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.