyra creates. I am now wondering if my childhood piano teacher was popping something more than her hard candies. Once the throbbing in my head subsided, I was able to enjoy teaching the class. The girls learned very quickly, and were thoroughly enjoying themselves. It is very rare for a teacher to actually witness a child learning in front of his or her eyes. I was privileged to see the girls correct their mistakes, and master their songs. Moreover, I was glad that they were acquiring a skill and participating in an extra-curricular activity. The pastime in my community has been watching television. Now all the neighborhood kids are practicing their lyras or drums after school.
This past Tuesday, I woke up to two things that seemed to punch me in the face: the relentless Puerto heat, and the pounding of the drums. It was 15 de Septiembre. I put on light clothes, sunscreen, and headed to the school to prepare the students for the parade.
I was shocked by what I found. The band uniforms had arrived, and looked fantastic. The kids looked crisp, clean and unified. The flag bearers wore their school uniforms and black berets. The baton twirlers donned blue and white cowgirl-themed outfits, complete with big white boots and hats. My lyra girls wore pleated skirts and royal blue polo shirts with our school name embroidered onto their chests. The drummer boys had the same shirts which were complemented by crisp white shorts and Keds. The entire group looked so proud, as were all of the teachers who were helping them get dressed.
Since I have very big muscles, my job was to pack and carry giant coolers of water. I didn’t think too much of the job until we got of the bus on the parade route in downtown Puntarenas. You could fry an egg on the pavement. The sun was strong and there was no shade to be found. I realized that keeping the kids hydrated was a serious concern, as we were to participate in the parade from eight in the morning to two in the afternoon. The second the kids were in place on the route, they began to beg me for water. So I gave some to each child, and wondered what the hell I was going to do with the enormous coolers of water as we walked the parade route. Luckily my compañero Don Luis drove the coolers down in his car, and would take some of the coolers to the end of the parade route.
The parade was both incredible and miserable. It was incredible because the kids performed so well. I was proud of my lyra girls as they chimed away in sync. The drummers were hugely popular with the crowds who danced to the beat. The baton twirlers were fantastic, although I was a bit alarmed by the nauseating comments that came from creepy old men in the crown. The performers were thrilled and bursting with pride. The teachers were as well; this was the first time that my school had ever participated in this tradition.
When I say that it was miserable, I am referring to the fact that the parade route was around the circumference of the sun. It was as if someone put me on a treadmill…in a steam room…and then heaved a fifty pound cooler on my shoulders. I was happy to toss packets of water to the kids as we inched our way down the main thoroughfare of Puntarenas; I wanted that weight off me.
As anyone could have predicted, we ran out of water about a third of the way through the parade. I felt awful as I told the kids that there was no more, but also grew worried that some of the kids wouldn’t make it. It was a very long route, and the midday sun takes no mercy. One of the baton twirlers had to give up a few blocks before the end. My poor lyra girl, Wanda, kept slurring her words as she walked alongside me. Many were stumbling along by the time we reached the end of the route. Thankfully, Luis was there waiting in the shade with water, iced tea, and a lunch of arroz con pollo. As the kids cooled off and regained their strength, I could see an immense happiness wash over them. They had worked hard, and it had paid off. It was a huge victory for the school, and the entire community.
About a month ago, I entered the school and was greeted by a cacophony of drums and a kind of portable xylophone called the lyra. I was confused, because the year before, I worked hard with the previous director to form a band. After lobbying the Ministry of Education, we were both disappointed by the lack of funds available to us for a band project. With the new drums ringing in my ears, I went into the director’s office and asked her where the school got the new band equipment. She gave me a coy smile, and told me that she wouldn’t tell. She could have some impressive pull at the Ministry of Education; they could have fallen off the back of a truck. I didn’t care. I was glad that the students would finally have the opportunity to participate in the proudest moment for Ticos: the Independence Day Parade.
I was asked to help the lyra class. The school had hired a music teacher to teach the group of girls a few tunes. Since I can read music and had played the piano in the past, I was able to work with Don Alvaro to show the girls the basics. We turned out to be a good team.
For those of you who are not familiar with the lyra, imagine somebody repeatedly hitting the hell out of a flagpole with an aluminum pipe. That is what it sounds like, but with notes. Now imagine teaching this instrument to a group of elementary school girls at seven in the morning. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the migraine!
Hopped up on Excedrin, I was able to survive the brain-piercing sound that the lyra creates. I am now wondering if my childhood piano teacher was popping something more than her hard candies. Once the throbbing in my head subsided, I was able to enjoy teaching the class. The girls learned very quickly, and were thoroughly enjoying themselves. It is very rare for a teacher to actually witness a child learning in front of his or her eyes. I was privileged to see the girls correct their mistakes, and master their songs. Moreover, I was glad that they were acquiring a skill and participating in an extra-curricular activity. The pastime in my community has been watching television. Now all the neighborhood kids are practicing their lyras or drums after school.
This past Tuesday, I woke up to two things that seemed to punch me in the face: the relentless Puerto heat, and the pounding of the drums. It was 15 de Septiembre. I put on light clothes, sunscreen, and headed to the school to prepare the students for the parade.
I was shocked by what I found. The band uniforms had arrived, and looked fantastic. The kids looked crisp, clean and unified. The flag bearers wore their school uniforms and black berets. The baton twirlers donned blue and white cowgirl-themed outfits, complete with big white boots and hats. My lyra girls wore pleated skirts and royal blue polo shirts with our school name embroidered onto their chests. The drummer boys had the same shirts which were complemented by crisp white shorts and Keds. The entire group looked so proud, as were all of the teachers who were helping them get dressed.
Since I have very big muscles, my job was to pack and carry giant coolers of water. I didn’t think too much of the job until we got of the bus on the parade route in downtown Puntarenas. You could fry an egg on the pavement. The sun was strong and there was no shade to be found. I realized that keeping the kids hydrated was a serious concern, as we were to participate in the parade from eight in the morning to two in the afternoon. The second the kids were in place on the route, they began to beg me for water. So I gave some to each child, and wondered what the hell I was going to do with the enormous coolers of water as we walked the parade route. Luckily my compañero Don Luis drove the coolers down in his car, and would take some of the coolers to the end of the parade route.
The parade was both incredible and miserable. It was incredible because the kids performed so well. I was proud of my lyra girls as they chimed away in sync. The drummers were hugely popular with the crowds who danced to the beat. The baton twirlers were fantastic, although I was a bit alarmed by the nauseating comments that came from creepy old men in the crown. The performers were thrilled and bursting with pride. The teachers were as well; this was the first time that my school had ever participated in this tradition.
When I say that it was miserable, I am referring to the fact that the parade route was around the circumference of the sun. It was as if someone put me on a treadmill…in a steam room…and then heaved a fifty pound cooler on my shoulders. I was happy to toss packets of water to the kids as we inched our way down the main thoroughfare of Puntarenas; I wanted that weight off me.
As anyone could have predicted, we ran out of water about a third of the way through the parade. I felt awful as I told the kids that there was no more, but also grew worried that some of the kids wouldn’t make it. It was a very long route, and the midday sun takes no mercy. One of the baton twirlers had to give up a few blocks before the end. My poor lyra girl, Wanda, kept slurring her words as she walked alongside me. Many were stumbling along by the time we reached the end of the route. Thankfully, Luis was there waiting in the shade with water, iced tea, and a lunch of arroz con pollo. As the kids cooled off and regained their strength, I could see an immense happiness wash over them. They had worked hard, and it had paid off. It was a huge victory for the school, and the entire community.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Hanging Out With Giant Turtles
This past weekend, I traveled with my friend Hillary to take advantage of a seasonal spectacle: the homecoming of the giant green turtles. Every July, on the black sand beaches of the small barrier island of Tortuguero, massive female sea turtles arrive from all over the world to lay their eggs. Having been born in Tortuguero themselves, the turtles follow their internal GPS to deposit their eggs in nests that they themselves once crawled out of. It was a truly amazing sight.
After three busses and one boat ride (nine hours of travel) from my site, we finally arrived at Tortuguero. There are no cars allowed on the island, and none of the pathways are paved. The village is nothing more than a group of houses, restaurants and cabinas resting on foundations of sand. Without the drone of traffic, the crashing of the waves serenades the entire island. While a recent tourism boom has developed the village over the past decade, it remains fairly poor. For this reason, Ben and Millie, an older Peace Corps married couple, are stationed on the tiny island.
Feeling relaxed in the Caribbean atmosphere, Hillary and I enjoyed the traditional coconut flavored food, and took in the beauty of the Atlantic coast. Walking along the beach, we found giant depressions in the sand along the dunes. We were told by locals that these are the turtle nests, and not to disturb them. All around the nests we found empty eggshells; apparently the Leatherback turtles had already hatched and swam off into the open ocean. After checking out the beach in the afternoon, we headed back to our cabinas to meet our guide for a night tour.
Our guide was an affable native of Tortuguero. Before we got started, he explained to us the system that the conservation program had put in place for turtle viewing. The beach, he explained, we divided up into several sections. In each section, spotters cruised the beach searching for nesting turtles. On walkie-talkies, they informed the tour guides which section to go to. Once in our assigned section, we joined five other groups of about eight people. When the spotters gave us the okay, we got in line behind the other groups and approached the turtle.
The enormous shell was covered with sand from having dug a fifty centimeter deep hole in the sand for the eggs. She was illuminated by the special red flashlights the tour guides used. About a meter long and half a meter wide, the female hovered over the nest and laid several eggs at a time. She was calm, the guide explained, because turtles go into a trance-like state while depositing their eggs. After watching her for a minute or so, we stepped back so that other groups could sneak a peek.
Before our second viewing, we were led a few meters down the beach to see a different turtle heading back to sea. Having finished laying her eggs, she lumbered across the beach. Throwing one fin in front of the other, she inched her way to the water’s edge making tractor-like tracks in the sand. When the foamy water crashed into her face, she stopped for a few moments, as if to say “holy crap, am I tired.” After a few minutes, she disappeared into the dark sea. She will only return to lay more eggs, and will sadly never know her babies.
Returning to the first turtle, we found that she was already starting to cover up the nest. With great thrusts of her hind fins, she heaved sand into the hole. Her aim, I must say, was not impeccable; she flung sand all over us and our guide. With her nest buried, we left the giant creature to head back to sea alone.
In about two months, the eggs will hatch, and the little babies will make their instinctual race from their nest to the sea. This will be no easy task. Out of a nest of one hundred, only about two will return to lay their eggs. The little guys have to avoid attacks by dogs, birds and humans before even reaching the ocean. Once in the ocean, the babies have to make the long swim to the nourishing kelp forests offshore. Along the way, they are eaten by sharks and other fish. For this reason, the poor mother wears herself out by filling the large nests.
I was so glad that I had made the long trip from coast to coast to see such a beautiful natural wonder. I am forever in the dept of the turtle watcher program that organized the process so well. Before the program, I was told, the beaches were mayhem, and several poor members of the community would steal the eggs from their nests to sell. Since the program was started, turtle counts are up 300 percent. This just goes to show that while conservationists may be idealists, they can have a significant impact on the ground. In most cases, there is a direct conflict between conservation and local economies. However, because of the turtle conservation in Tortuguero, the local economy is booming with the eco-tourism industry. If only every conservation effort was so simple.
The next day, Hillary and I had dinner with Ben and Millie. They had been evacuated from Peace Corps Bolivia when the civil unrest started there. Over a good meal, they told us what it was like to be in such a complicated situation, and what life is like in their new site. I was thoroughly impressed with them. They were my parents’ age, yet seemed like my peers. Full of energy, they seemed to enjoy their life on the tranquil island. They gave me hope; perhaps I will feel that young when I am their age.
The turtle nesting at Tortuguero is a unique event that makes Costa Rica special. As I check months off the calendar, I realize that I only have about ten months left to see everything the country has to offer. This past weekend made me see that for certain Costa Rican highlights, a nine hour bus ride just may be worth it. If the turtles can swim hundreds of miles to Tortuguero, I can have the courtesy to take the bus.
After three busses and one boat ride (nine hours of travel) from my site, we finally arrived at Tortuguero. There are no cars allowed on the island, and none of the pathways are paved. The village is nothing more than a group of houses, restaurants and cabinas resting on foundations of sand. Without the drone of traffic, the crashing of the waves serenades the entire island. While a recent tourism boom has developed the village over the past decade, it remains fairly poor. For this reason, Ben and Millie, an older Peace Corps married couple, are stationed on the tiny island.
Feeling relaxed in the Caribbean atmosphere, Hillary and I enjoyed the traditional coconut flavored food, and took in the beauty of the Atlantic coast. Walking along the beach, we found giant depressions in the sand along the dunes. We were told by locals that these are the turtle nests, and not to disturb them. All around the nests we found empty eggshells; apparently the Leatherback turtles had already hatched and swam off into the open ocean. After checking out the beach in the afternoon, we headed back to our cabinas to meet our guide for a night tour.
Our guide was an affable native of Tortuguero. Before we got started, he explained to us the system that the conservation program had put in place for turtle viewing. The beach, he explained, we divided up into several sections. In each section, spotters cruised the beach searching for nesting turtles. On walkie-talkies, they informed the tour guides which section to go to. Once in our assigned section, we joined five other groups of about eight people. When the spotters gave us the okay, we got in line behind the other groups and approached the turtle.
The enormous shell was covered with sand from having dug a fifty centimeter deep hole in the sand for the eggs. She was illuminated by the special red flashlights the tour guides used. About a meter long and half a meter wide, the female hovered over the nest and laid several eggs at a time. She was calm, the guide explained, because turtles go into a trance-like state while depositing their eggs. After watching her for a minute or so, we stepped back so that other groups could sneak a peek.
Before our second viewing, we were led a few meters down the beach to see a different turtle heading back to sea. Having finished laying her eggs, she lumbered across the beach. Throwing one fin in front of the other, she inched her way to the water’s edge making tractor-like tracks in the sand. When the foamy water crashed into her face, she stopped for a few moments, as if to say “holy crap, am I tired.” After a few minutes, she disappeared into the dark sea. She will only return to lay more eggs, and will sadly never know her babies.
Returning to the first turtle, we found that she was already starting to cover up the nest. With great thrusts of her hind fins, she heaved sand into the hole. Her aim, I must say, was not impeccable; she flung sand all over us and our guide. With her nest buried, we left the giant creature to head back to sea alone.
In about two months, the eggs will hatch, and the little babies will make their instinctual race from their nest to the sea. This will be no easy task. Out of a nest of one hundred, only about two will return to lay their eggs. The little guys have to avoid attacks by dogs, birds and humans before even reaching the ocean. Once in the ocean, the babies have to make the long swim to the nourishing kelp forests offshore. Along the way, they are eaten by sharks and other fish. For this reason, the poor mother wears herself out by filling the large nests.
I was so glad that I had made the long trip from coast to coast to see such a beautiful natural wonder. I am forever in the dept of the turtle watcher program that organized the process so well. Before the program, I was told, the beaches were mayhem, and several poor members of the community would steal the eggs from their nests to sell. Since the program was started, turtle counts are up 300 percent. This just goes to show that while conservationists may be idealists, they can have a significant impact on the ground. In most cases, there is a direct conflict between conservation and local economies. However, because of the turtle conservation in Tortuguero, the local economy is booming with the eco-tourism industry. If only every conservation effort was so simple.
The next day, Hillary and I had dinner with Ben and Millie. They had been evacuated from Peace Corps Bolivia when the civil unrest started there. Over a good meal, they told us what it was like to be in such a complicated situation, and what life is like in their new site. I was thoroughly impressed with them. They were my parents’ age, yet seemed like my peers. Full of energy, they seemed to enjoy their life on the tranquil island. They gave me hope; perhaps I will feel that young when I am their age.
The turtle nesting at Tortuguero is a unique event that makes Costa Rica special. As I check months off the calendar, I realize that I only have about ten months left to see everything the country has to offer. This past weekend made me see that for certain Costa Rican highlights, a nine hour bus ride just may be worth it. If the turtles can swim hundreds of miles to Tortuguero, I can have the courtesy to take the bus.
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