Work Hard, Relax Hard

My first week in-service was very busy. I filled my schedule to the brim so that my days could be as busy as they were when I worked at Skadden. This is a strategy I am using to take my mind off of the terrifying fact that I am going to be living away from everything I know and love for two years. Ha.

Most of my time was spent with the children at the two albergues in my town. Albergues are small orphanages run by PANI (the Administration of Children’s Services of Costa Rica). Passing by one, you wouldn’t know that it was an albergue; they look like normal houses on normal streets. In each albergue, between ten and fifteen children live with one or two “Tias” (Aunts). The children aren’t necessarily orphans; they are mostly children who have been removed from dangerous home situations. Many of them are victims of verbal, physical or sexual abuse. Regardless, they are a pleasure to be around.

During their free time, the children in the albergues really don’t have many recreational opportunities. The Tias are exhausted enough from caring for a household of children; they don’t really have the energy to run around with them. This is where I come in. Three afternoons this past week, I took the kids to the park to run around and get out of the house. We’ve been doing quite a bit of bonding lately, and I’m really happy to say that most of the kids like me. That is, of course, until I beat the hell out of them at soccer.

But in all seriousness, I feel that just to get the children doing constructive things during their free time is important. There is one boy in the group who is really good at soccer and was lucky enough to be selected for his school team. This has really kept him occupied; hopefully enough to keep him away from bad habits in the future. The boy is great to be around. He has a face that exudes congeniality, is really intelligent and has a decent chance of making it to college. I just hope that by embracing his talents, I can keep him on the right path in any way possible. If that includes taking him to the park to practice, then so be it. Hopefully as I become more comfortable with the children, and understand what they need, I can develop more substantive activities.

I also got to do my first work in the elementary school. This past Tuesday, Marianne and I taught a class for the “Aula Abierta” (open classroom) program: A class for dropouts who want to finish up their elementary school educations so that they can go to high school. This translates into a class of fifteen year old first graders mixed with eleven year old third graders and so on. It is interesting to say the least. Marianne and I taught a lesson on budgeting that went off without a hitch. This blew Marianne away; the previous class was apparently not so smooth. With students of different ages and intellectual capabilities, it is clearly a hard class to teach; and this is my inheritance.

All week, my host family has been raving to me about their family’s house in the campo just north and upland of here in a town called Caballo Blanco. Yesterday (Sunday), we packed into their tiny Civic, and headed out to spend the day there. As we drove away from Puntarenas, north along the Inter-American Highway, I felt as if I was being lifted out of an oven. As the Civic chugged up the mountains, the air became fresh and I was freed of the raw sewage odor. When we finally arrived in Caballo Blanco, my host brother, Memo, took us down a small dirt road until we were stopped by the car of my host aunt. She informed us all something in a Spanish that I couldn’t make out, and we all got out of the car and walked over to a group of trees. It made sense to me when the group of us (My host mom, “dad,” (he´s 29, I can´t bring myself to call him "dad") brother, sister, aunt, and two nieces) started to pick nance fruits from the trees and throw them in bags. The nances are like bitter little yellow pears the size of grapes. I didn’t like them much, and was glad when we continued a bit down the road to the house.

The house was beautiful. It was big and pink, with a long front porch and a yard of phosphorescent moss. Bamboo trees grew from the property in clusters and creaked in the wind. I walked with Memo behind the house where I found a view of Puntareanas, the entire Nicoya Gulf, and the high mountains of the Nicoya Penninsula. I was taken aback by the beauty of it, looked at Memo and yelled “why are you still living in the projects!” He explained that the house was his grandmother’s until she died in the accident, and now it belongs to his mom and aunt. They are probably going to move in after I spend my year with them.

As I contemplated this, Memo led me to the front porch and sat me down in their hammock as if to say “you’ve had a long week, take a chill pill.” The hammock hung under a great banyan tree which in and of itself seemed lazy; vines and moss hung from its branches. I lay there in the hammock and shot the breeze with Memo and Bairón until I saw my host Aunt setting up a barbecue. Happiness shot through my body as I saw her pour charcoal into the grill and start it up. This was totally inconsistent with the great Tico tradition of frying all food to oblivion. There would be no rice and beans for this lunch. Grilled meat? I couldn’t have been happier.

At this moment, Bairón sat me down at the picnic table on the porch and set a bottle of guaro in front of me. “Y ahora, bebemos” he said, and put down a glass. I asked him if it was like vodka, and he replied, “mas suave.” I smiled and he poured me a drink with ice and a bit of coke. It was great. Guaro is like a mix between vodka and rum, made from sugar cane here in Costa Rica. It is cheap and good. Bairón, Memo and I sat and took our drinks under the banyan tree until the meat was ready, at which point we feasted.

The three of us spent a while talking, and I felt that I was starting to get to know them. They are both clowns and kind of foolish, but with good intentions. Memo, I have just learned, is eighteen. This explains his immaturity. Regardless, I enjoy joking around with him and Bairón. It makes me feel normal again.

After a few drinks, Bairón said to me what may be the best thing anyone has ever said to me: “Vamos a apiar aquacates,” or “Let’s go pick avocadoes.” We walked behind the house and on their huge lot we found three avocado trees. And it just happens to be avocado season. We spent an hour or so plucking avocadoes from the high branches using a long bamboo branch with a pillowcase on one end of it. Two bulging bags of ripe avocadoes later, we were done. I can see what my meal schedule is going to be like for the next two weeks: rice, beans and avocadoes. It’s a step in the right direction.

Ania then asked me if I wanted to go for a walk with her and of course I complied. We strolled along a dirt path that separated huge meadows interrupted by mango and Guanacaste trees. The path was lined by marañon trees which produce the marañon fruit. The fruit isn’t anything special, but at one end of it is a hard shell protecting the seed we commonly know as the cashew. We walked and walked and shared a lot about ourselves. I thanked her for opening her home and family to me, and she said that she was happy to have me. As we walked back to the house, I realized just how lucky I am to have such a good host family and only hope that they continue to be so supportive.

I just wanted to give a quick shout out to my Dad: Happy Birthday! I hope that all is well. I miss you very much. Eat some good food for me, I´m sure that Mom is all over it!

Much love to all,
Dave

Swearing In and Shipping Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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