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.”
Monday, September 22, 2008
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.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Adventures of Necio
When Marianne left, I inherited her cat, Necio. Necio is a Peace Corps mascot of sorts. He was first adopted by Marianne’s predecessor, Kelly. Kelly had him neutered (thank you Bob Barker), and housebroken. On her last day in site, Marianne walked him over. He was wrapped in a sheet, unaware of what was going on. We took him into my house and I unwrapped him like a present. He popped his head out, took one look around, and ran away. This was the beginning of the adventures of Necio.
I searched in vain for him. After a few times around the neighborhood, I gave up, hoping that he would eventually come back. He didn’t that day or the next; I figured that he had made a home somewhere else. So I went about my life as usual: speaking Spanish, beating the hell out of kids at soccer, etc. One day, about a week later, a woman stopped me as I was walking out of the local pulperia.
It was Marianne’s old host mom, Blanca. At that moment I didn’t recognize her, and became a bit freaked out when she started yelling “El gato! El gato!” I thought that she was just some crazy lady (Puntarenas is chock-full of them), until she said “El gato, Necio. Venga para recogerlo.” I got really excited when she told me that she had him, and walked with her back to her house.
As she promised, he was lounging around her yard. He seemed well, and even happy to see me. He came up and nuzzled into my legs, and began purring. That didn’t last long. I grabbed him by the neck and wrapped him in my gym towel (poor guy), and started walking down the street with my cat.
People in the projects have seen a lot, but none of them neglected to stop and laugh at my meowing, crying ball of towel and fur. Necio tried desperately to get away, but I had him in an awkward headlock, drawing more laughter. I acknowledged my neighbors by saying in Spanish “don’t worry, just walking my cat!” More laughter, more scratches. I began to wonder to myself “why did I agree to this again?”
I got him in my room and closed the door. He was my prisoner. Scared out of his mind, he hid under my bed all day. I set him up with food and water, and hoped that he’d stay this time. As night fell, he poked his pink nose out from under my sheets. I egged him on, calling to him. He slowly emerged from the bed, and I had to admit to him that he was a beautiful animal. He is a deep golden color with orange stripes. His eyes match his coat: two golden rings. His sheer size is impressive; my host mom Ania refers to him as “enormo” or the “tigre.” After taking a lap around my room, he ate, drank, and sat on the bed with me. I hoped that he had gotten the point that this was his new home. Of course, he didn’t.
I took the bottom slat of glass out of my window so that Necio could jump out and go to the bathroom, and hang out outside. I was a bit worried about letting him have his freedom, but it was the way he lived with Marianne, and I didn’t want to mess with the system. The main reason that I was worried is that Necio has no, um, testosterone. I was afraid that the male cat that lives here would fight him and scare him away. I was also afraid that he would get made fun of by other cats. Most of the female cats and dogs here, not unlike the humans, are pregnant or trying to become pregnant. I didn’t want Necio’s lack of necessary equipment to get him down. Apparently, this was not a problem.
He left and came back, and became comfortable living with me. I gave him a constant supply of food, and he gave me good company. Everything went fine until I left for Guanacaste.
I came back from the beach trip to find my host aunt standing in the middle of my bed, hanging laundry on clotheslines she had hung across my room. “Hey David,” she said with a smile. “It’s raining outside, so we’re hanging the laundry in here.” I told her that it was cool with me, and searched the room for my cat. I saw that Ania had not put out food like she said she would. He was nowhere to be found.
I walked into the kitchen and asked Ania what happened to Necio. “Se fue,” she said, meaning that he’d left. “I don’t think that he likes you or this house very much. You should just let him go,” she said in Spanish.
“Thanks for your support and help Ania, you really blew this big time. Shit!” I said in English, turning from her.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Thanks Ania, you are the best” in Spanish.
“Oh. Well, thanks.”
The next day I went to Blanca’s house, and sure enough, he was there. Again, I wrapped the brat in my gym towel. More scratching, crying and laughing. When I got him back to my room, however, he seemed happy. I think that he thought that I had abandoned him. I pet him, fed him, and he felt at home.
He hasn’t run away since. He hangs out in my room during the day, and goes out all night. This is great in the fact that he doesn’t pee on my floor, or poop on my bed. However, at about four or five, every morning, I awake with a jolt as he crashes through the window, into the bed and on top of my face. Every now and then, I wake up to see him fly through the window followed by Negro (the other cat of the household). They then proceed to fight, bringing my blood pressure to new heights. A few times, he has crashed into the room followed by a totally random cat off the street that I then have to cram out of the slit in my window. Did I mention that “Necio” is Spanish for “annoying”?
Even with him living up to his name, Necio is good company. We read together, watch movies, and he is even lying in bed next to me as I write this. This place can get pretty lonely. In such times, it is nice to have a little friend who, in thick fur in the 110 degree heat, may be suffering as much, if not more than I am.
P.S. Beating the hell out of kids at soccer is not all I have been doing. I’ll update you ASAP on all of my new projects that have been keeping me really busy.
I searched in vain for him. After a few times around the neighborhood, I gave up, hoping that he would eventually come back. He didn’t that day or the next; I figured that he had made a home somewhere else. So I went about my life as usual: speaking Spanish, beating the hell out of kids at soccer, etc. One day, about a week later, a woman stopped me as I was walking out of the local pulperia.
It was Marianne’s old host mom, Blanca. At that moment I didn’t recognize her, and became a bit freaked out when she started yelling “El gato! El gato!” I thought that she was just some crazy lady (Puntarenas is chock-full of them), until she said “El gato, Necio. Venga para recogerlo.” I got really excited when she told me that she had him, and walked with her back to her house.
As she promised, he was lounging around her yard. He seemed well, and even happy to see me. He came up and nuzzled into my legs, and began purring. That didn’t last long. I grabbed him by the neck and wrapped him in my gym towel (poor guy), and started walking down the street with my cat.
People in the projects have seen a lot, but none of them neglected to stop and laugh at my meowing, crying ball of towel and fur. Necio tried desperately to get away, but I had him in an awkward headlock, drawing more laughter. I acknowledged my neighbors by saying in Spanish “don’t worry, just walking my cat!” More laughter, more scratches. I began to wonder to myself “why did I agree to this again?”
I got him in my room and closed the door. He was my prisoner. Scared out of his mind, he hid under my bed all day. I set him up with food and water, and hoped that he’d stay this time. As night fell, he poked his pink nose out from under my sheets. I egged him on, calling to him. He slowly emerged from the bed, and I had to admit to him that he was a beautiful animal. He is a deep golden color with orange stripes. His eyes match his coat: two golden rings. His sheer size is impressive; my host mom Ania refers to him as “enormo” or the “tigre.” After taking a lap around my room, he ate, drank, and sat on the bed with me. I hoped that he had gotten the point that this was his new home. Of course, he didn’t.
I took the bottom slat of glass out of my window so that Necio could jump out and go to the bathroom, and hang out outside. I was a bit worried about letting him have his freedom, but it was the way he lived with Marianne, and I didn’t want to mess with the system. The main reason that I was worried is that Necio has no, um, testosterone. I was afraid that the male cat that lives here would fight him and scare him away. I was also afraid that he would get made fun of by other cats. Most of the female cats and dogs here, not unlike the humans, are pregnant or trying to become pregnant. I didn’t want Necio’s lack of necessary equipment to get him down. Apparently, this was not a problem.
He left and came back, and became comfortable living with me. I gave him a constant supply of food, and he gave me good company. Everything went fine until I left for Guanacaste.
I came back from the beach trip to find my host aunt standing in the middle of my bed, hanging laundry on clotheslines she had hung across my room. “Hey David,” she said with a smile. “It’s raining outside, so we’re hanging the laundry in here.” I told her that it was cool with me, and searched the room for my cat. I saw that Ania had not put out food like she said she would. He was nowhere to be found.
I walked into the kitchen and asked Ania what happened to Necio. “Se fue,” she said, meaning that he’d left. “I don’t think that he likes you or this house very much. You should just let him go,” she said in Spanish.
“Thanks for your support and help Ania, you really blew this big time. Shit!” I said in English, turning from her.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Thanks Ania, you are the best” in Spanish.
“Oh. Well, thanks.”
The next day I went to Blanca’s house, and sure enough, he was there. Again, I wrapped the brat in my gym towel. More scratching, crying and laughing. When I got him back to my room, however, he seemed happy. I think that he thought that I had abandoned him. I pet him, fed him, and he felt at home.
He hasn’t run away since. He hangs out in my room during the day, and goes out all night. This is great in the fact that he doesn’t pee on my floor, or poop on my bed. However, at about four or five, every morning, I awake with a jolt as he crashes through the window, into the bed and on top of my face. Every now and then, I wake up to see him fly through the window followed by Negro (the other cat of the household). They then proceed to fight, bringing my blood pressure to new heights. A few times, he has crashed into the room followed by a totally random cat off the street that I then have to cram out of the slit in my window. Did I mention that “Necio” is Spanish for “annoying”?
Even with him living up to his name, Necio is good company. We read together, watch movies, and he is even lying in bed next to me as I write this. This place can get pretty lonely. In such times, it is nice to have a little friend who, in thick fur in the 110 degree heat, may be suffering as much, if not more than I am.
P.S. Beating the hell out of kids at soccer is not all I have been doing. I’ll update you ASAP on all of my new projects that have been keeping me really busy.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Oh! This is why tourists come to Costa Rica: Playas Brasilito, Conchal and Flamingo
It finally came: my first real vacation. After five and a half months of chasing kids, writing lesson plans, and putting myself in extremely uncomfortable situations, I got a chance to relax. This past Friday was a national holiday: Annexation (of Guanacaste) Day. This day celebrates the annexation of Guanacaste (northwest Costa Rica, arguably the best province in the country) from Nicaragua. This translates into a Fourth of July like party involving traditional dress, dance and food. More importantly for me, it meant a day off and a free night out of site. Therefore, my friends Casey, Julie, Hillary, Meaghan, Mario and I headed north to join in on the partying.
Our first stop was the City of Liberia. Liberia is smack-dab in the middle of and is considered the capital of Guanacaste; it also happens to be Hillary’s site. Hillary met Casey, Julie, Meaghan and I at the bus stop and promptly led us to the Liberia Festivals: the epicenter of a province locked into party mode. The Liberia Festival is comparable to a county fair; there are food booths, carnival rides, bars, concerts and rodeos. We strolled through the grounds in bliss; we were happy to see each other after being isolated for so long. We were also excited by the fantastic food. I immediately grabbed one of my favorite Tico foods: grilled meat on a stick. In another world, one might call it a shish kebab; here, it is meat on a stick. Some got pizza. But the best part of any carnival or fiesta in Costa Rica was enjoyed by all: the churro. For those of you who don’t know what a churro is (if you don’t, I feel sorry for you), allow me to explain. A churro is a deep fried roll of hollowed out batter the size and shape of a foot long hot dog. The churro is covered end to end in cinnamon sugar, and often times infused with dulce de leche. Even though the pastry is vividly phallic, we all ate unbashfully. Ahhhh, churros.
With our stomachs full of carnival food, we moseyed on over to a bar to make a very important toast. With bottles of cheap Costa Rican beer, we celebrated Casey’s birthday and made our own little Liberia Festival. We clinked glasses and slapped each other on the back, high on the anticipation of our vacation. When we were finished, we walked out into the sun and heat to get back to the bus station. It was time to make our way to the coast.
Keeping with Tico tradition, what should have been an hour long bus ride took three. We groggily disembarked from the bus in Playa Brasilito to be roused by the smell of the ocean in the air. We got directions to our hotel from a local and began walking. With each step, the sound of crashing waves on the shore became clearer. As we approached, I realized that our hotel was on the beach, and that I would be sleeping a stone’s throw from the water. If that wasn’t enough to make me smile, waiting for us was our good friend Mario. He was with three people I had never met having drinks on the oceanfront patio. I dropped by bag, hugged him and looked out onto the darkness of the Pacific Ocean. “Welcome to paradise” he said.
We checked into our rooms, went out to the patio, and introduced ourselves to Mario’s friends. Mikey (an interesting name for a girl) is a Habitat for Humanity volunteer working on a new community in Cartago. A fantastic couple was with her visiting from Guatamala. The couple was in Guatamala for the summer making a documentary on coffee growers and the complex economics that go with the trade. The three were interesting, fun, and added a great dynamic to the trip. It is always nice to meet interesting people on vacation.
We took dinner on the patio. Casey received a steady flow of birthday drinks, and eventually retired early with Julie (his girlfriend). The rest of us were drawn to the ocean and took a walk on the beach. While there was talk of skinny dipping, we simply strolled in the darkness. I was taken aback by how many stars I could see. In the Puerto, all you can see is the orange reflection of lights in the night sky. In Brasilito, we could see everything, even the cloudy light of the Milky Way.
The next day, we woke up at six am and ate legitimate breakfast food on the patio. Banana pancakes, French toast, omelets; it was fantastic. Hillary and Julie were doing well on their “no rice and beans” weekend. After breakfast, we packed our beach bags and started the one kilometer walk to Playa Conchal. Conchal is hidden and difficult to get to. We walked south along Playa Brasilito until we came to a headland into which a path had been cleared. We passed through a tunnel of trees and tropical plants and emerged with gasps and wide eyes.
The empty white beach went on forever into the horizon, flanked by clear water. Palm trees bent over the beach, as if kneeling to honor it. The clear water gave way to a clean blue that I have never before seen in the ocean. The beach itself is made of billions of pieces of crushed shell, hence the name Conchal. We removed our sandals, caught our breath and walked along the beach until we found a private tree cove. I knew that places like this existed from travel magazines and postcards, but could not believe that I was actually there. It was so striking that I had to thank God for making such a place, and providing me with the opportunity to see it. After taking it in, I ran toward the water like a little kid, and dove in.
We spent the day absorbing the strong Guanacaste sun, swimming and snorkeling. Mario and I rented snorkels and walked over to a shallow pool protected by an outcropping of rocks. After pressing our masks to our faces, we jumped off the rocks and took a look. Florescent tropical fish were everywhere. I had only seen such fish in tanks at the aquarium in Coney Island, and in Finding Nemo. Speaking of which, I found Dory a few times and said hi. She kept forgetting my name, so avoided her and met all of the other fish.
That evening, we showered, ate and sat on the beach to watch one of the best sunsets I have ever seen. The horizon was free of clouds, but luckily there were some wisps distributed throughout the rest of the sky. The beach is in a horseshoe shaped cove, with tiny uninhabited islands popping up on the horizon like fingers. As the sun lowered in the sky, the foliage covered headlands of the cove turned mango, then pink, then violet. The islands, and then the tips of the horseshoe became silhouettes. The backlighting hid any blemishes the scene may have had, and enhanced the texture of the beards of trees on the islands. The afterglow lasted late into the evening as we sipped rum from plastic cups on the beach.
The next day was more of the same. We took a taxi five kilometers north to Playa Flamingo. Flamingo was actually better than Conchal if you can believe it. There was white, powdery sand and clear blue water. Manta rays jumped into the air and surfed waves right next to me. At one point while I was swimming, I looked down into the clear water to find one at my feet. Remembering the terrible fate of Steve Irwin, I jumped away from him, and he did the same. However, being so close gave me a chance to get a good look at him. He was the color of desert camouflage and floated on the ground like a flying saucer; a truly beautiful animal.
The next day we all traveled back to our sites, tan and exhausted. While I did not like leaving such a beautiful place, I am glad to be back at my site. After a good vacation, I feel recharged. And while times here in Puntarenas may be wet, smelly and difficult, I can always remember that the white sand and clear water are only a bus ride away.
Our first stop was the City of Liberia. Liberia is smack-dab in the middle of and is considered the capital of Guanacaste; it also happens to be Hillary’s site. Hillary met Casey, Julie, Meaghan and I at the bus stop and promptly led us to the Liberia Festivals: the epicenter of a province locked into party mode. The Liberia Festival is comparable to a county fair; there are food booths, carnival rides, bars, concerts and rodeos. We strolled through the grounds in bliss; we were happy to see each other after being isolated for so long. We were also excited by the fantastic food. I immediately grabbed one of my favorite Tico foods: grilled meat on a stick. In another world, one might call it a shish kebab; here, it is meat on a stick. Some got pizza. But the best part of any carnival or fiesta in Costa Rica was enjoyed by all: the churro. For those of you who don’t know what a churro is (if you don’t, I feel sorry for you), allow me to explain. A churro is a deep fried roll of hollowed out batter the size and shape of a foot long hot dog. The churro is covered end to end in cinnamon sugar, and often times infused with dulce de leche. Even though the pastry is vividly phallic, we all ate unbashfully. Ahhhh, churros.
With our stomachs full of carnival food, we moseyed on over to a bar to make a very important toast. With bottles of cheap Costa Rican beer, we celebrated Casey’s birthday and made our own little Liberia Festival. We clinked glasses and slapped each other on the back, high on the anticipation of our vacation. When we were finished, we walked out into the sun and heat to get back to the bus station. It was time to make our way to the coast.
Keeping with Tico tradition, what should have been an hour long bus ride took three. We groggily disembarked from the bus in Playa Brasilito to be roused by the smell of the ocean in the air. We got directions to our hotel from a local and began walking. With each step, the sound of crashing waves on the shore became clearer. As we approached, I realized that our hotel was on the beach, and that I would be sleeping a stone’s throw from the water. If that wasn’t enough to make me smile, waiting for us was our good friend Mario. He was with three people I had never met having drinks on the oceanfront patio. I dropped by bag, hugged him and looked out onto the darkness of the Pacific Ocean. “Welcome to paradise” he said.
We checked into our rooms, went out to the patio, and introduced ourselves to Mario’s friends. Mikey (an interesting name for a girl) is a Habitat for Humanity volunteer working on a new community in Cartago. A fantastic couple was with her visiting from Guatamala. The couple was in Guatamala for the summer making a documentary on coffee growers and the complex economics that go with the trade. The three were interesting, fun, and added a great dynamic to the trip. It is always nice to meet interesting people on vacation.
We took dinner on the patio. Casey received a steady flow of birthday drinks, and eventually retired early with Julie (his girlfriend). The rest of us were drawn to the ocean and took a walk on the beach. While there was talk of skinny dipping, we simply strolled in the darkness. I was taken aback by how many stars I could see. In the Puerto, all you can see is the orange reflection of lights in the night sky. In Brasilito, we could see everything, even the cloudy light of the Milky Way.
The next day, we woke up at six am and ate legitimate breakfast food on the patio. Banana pancakes, French toast, omelets; it was fantastic. Hillary and Julie were doing well on their “no rice and beans” weekend. After breakfast, we packed our beach bags and started the one kilometer walk to Playa Conchal. Conchal is hidden and difficult to get to. We walked south along Playa Brasilito until we came to a headland into which a path had been cleared. We passed through a tunnel of trees and tropical plants and emerged with gasps and wide eyes.
The empty white beach went on forever into the horizon, flanked by clear water. Palm trees bent over the beach, as if kneeling to honor it. The clear water gave way to a clean blue that I have never before seen in the ocean. The beach itself is made of billions of pieces of crushed shell, hence the name Conchal. We removed our sandals, caught our breath and walked along the beach until we found a private tree cove. I knew that places like this existed from travel magazines and postcards, but could not believe that I was actually there. It was so striking that I had to thank God for making such a place, and providing me with the opportunity to see it. After taking it in, I ran toward the water like a little kid, and dove in.
We spent the day absorbing the strong Guanacaste sun, swimming and snorkeling. Mario and I rented snorkels and walked over to a shallow pool protected by an outcropping of rocks. After pressing our masks to our faces, we jumped off the rocks and took a look. Florescent tropical fish were everywhere. I had only seen such fish in tanks at the aquarium in Coney Island, and in Finding Nemo. Speaking of which, I found Dory a few times and said hi. She kept forgetting my name, so avoided her and met all of the other fish.
That evening, we showered, ate and sat on the beach to watch one of the best sunsets I have ever seen. The horizon was free of clouds, but luckily there were some wisps distributed throughout the rest of the sky. The beach is in a horseshoe shaped cove, with tiny uninhabited islands popping up on the horizon like fingers. As the sun lowered in the sky, the foliage covered headlands of the cove turned mango, then pink, then violet. The islands, and then the tips of the horseshoe became silhouettes. The backlighting hid any blemishes the scene may have had, and enhanced the texture of the beards of trees on the islands. The afterglow lasted late into the evening as we sipped rum from plastic cups on the beach.
The next day was more of the same. We took a taxi five kilometers north to Playa Flamingo. Flamingo was actually better than Conchal if you can believe it. There was white, powdery sand and clear blue water. Manta rays jumped into the air and surfed waves right next to me. At one point while I was swimming, I looked down into the clear water to find one at my feet. Remembering the terrible fate of Steve Irwin, I jumped away from him, and he did the same. However, being so close gave me a chance to get a good look at him. He was the color of desert camouflage and floated on the ground like a flying saucer; a truly beautiful animal.
The next day we all traveled back to our sites, tan and exhausted. While I did not like leaving such a beautiful place, I am glad to be back at my site. After a good vacation, I feel recharged. And while times here in Puntarenas may be wet, smelly and difficult, I can always remember that the white sand and clear water are only a bus ride away.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
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