I made penne in a vodka sauce from scratch for my host mom the other day. She took a bite, smiled, and told me that she liked it.
"But wait" she said walking to the fridge.
"Oh no," I thought. "No way, she wouldn´t."
Oh, but she did. She opened the door to the fridge, pulled out the bottle of ketchup, and doused the plate with it. I bit my lip. She took a bite.
"Much better!" she said with a smile and walked out of the kitchen to the living room.
I am convinced that Ticos have no tastebuds.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Eddie
I was walking home from the Albergue the other day when I bumped into my neighbor Eddie. Eddie lives with his sister Yessenia: a recognized leader and my community counterpart. The two are from El Salvador, which is refreshing (it is nice to have someone around who isn’t Tico). Just as Yessenia is active in the community as the president of the Junta de Educacion, Eddie does his part. After a day’s work of hard manual labor, it is not uncommon to see Eddie sitting on the curb with the street kids. Even though these are not his kids, and he is dead tired, he finds time to play soccer and provide them with guidance. This is very rare in my community.
Needless to say, Eddie is a natural ally of mine and I was happy to cross his path as I walked down my street. He was flanked by four neighborhood kids, and dribbled a soccer ball as he walked. “Quire jugar?” he asked. Without hesitation, I told him I would play, and joined the group.
As we wound our way through town to the soccer field, he told me about El Salvador. He has two daughters there who he sends money every month. When asked why he left El Salvador, he responded by telling me how dangerous the country is. Crime and murder is a way of life there, he told me. He went on to explain how the gangs paralyze the people with fear, and were worth escaping. He hopes to bring his daughters out of the fray.
We got to the field and played in pick-up games for a few hours. We played until it became to dark to see.
On our walk home, I asked Eddie why he chose to come to Costa Rica. “Es muy tranquilo” he said. Muy tranquilo: a trait of Costa Rica that I have had qualms with. It is hard to motivate people to improve their community when things are so tranquilo. But Eddie put things in perspective for me. Tranquilo is something to embrace, if violence and fear is your country’s theme. Costa Rica is lucky to be so easy going. There is no revolution, no war. People aren’t dying needlessly, families are intact. The country may have serious problems, but fear isn’t one of them. This is one reason why Costa Rica has such a large immigrant population.
Not long ago, Eddie continued, he tried to cross illegally into the United States. I gave him a concerned look to show that I knew what a grave thing it was. He explained that the trip north through Central America was difficult and dangerous. He got as far as Mexico where he faced the facts. Coyotes (guides who bring people across the border), he learned cost about seven thousand dollars per person. Eddie went on to say how awful the coyotes are, sometimes selling their clients into slavery after the crossing. Some coyotes simply steal their clients’ money or take advantage of them sexually. The worst part, he said, was that their clients pay them money made in America after the crossing; if a client cannot make enough to pay the coyote on time, his or her family back home is usually threatened with death. Eddie wanted nothing to do with these people.
Eddie knew the odds. Most of the people who try to cross the border illegally end up dead or in prison. You have to have incredible luck, he noted, to cross the border safely. For every person who makes it, there are several who have died trying. So Eddie turned back, and headed back down south.
He finished his story as we approached our respective houses. I shook his hand and looked at him before heading in.
“Thank God you didn’t do it, man.” I said to him.
“Si, Gracias a Dios.”
Needless to say, Eddie is a natural ally of mine and I was happy to cross his path as I walked down my street. He was flanked by four neighborhood kids, and dribbled a soccer ball as he walked. “Quire jugar?” he asked. Without hesitation, I told him I would play, and joined the group.
As we wound our way through town to the soccer field, he told me about El Salvador. He has two daughters there who he sends money every month. When asked why he left El Salvador, he responded by telling me how dangerous the country is. Crime and murder is a way of life there, he told me. He went on to explain how the gangs paralyze the people with fear, and were worth escaping. He hopes to bring his daughters out of the fray.
We got to the field and played in pick-up games for a few hours. We played until it became to dark to see.
On our walk home, I asked Eddie why he chose to come to Costa Rica. “Es muy tranquilo” he said. Muy tranquilo: a trait of Costa Rica that I have had qualms with. It is hard to motivate people to improve their community when things are so tranquilo. But Eddie put things in perspective for me. Tranquilo is something to embrace, if violence and fear is your country’s theme. Costa Rica is lucky to be so easy going. There is no revolution, no war. People aren’t dying needlessly, families are intact. The country may have serious problems, but fear isn’t one of them. This is one reason why Costa Rica has such a large immigrant population.
Not long ago, Eddie continued, he tried to cross illegally into the United States. I gave him a concerned look to show that I knew what a grave thing it was. He explained that the trip north through Central America was difficult and dangerous. He got as far as Mexico where he faced the facts. Coyotes (guides who bring people across the border), he learned cost about seven thousand dollars per person. Eddie went on to say how awful the coyotes are, sometimes selling their clients into slavery after the crossing. Some coyotes simply steal their clients’ money or take advantage of them sexually. The worst part, he said, was that their clients pay them money made in America after the crossing; if a client cannot make enough to pay the coyote on time, his or her family back home is usually threatened with death. Eddie wanted nothing to do with these people.
Eddie knew the odds. Most of the people who try to cross the border illegally end up dead or in prison. You have to have incredible luck, he noted, to cross the border safely. For every person who makes it, there are several who have died trying. So Eddie turned back, and headed back down south.
He finished his story as we approached our respective houses. I shook his hand and looked at him before heading in.
“Thank God you didn’t do it, man.” I said to him.
“Si, Gracias a Dios.”
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Afternoons
I love the late afternoons here. As the sun lowers in the sky, the heat becomes bearable and almost welcomed. There is a dawn in the dusk. Neighbors sit outside under lemon trees and spread chisme. Kids play marbles in the dirt streets. And light falls sideways, creating warm squares on my bedroom walls which bear a comforting reminiscence. The soft light wafts memories into my mind: my brother Andrew, cousin Matthew and I having run home from miniature golf on the Jersey Shore in time to catch the daily Happy Days rerun; squares of rich light obscuring our view with glare. These good memories have diffused with the good ones I’ve made here, enhancing my adoration of the late afternoon sun.
This may sound rude (especially to those of you who live in Florida), but none of you know what heat is. The Costa Rican sun is an imposing presence. Nobody in this country owns a dryer; this is because we live in one. Seats at a soccer game cost a third more if you want to sit in the shade. People walk with umbrellas to protect themselves, and this is in no way uncool. Even the iguanas hide in the drainpipes. So when three o’clock passes, there is a collective sigh of relief.
In the country of “pura vida,” this time is especially relaxed. Because everyone wakes up at five and starts work no later than seven, people usually start trickling home from work at this hour. Fathers join in on the marbles or futbol. It is often this time of day that I enjoy playing with the kids who don’t have anyone, let alone fathers: those at the albergue.
Last Sunday at this hour, I took all of the kids to the park to play futbol, draw, paint, and/or run in circles. I ended up spending the afternoon spinning, throwing, chasing and lifting kids; I was a human jungle gym. The sun was low, so I avoided the stroke that could come from midday playtime. Amid the slaps of bare feet playing soccer on the plancha, and giggling kids, I realized that I had made a breakthrough. I had earned their trust. The little toddler whose mouth was originally glued shut was gabbing on and on about her drawing. The guarded one was jumping all over me (unwittingly kneeing me in the balls every time), begging for a shoulder ride. The problem child actually listend to me when I reprimanded her. This victory is monumental for me.
These kids have every right not to trust another adult again. All of the children have been removed from unsafe home situations; the adults in their lives have done irreparable damage. Their trust in me is also a victory for them. For them to have a healthy relationship with an adult is valuable in that it provides a vital social aptitude. Hopefully, it will lead to more healthy relationships with adults, and a healthier overall socialization. And now that I have their trust and respect, we can start working on more academic projects. I have written up a poetry workshop class for the older kids, we are slated to start on Saturday. I’ll be sure to hold the class in the late afternoon.
It is the late afternoon that I can get lost in. The mornings can be stressful. I wake up and it is already hot. All that moisture, already in the air. It is hard not to think about all those days and mornings piled up ahead of me. Seven hundred thirty days in the Peace Corps, and here’s a fresh one. Necio is usually in my face, wondering why he has not yet been fed. I unclench my teeth and begin.
As each day wears on, I usually find enough small victories to keep me happy, purposeful. But when the day has been too stressful, or not stressful enough, I pack my sunscreen and a towel and head to the beach.
Ok, don’t get excited. I know that you are crazy with jealousy wondering why I ever complain, being so close to the beach. Well, after a short bus ride, I have to navigate my way through the crack heads and junkies to get my feet sandy. Once there, I have to find a spot of black sand that is not covered by driftwood and plastic bottles. I also try to get a spot semi-close to another person on the beach so that I have someone to help me in case of mugging. It is also better to stay away from the smelly big heaps of trash.
But the ocean is the ocean. No matter how poor an area is, the waves crest and crash the same way. Salt fills the air. The waves bury your feet in Puntarenas, just as they would in the Hamptons. I lay down my towel and let the late afternoon sun cover me like a blanket. I close my eyes, and listen to the palms click against each other in the onshore breeze. Every now and then, I get a whiff of garbage. But more often than not, I get the sea spray.
This time has rescued me from some of the more difficult days. After laying out for an hour or so, I usually walk out across the pier to watch the sunset. With the beach lined with palms, and the backlighting from the low sun, Puntarenas looks like paradise. You can’t see the abandoned buildings, the prostitutes or the grime. For that moment, the Puerto is perfect. A postcard. A late afternoon memory, sun-stained, like Andrew and Matt and Happy Days.
This may sound rude (especially to those of you who live in Florida), but none of you know what heat is. The Costa Rican sun is an imposing presence. Nobody in this country owns a dryer; this is because we live in one. Seats at a soccer game cost a third more if you want to sit in the shade. People walk with umbrellas to protect themselves, and this is in no way uncool. Even the iguanas hide in the drainpipes. So when three o’clock passes, there is a collective sigh of relief.
In the country of “pura vida,” this time is especially relaxed. Because everyone wakes up at five and starts work no later than seven, people usually start trickling home from work at this hour. Fathers join in on the marbles or futbol. It is often this time of day that I enjoy playing with the kids who don’t have anyone, let alone fathers: those at the albergue.
Last Sunday at this hour, I took all of the kids to the park to play futbol, draw, paint, and/or run in circles. I ended up spending the afternoon spinning, throwing, chasing and lifting kids; I was a human jungle gym. The sun was low, so I avoided the stroke that could come from midday playtime. Amid the slaps of bare feet playing soccer on the plancha, and giggling kids, I realized that I had made a breakthrough. I had earned their trust. The little toddler whose mouth was originally glued shut was gabbing on and on about her drawing. The guarded one was jumping all over me (unwittingly kneeing me in the balls every time), begging for a shoulder ride. The problem child actually listend to me when I reprimanded her. This victory is monumental for me.
These kids have every right not to trust another adult again. All of the children have been removed from unsafe home situations; the adults in their lives have done irreparable damage. Their trust in me is also a victory for them. For them to have a healthy relationship with an adult is valuable in that it provides a vital social aptitude. Hopefully, it will lead to more healthy relationships with adults, and a healthier overall socialization. And now that I have their trust and respect, we can start working on more academic projects. I have written up a poetry workshop class for the older kids, we are slated to start on Saturday. I’ll be sure to hold the class in the late afternoon.
It is the late afternoon that I can get lost in. The mornings can be stressful. I wake up and it is already hot. All that moisture, already in the air. It is hard not to think about all those days and mornings piled up ahead of me. Seven hundred thirty days in the Peace Corps, and here’s a fresh one. Necio is usually in my face, wondering why he has not yet been fed. I unclench my teeth and begin.
As each day wears on, I usually find enough small victories to keep me happy, purposeful. But when the day has been too stressful, or not stressful enough, I pack my sunscreen and a towel and head to the beach.
Ok, don’t get excited. I know that you are crazy with jealousy wondering why I ever complain, being so close to the beach. Well, after a short bus ride, I have to navigate my way through the crack heads and junkies to get my feet sandy. Once there, I have to find a spot of black sand that is not covered by driftwood and plastic bottles. I also try to get a spot semi-close to another person on the beach so that I have someone to help me in case of mugging. It is also better to stay away from the smelly big heaps of trash.
But the ocean is the ocean. No matter how poor an area is, the waves crest and crash the same way. Salt fills the air. The waves bury your feet in Puntarenas, just as they would in the Hamptons. I lay down my towel and let the late afternoon sun cover me like a blanket. I close my eyes, and listen to the palms click against each other in the onshore breeze. Every now and then, I get a whiff of garbage. But more often than not, I get the sea spray.
This time has rescued me from some of the more difficult days. After laying out for an hour or so, I usually walk out across the pier to watch the sunset. With the beach lined with palms, and the backlighting from the low sun, Puntarenas looks like paradise. You can’t see the abandoned buildings, the prostitutes or the grime. For that moment, the Puerto is perfect. A postcard. A late afternoon memory, sun-stained, like Andrew and Matt and Happy Days.
Monday, September 8, 2008
The Beautiful Struggle
Life here has been hard lately. I’ve hit the six month mark of being in country. The milestone should be exciting; unfortunately, it has had the opposite effect. It is daunting knowing that I have been here for such a significant amount of time, yet have so far to go. Six months down…twenty-one more to go.
I haven’t written in a while because the last thing I want to be is a bummer to all those living vicariously through me here. I am also trying to figure out a way to express my frustration in an appropriate manner. However, the past few weeks have been positive, and taught me how to take the good with the bad.
I came to this country with (and like to believe that I still have) an open mind. As a sociology student, I’ve trained my mind to be culturally relative: cultures other than mine aren’t better or worse, they are just different. For example, the fact that people do not use flavor in their food here doesn’t make them culturally inferior. The fact that the soccer players here take more flops than others does not make their culture inferior.
During about three weeks ago, I tossed all that out the window. I was ethnocentric, and it didn’t help me one bit.
My friends and I made it a tradition to meet and explore the country once a month. This has been very important to our collective mental health. We have had something to look forward to, time to be ourselves, and time to decompress.
We cancelled our weekend for the month of August. Due the first week of September was an enormous diagnostic that we have to write of our community including everything one would ever need to know about its resources and challenges. Without my monthly break, and with a challenging assignment over my head, I began to get stressed out.
The diagnostic requires extensive field research. I have been going door-to-door, interviewing my fellow community members about the challenges and resources that my housing project has. Turns out that the resources are few and the challenges are great. Big surprise that I was placed here.
I found out information that made me very angry. Mothers prostituting their twelve year old daughters out of their homes. Mothers keeping their children home from school so that they won’t get lonely throughout the day. Fathers few and far between. A municipality that has to have its arm twisted to pave a road so that a disabled child can get to school in his wheelchair. A municipality that threw up the project in haste and forgot about sewage and recreational opportunities for their children. I became sour and resentful. I’ve blamed Ticos in general for all of this. It may not be fair, but when you are up to your eyeballs in it, it is hard to be level-headed.
A few weeks ago, I walked out of my bedroom to see my host sister, Jose, playing with a girl her age who I vaguely recognized as my host brother, Memo’s, girlfriend. They were playing with dolls. I turned around to find Ania holding a beautiful little baby girl. I smiled and asked her name and how old she was (eight months) and played with her for a second. I asked her whose it was, and she replied nonchalantly that it was Memo’s. My jaw dropped. I asked her a few more times if she was sure, and she thought it was funny that I didn’t know. I asked her who the mother was. She pointed to the little girl playing with dolls with Jose. I was taken aback.
The girl couldn’t have been older than fifteen. With an eight month old daughter. I was rattled and had to leave the room.
I couldn’t decide what was more upsetting to me: the fact that the mother was so young, that Memo was so uninvolved with the child’s life, or that everyone was so hunky-dory about it. The mother stayed with us for a few days, and every time I saw her with the baby, I got a bit freaked out. She looked (and may have been) younger than fifteen.
I stewed in anger for days. Not at Memo or the mother or Ania, but at the culture in general. How could this be acceptable to everyone? Ania was thrilled; neighbors would come by and remark to the mother how beautiful her baby was. She was congratulated. And then, I realized that the situation fit perfectly into the way of life of my barrio. Women are often not expected to do more than procreate, and fathers are often not expected to have much of a role at all. I knew that this was not uncommon in my area, or even some areas of the U.S., but it was difficult seeing it up close and personal. It is especially hard for me, a volunteer who has been sent to Puntarenas to prevent that sort of thing exactly. I was not prepared.
My anger didn’t subside until I met up with friends in San Jose to see the Costa Rica-El Salvador World Cup qualifier. Removal from my site was vital. I got to vent to my fellow volunteers who empathized; my experience was not unique. We relaxed together; I had my first drink in a month. It was as if a rope in my stomach was unknotted.
I started to feel good about Ticos again as I entered the soccer stadium. The whole country had united to support their national team, and I got caught up with them. I knew the chants, I knew the players. I sang the national anthem with the rest, and screamed like hell when the game started. When we scored the only goal of the game, the place went wild. I jumped and hugged my Tico neighbors around me: an act of citizenship. They may have their problems, but they are a family…an often dysfunctional family that I have become part of.
I felt better when I returned home. Ania runs a lunch counter at the school, and spends every evening pouring juices into plastic baggies to sell (note to gringos: one, more often than not, purchases juice or coke in a bag here). I tossed down my backpack, sat across from her and began tying the baggies as I do every night. She was happy to see me, and asked me about the game. We fell into a nice rhythm, speaking softly while tying bags. Rain tapped lightly on the tin roof. My mind relaxed and found that faint euphoria that comes with repetitive hand work like the mowing of a lawn or the washing of dishes.
We sat for hours, pouring, tying, talking. Suddenly, I realized that Ania and I had crossed a barrier. We were no longer acquaintances, but close friends. She shared sensitive information with me, and we discussed it. I also realized that my Spanish was no longer slowing me down, and that I could have a complex conversation without missing a beat. It felt good to be home.
For better or worse, it is my home.
I haven’t written in a while because the last thing I want to be is a bummer to all those living vicariously through me here. I am also trying to figure out a way to express my frustration in an appropriate manner. However, the past few weeks have been positive, and taught me how to take the good with the bad.
I came to this country with (and like to believe that I still have) an open mind. As a sociology student, I’ve trained my mind to be culturally relative: cultures other than mine aren’t better or worse, they are just different. For example, the fact that people do not use flavor in their food here doesn’t make them culturally inferior. The fact that the soccer players here take more flops than others does not make their culture inferior.
During about three weeks ago, I tossed all that out the window. I was ethnocentric, and it didn’t help me one bit.
My friends and I made it a tradition to meet and explore the country once a month. This has been very important to our collective mental health. We have had something to look forward to, time to be ourselves, and time to decompress.
We cancelled our weekend for the month of August. Due the first week of September was an enormous diagnostic that we have to write of our community including everything one would ever need to know about its resources and challenges. Without my monthly break, and with a challenging assignment over my head, I began to get stressed out.
The diagnostic requires extensive field research. I have been going door-to-door, interviewing my fellow community members about the challenges and resources that my housing project has. Turns out that the resources are few and the challenges are great. Big surprise that I was placed here.
I found out information that made me very angry. Mothers prostituting their twelve year old daughters out of their homes. Mothers keeping their children home from school so that they won’t get lonely throughout the day. Fathers few and far between. A municipality that has to have its arm twisted to pave a road so that a disabled child can get to school in his wheelchair. A municipality that threw up the project in haste and forgot about sewage and recreational opportunities for their children. I became sour and resentful. I’ve blamed Ticos in general for all of this. It may not be fair, but when you are up to your eyeballs in it, it is hard to be level-headed.
A few weeks ago, I walked out of my bedroom to see my host sister, Jose, playing with a girl her age who I vaguely recognized as my host brother, Memo’s, girlfriend. They were playing with dolls. I turned around to find Ania holding a beautiful little baby girl. I smiled and asked her name and how old she was (eight months) and played with her for a second. I asked her whose it was, and she replied nonchalantly that it was Memo’s. My jaw dropped. I asked her a few more times if she was sure, and she thought it was funny that I didn’t know. I asked her who the mother was. She pointed to the little girl playing with dolls with Jose. I was taken aback.
The girl couldn’t have been older than fifteen. With an eight month old daughter. I was rattled and had to leave the room.
I couldn’t decide what was more upsetting to me: the fact that the mother was so young, that Memo was so uninvolved with the child’s life, or that everyone was so hunky-dory about it. The mother stayed with us for a few days, and every time I saw her with the baby, I got a bit freaked out. She looked (and may have been) younger than fifteen.
I stewed in anger for days. Not at Memo or the mother or Ania, but at the culture in general. How could this be acceptable to everyone? Ania was thrilled; neighbors would come by and remark to the mother how beautiful her baby was. She was congratulated. And then, I realized that the situation fit perfectly into the way of life of my barrio. Women are often not expected to do more than procreate, and fathers are often not expected to have much of a role at all. I knew that this was not uncommon in my area, or even some areas of the U.S., but it was difficult seeing it up close and personal. It is especially hard for me, a volunteer who has been sent to Puntarenas to prevent that sort of thing exactly. I was not prepared.
My anger didn’t subside until I met up with friends in San Jose to see the Costa Rica-El Salvador World Cup qualifier. Removal from my site was vital. I got to vent to my fellow volunteers who empathized; my experience was not unique. We relaxed together; I had my first drink in a month. It was as if a rope in my stomach was unknotted.
I started to feel good about Ticos again as I entered the soccer stadium. The whole country had united to support their national team, and I got caught up with them. I knew the chants, I knew the players. I sang the national anthem with the rest, and screamed like hell when the game started. When we scored the only goal of the game, the place went wild. I jumped and hugged my Tico neighbors around me: an act of citizenship. They may have their problems, but they are a family…an often dysfunctional family that I have become part of.
I felt better when I returned home. Ania runs a lunch counter at the school, and spends every evening pouring juices into plastic baggies to sell (note to gringos: one, more often than not, purchases juice or coke in a bag here). I tossed down my backpack, sat across from her and began tying the baggies as I do every night. She was happy to see me, and asked me about the game. We fell into a nice rhythm, speaking softly while tying bags. Rain tapped lightly on the tin roof. My mind relaxed and found that faint euphoria that comes with repetitive hand work like the mowing of a lawn or the washing of dishes.
We sat for hours, pouring, tying, talking. Suddenly, I realized that Ania and I had crossed a barrier. We were no longer acquaintances, but close friends. She shared sensitive information with me, and we discussed it. I also realized that my Spanish was no longer slowing me down, and that I could have a complex conversation without missing a beat. It felt good to be home.
For better or worse, it is my home.
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