As most of my readers know, I have two cats. Yes, I am a grown man. No, the idea to keep these cats wasn’t mine. When I tell most people that I have two cats, I usually receive grimaces. It’s okay, I grimace along with them. I mean, what active, normal twenty-five year old man has two cats?
Luckily, people still accept me. I am still invited to parties; nobody avoids me in the street. I am doing well for what one friend dubbed, “an old cat man.” It would be nice if the story stopped there regarding my life with cats. However, the cat invasion has only just begun.
It is not abnormal for stray cats to scrounge around one’s back yard for scraps of food. When my host mom, Ania, was here, it happened pretty regularly. She would just spray the strays with a hose, and they’d go away. But once she left, there was nobody to harass them. Moreover, I am usually out of my house all day at the school or the albergues. Result: the cats have invaded.
It started a few months ago when I noticed that a pair of female cats had moved into my back yard. At first, I didn’t mind. For all intents and purposes, cats are cute. I grew up with a great, personable cat named Bruce. However, I realized that they would be a problem after catching them stealing food from Necio’s bowl. It was quite shocking to come home from work to find four cats at the bowl, chowing down (it was actually three, because Necio is a racist and won’t allow Negro to eat with him).
When I catch these cats, they usually run away from me too quickly for me to catch them. Every time I see them, I chase them, they scatter, and I feel helpless to defend the food that Necio has deemed unworthy of defense. I often wonder what I would do if I actually caught one of these cats.
The answer came a few months later. Mid-august, I noticed that my problems were growing, quite literally, exponentially. One of the strays had given birth to a litter of kittens. I looked down at the litter and half of me wanted to say “awwww,” and half of me wanted to empty a can of Raid into their faces. Of course, once these babies were weaned, their main source of food was Necio’s Kitty Chow. Just when I thought that things couldn’t get any worse, the other stray plopped a whole litter of kittens into my back yard. I was suddenly vastly outnumbered.
I now had an army of about seven cats invading my house. I thought things were bad when they tried to steal Necio’s food. Little did I know that they would actually move in.
Every night, once I go to sleep, the army invades. They cuddle up on my couches, pull down my curtains with their puny little paws, and use various corners of my living room as a latrine. Necio and Negro seemed to have no problem with this. However, among the invading cats, there have been disagreements. I can’t tell you how horrifying it is to wake up with a jolt in the middle of the night to brawling and screaming cats in your living room. Once they started shitting on my floor, I knew that it was time for war.
I started dreaming in my head about what I would do if I caught one. I would snap its neck. Or no, better, break its legs. Spray its face with Raid? It got to the point where I had to shake myself out of such fantasies. One day, I got up, looked myself in the mirror, and asked myself: “am I the kind of person who could kill a kitten?” I am embarrassed that I mulled the question in my mind for a while before answering, “maybe?”
And then one day it happened. I walked into my house after an afternoon at the albergue and saw one of the cats asleep on my couch. Quietly, I put down my bags and tiptoed over to the cute little bastard. As I made my final approach, he woke up, and made a run for it. He made it across the living room with great speed, but I was faster, and as he made the leap for the back window, I intercepted him like Troy Polamalu.
He was clawing at the windowpane; I had him by the back leg. I had looked forward to that day for some time. Yet strangely, I had no idea what to do. I looked at the little guy who stared right back at me. “Okay, I’ll snap his leg,” I thought. But as the cat began crying, I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill a kitty. I would have to let him go. But then something happened that I’ll never forget.
He shat on me. My toaster oven got a good shot as well, but my left hand got the worst of it. It took a second to register what had happened, but then I let go of the beast and began to holler. I yelled all kinds of obscenities as I looked down at my soiled hand and toaster oven. Yessenia, alarmed by my shouts, called out, asking if I was okay.
“I’m okay!” I shouted back (our houses are open air, so she can usually hear anything that is going on in my house and vice versa). “I just got shat on by one of the stray cats in the yard!”
Laughter. Her whole family cracked up from behind thin walls as I began cleaning my hand. I felt like a fool; I had not taken into account biological weapons. Even worse, I had learned that I was incapable of any kind of counter-attack. The cats had won.
Every now and then, I get a good kick in when I catch one of the invaders off his guard. The strays know never to come into the house when I am present and conscious. However, I guess that until Bairón and Ania return and kill all of the cats with great joy, I will just have to deal with them.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Transitions
It has been quite a while since my last blog post…I must apologize. Any writing that I have been doing lately has been dedicated to law school applications. A few days ago, I submitted my last one, which is a huge relief. I can now focus my writing efforts on this blog.
The past month has been one of transitions. The populations in the albergues have been changing. Many of my projects are coming to a close, while others are just beginning. And I often take a step back, and find that I am changing as a person.
A few months ago, there was an influx of new children at the green albergue. We received a Nicaraguan boy of about 12 who had a black eye. Two brother-sister pairs were brought in. A boy with holes in his teeth came. One boy had a skinned nose. It is when I see the physical damage that some parents have done to their children that I begin to understand how different the children at the albergue are. Because I am so involved in their daily lives, I often forget that they have been abused. The new arrivals often serve as a shocking reminder.
As September came to a close, we started losing many of these children. The boy with the black eye was sent to the children’s services of Nicaragua. One boy was returned to his parents. Many found functioning family members to care for them. What remained was something that I was unprepared for: Toddlertown.
Never before in my Peace Corps experience had I worked with an albergue comprised of strictly toddler children. Most of the activities that I had in my arsenal were for older kids who could say more than a few words. I tried to think of exciting educational activities that could stimulate their minds. After a few failed attempts, I learned a valuable lesson: toddlers just want to draw, poop themselves and laugh. Once I learned this, the fun started.
I now look forward to hanging out with the toddlers more than anything else. In what other situation in my life will people unequivocally love me, jump on me, and hug me upon my arrival? We draw a lot; I usually stick to animals so that I can teach them animal names. We also play “the animal game,” in which I draw an animal and the kids have to guess what it is. If the kids get it right, I make the sound that the animal makes. The kids love it; the Tias are entertained by it. My cow impression gets the best response. Now whenever a cow is drawn, I am hit with a cacophony of loud “MOOOOOOOOs.” We also pass a lot of time flying paper airplanes, and playing tag in the yard.
In the adolescent girls’ albergue, we just finished a career planning/personal finance class. After examining the pre and post tests, I was proud to see that the girls had actually retained the information that we went over in our sessions. Hopefully they will use what they’ve learned in their lives.
I had similar success with my Aula Abierta students. The elementary school dropouts really took to the themes and lessons of the career planning/personal finance class. Perhaps it hits home for them, as many are already in the workforce. I have grown so proud of these students in particular because they have surprised me with how much that they have learned.
A few weeks ago, I considered ending my English class with the Aula Abierta students. My logic was that it is impossible to learn a language if one does not study at home, or have more than two classes a week. So I gave the students a comprehensive test of all that we had learned so far. Since the students do not respond well to formal exams, I made it in the enjoyable form of a Jeopardy game. I was shocked and thrilled when the students responded correctly to all of the questions. We have since moved on to a new verb unit in which the students are successfully conjugating and using verbs.
There is an old saying: “those who can’t, teach.” I didn’t realize how wrong this was until I stepped foot into a classroom. Being a teacher is one of the most difficult jobs I have ever had. Imagine standing in front of a class of students that you are totally responsible for. Then imagine all of them ignoring you, cursing at you, telling you that they don’t care, and even leaving the school in the middle of a class. These situations do not happen often, but they do happen. It is the most frustrating thing imaginable.
I have gotten into a routine in which I teach at the school in the mornings and work in the albergues in the afternoons. Because life has become normal, and the experience is no longer novel, I find that I have become tired of being a teacher. Like any other job, it has grown old. I have learned that while I have been successful here, I am not meant to be a school teacher.
Peace Corps has been an incredible experience thus far. However, I find myself looking forward to post Peace Corps life. Between my disillusion with the classroom and the excitement of applying to law school, I feel ready to move on.
The past month has been one of transitions. The populations in the albergues have been changing. Many of my projects are coming to a close, while others are just beginning. And I often take a step back, and find that I am changing as a person.
A few months ago, there was an influx of new children at the green albergue. We received a Nicaraguan boy of about 12 who had a black eye. Two brother-sister pairs were brought in. A boy with holes in his teeth came. One boy had a skinned nose. It is when I see the physical damage that some parents have done to their children that I begin to understand how different the children at the albergue are. Because I am so involved in their daily lives, I often forget that they have been abused. The new arrivals often serve as a shocking reminder.
As September came to a close, we started losing many of these children. The boy with the black eye was sent to the children’s services of Nicaragua. One boy was returned to his parents. Many found functioning family members to care for them. What remained was something that I was unprepared for: Toddlertown.
Never before in my Peace Corps experience had I worked with an albergue comprised of strictly toddler children. Most of the activities that I had in my arsenal were for older kids who could say more than a few words. I tried to think of exciting educational activities that could stimulate their minds. After a few failed attempts, I learned a valuable lesson: toddlers just want to draw, poop themselves and laugh. Once I learned this, the fun started.
I now look forward to hanging out with the toddlers more than anything else. In what other situation in my life will people unequivocally love me, jump on me, and hug me upon my arrival? We draw a lot; I usually stick to animals so that I can teach them animal names. We also play “the animal game,” in which I draw an animal and the kids have to guess what it is. If the kids get it right, I make the sound that the animal makes. The kids love it; the Tias are entertained by it. My cow impression gets the best response. Now whenever a cow is drawn, I am hit with a cacophony of loud “MOOOOOOOOs.” We also pass a lot of time flying paper airplanes, and playing tag in the yard.
In the adolescent girls’ albergue, we just finished a career planning/personal finance class. After examining the pre and post tests, I was proud to see that the girls had actually retained the information that we went over in our sessions. Hopefully they will use what they’ve learned in their lives.
I had similar success with my Aula Abierta students. The elementary school dropouts really took to the themes and lessons of the career planning/personal finance class. Perhaps it hits home for them, as many are already in the workforce. I have grown so proud of these students in particular because they have surprised me with how much that they have learned.
A few weeks ago, I considered ending my English class with the Aula Abierta students. My logic was that it is impossible to learn a language if one does not study at home, or have more than two classes a week. So I gave the students a comprehensive test of all that we had learned so far. Since the students do not respond well to formal exams, I made it in the enjoyable form of a Jeopardy game. I was shocked and thrilled when the students responded correctly to all of the questions. We have since moved on to a new verb unit in which the students are successfully conjugating and using verbs.
There is an old saying: “those who can’t, teach.” I didn’t realize how wrong this was until I stepped foot into a classroom. Being a teacher is one of the most difficult jobs I have ever had. Imagine standing in front of a class of students that you are totally responsible for. Then imagine all of them ignoring you, cursing at you, telling you that they don’t care, and even leaving the school in the middle of a class. These situations do not happen often, but they do happen. It is the most frustrating thing imaginable.
I have gotten into a routine in which I teach at the school in the mornings and work in the albergues in the afternoons. Because life has become normal, and the experience is no longer novel, I find that I have become tired of being a teacher. Like any other job, it has grown old. I have learned that while I have been successful here, I am not meant to be a school teacher.
Peace Corps has been an incredible experience thus far. However, I find myself looking forward to post Peace Corps life. Between my disillusion with the classroom and the excitement of applying to law school, I feel ready to move on.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Going Home, in Costa Rica
This past weekend, I went to San Jose to celebrate my second Rosh Hashana in country. At this point, I have become close enough to the synagogue’s director, Guita, for her to invite me and my fellow PCV, Emily, to her home for a traditional Rosh Hashana dinner. I didn’t realize how much it would mean to me until I arrived.
Before the dinner, Emily and I went to the beautiful synagogue for Erev Rosh Hashana services. It felt so good to be in a synagogue again. I laughed to myself as I walked in; it had been almost a year since I had worn a blazer and slacks. I put on my yarmulke, and found my seat in the sanctuary. I felt normal, like I was home again. In many ways, I was.
The cantor wailed out the traditional prayers which brought me great comfort. As I chanted along with the rest of the congregation, I did what all Jews are meant to do on Rosh Hashana: reflect. I thought back to the previous Rosh Hashana and was alarmed by how quickly the time had passed. It was at this point last year that I was able to get passed any issues that I was having with my Peace Corps experience. Last September was a turning point in my service; after the Jewish holidays, I fell into a rhythm and consistently turned out successful projects.
I took a brief trip into the past as the minor Hebrew harmonies of the prayers passed into my ears. Month by month, I thought about what had happened in my life. What had been good? What had been bad? The main question was what I needed to atone for. I plucked sins from these memories, and examined them as one would examine blotches on one’s skin. After filtering these memories, I was surprised to find that there was not a plethora of sins to atone for like most years. It could be that my Peace Corps life is too boring to do much in the way of sinning. Personally, I think that it is God trying to even the scales before I enter the field of law.
Once the service was over, I reunited with my friend Emily in the lobby (men and women are separated in Orthodox synagogues). We then met Ricardo, Guita’s husband. A gentle man of about sixty, he led us to his car. As we drove to his house, I got to know him. Born in Chile, Ricardo moved to Costa Rica about twenty-five years ago. When asked why he moved here, he smiled and said “Guita.”
The house was big and impressive. After parking in a two-car garage, we entered their traditional Jewish home. Familiar smells of roasting chicken and gevilte fish wafted into my face as I was greeted at the door by Guita. It was like Ricardo’s car somehow drove me all the way back to New York City.
Guita’s family was genial and welcoming. Guita and Ricardo have three teen-aged children who were outgoing and mature. Her sister was there, along with two other families. Everyone was friendly, interesting and urbane. Ricardo’s Argentinean architect friend was there with his wife, and I sat at the giant dinner table next to an affable man who owned a chain of children’s boutiques. His wife was Colombian; we were like a miniature United Nations. The young people were seated at a kids’ table…it was the first time I had seen one since coming to Costa Rica. It was the little things that made me so happy to be around my people.
Before we started the meal, Ricardo said the brucha over the wine and bread. Then, Guita directed our attention to a plate in the center of each table. The plate contained several odd foods including, ehem, a raw fish head. Each food was symbolic, and had a story to go with it. The fish head symbolized the beginning of the new year (Rosh Hashana literally means head of the year). The rings found in the steamed leeks on the plate symbolized the cycle of the year, as did the round challah. We ate apples with honey which represents the coming of a sweet new year. After we ate the foods on the plate, we began the meal.
Between forkfuls of gevilte fish, I spoke with the families about Peace Corps and what we do. They were interested in Peace Corps, it seemed to make sense to them. It was very interesting because most Ticos I know can’t wrap their minds around the concept (“you came here to work…for free???). By the time the matzoh ball soup came, I was learning about Argentinean food and wine from the architect.
The main course was unbelievable. It was a complete one-eighty from the traditional Tico meal. There was a green salad with strawberries and vinaigrette. An entire spread of roasted vegetables was presented to us, along with a giant platter of honey baked chicken. There was no rice to be found. Beans? I don’t think so. I was in heaven.
The entire evening was home to me. The Jewish families treated me as if I was a member of their own family. What makes me so happy about being with Jews so far from home is that I am a member of their family. In the middle of Central America, the Rosh Hashana dinner is the same as it is in New York, Paris or Jerusalem. We are so few and the bond of the tradition is so strong that it is in our instincts to welcome other Jews.
As Ricardo drove Emily and I home, I felt extremely proud to be a Jew, to be part of such a tight network. Having experienced such generosity from the families that night, I vowed that one day, I would open my home the way Guita and Ricardo did for me.
To all my brethren out there, Shana Tova!
Before the dinner, Emily and I went to the beautiful synagogue for Erev Rosh Hashana services. It felt so good to be in a synagogue again. I laughed to myself as I walked in; it had been almost a year since I had worn a blazer and slacks. I put on my yarmulke, and found my seat in the sanctuary. I felt normal, like I was home again. In many ways, I was.
The cantor wailed out the traditional prayers which brought me great comfort. As I chanted along with the rest of the congregation, I did what all Jews are meant to do on Rosh Hashana: reflect. I thought back to the previous Rosh Hashana and was alarmed by how quickly the time had passed. It was at this point last year that I was able to get passed any issues that I was having with my Peace Corps experience. Last September was a turning point in my service; after the Jewish holidays, I fell into a rhythm and consistently turned out successful projects.
I took a brief trip into the past as the minor Hebrew harmonies of the prayers passed into my ears. Month by month, I thought about what had happened in my life. What had been good? What had been bad? The main question was what I needed to atone for. I plucked sins from these memories, and examined them as one would examine blotches on one’s skin. After filtering these memories, I was surprised to find that there was not a plethora of sins to atone for like most years. It could be that my Peace Corps life is too boring to do much in the way of sinning. Personally, I think that it is God trying to even the scales before I enter the field of law.
Once the service was over, I reunited with my friend Emily in the lobby (men and women are separated in Orthodox synagogues). We then met Ricardo, Guita’s husband. A gentle man of about sixty, he led us to his car. As we drove to his house, I got to know him. Born in Chile, Ricardo moved to Costa Rica about twenty-five years ago. When asked why he moved here, he smiled and said “Guita.”
The house was big and impressive. After parking in a two-car garage, we entered their traditional Jewish home. Familiar smells of roasting chicken and gevilte fish wafted into my face as I was greeted at the door by Guita. It was like Ricardo’s car somehow drove me all the way back to New York City.
Guita’s family was genial and welcoming. Guita and Ricardo have three teen-aged children who were outgoing and mature. Her sister was there, along with two other families. Everyone was friendly, interesting and urbane. Ricardo’s Argentinean architect friend was there with his wife, and I sat at the giant dinner table next to an affable man who owned a chain of children’s boutiques. His wife was Colombian; we were like a miniature United Nations. The young people were seated at a kids’ table…it was the first time I had seen one since coming to Costa Rica. It was the little things that made me so happy to be around my people.
Before we started the meal, Ricardo said the brucha over the wine and bread. Then, Guita directed our attention to a plate in the center of each table. The plate contained several odd foods including, ehem, a raw fish head. Each food was symbolic, and had a story to go with it. The fish head symbolized the beginning of the new year (Rosh Hashana literally means head of the year). The rings found in the steamed leeks on the plate symbolized the cycle of the year, as did the round challah. We ate apples with honey which represents the coming of a sweet new year. After we ate the foods on the plate, we began the meal.
Between forkfuls of gevilte fish, I spoke with the families about Peace Corps and what we do. They were interested in Peace Corps, it seemed to make sense to them. It was very interesting because most Ticos I know can’t wrap their minds around the concept (“you came here to work…for free???). By the time the matzoh ball soup came, I was learning about Argentinean food and wine from the architect.
The main course was unbelievable. It was a complete one-eighty from the traditional Tico meal. There was a green salad with strawberries and vinaigrette. An entire spread of roasted vegetables was presented to us, along with a giant platter of honey baked chicken. There was no rice to be found. Beans? I don’t think so. I was in heaven.
The entire evening was home to me. The Jewish families treated me as if I was a member of their own family. What makes me so happy about being with Jews so far from home is that I am a member of their family. In the middle of Central America, the Rosh Hashana dinner is the same as it is in New York, Paris or Jerusalem. We are so few and the bond of the tradition is so strong that it is in our instincts to welcome other Jews.
As Ricardo drove Emily and I home, I felt extremely proud to be a Jew, to be part of such a tight network. Having experienced such generosity from the families that night, I vowed that one day, I would open my home the way Guita and Ricardo did for me.
To all my brethren out there, Shana Tova!
Thursday, September 17, 2009
15 de Septiembre
15 de Septiembre is one of the most important days in the Tico calendar: Independence Day. Ticos are a particularly proud people; they flaunt the selling points of their nation relentlessly. I am constantly being reminded that they do not have an army, and that everyone in the Americas (including the U.S.) longs to immigrate here. Therefore, it was no surprise to me that their independence day was a raucous celebration of Tico culture.
About a month ago, I entered the school and was greeted by a cacophony of drums and a kind of portable xylophone called the lyra. I was confused, because the year before, I worked hard with the previous director to form a band. After lobbying the Ministry of Education, we were both disappointed by the lack of funds available to us for a band project. With the new drums ringing in my ears, I went into the director’s office and asked her where the school got the new band equipment. She gave me a coy smile, and told me that she wouldn’t tell. She could have some impressive pull at the Ministry of Education; they could have fallen off the back of a truck. I didn’t care. I was glad that the students would finally have the opportunity to participate in the proudest moment for Ticos: the Independence Day Parade.
I was asked to help the lyra class. The school had hired a music teacher to teach the group of girls a few tunes. Since I can read music and had played the piano in the past, I was able to work with Don Alvaro to show the girls the basics. We turned out to be a good team.
For those of you who are not familiar with the lyra, imagine somebody repeatedly hitting the hell out of a flagpole with an aluminum pipe. That is what it sounds like, but with notes. Now imagine teaching this instrument to a group of elementary school girls at seven in the morning. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the migraine!
Hopped up on Excedrin, I was able to survive the brain-piercing sound that the lyra creates. I am now wondering if my childhood piano teacher was popping something more than her hard candies. Once the throbbing in my head subsided, I was able to enjoy teaching the class. The girls learned very quickly, and were thoroughly enjoying themselves. It is very rare for a teacher to actually witness a child learning in front of his or her eyes. I was privileged to see the girls correct their mistakes, and master their songs. Moreover, I was glad that they were acquiring a skill and participating in an extra-curricular activity. The pastime in my community has been watching television. Now all the neighborhood kids are practicing their lyras or drums after school.
This past Tuesday, I woke up to two things that seemed to punch me in the face: the relentless Puerto heat, and the pounding of the drums. It was 15 de Septiembre. I put on light clothes, sunscreen, and headed to the school to prepare the students for the parade.
I was shocked by what I found. The band uniforms had arrived, and looked fantastic. The kids looked crisp, clean and unified. The flag bearers wore their school uniforms and black berets. The baton twirlers donned blue and white cowgirl-themed outfits, complete with big white boots and hats. My lyra girls wore pleated skirts and royal blue polo shirts with our school name embroidered onto their chests. The drummer boys had the same shirts which were complemented by crisp white shorts and Keds. The entire group looked so proud, as were all of the teachers who were helping them get dressed.
Since I have very big muscles, my job was to pack and carry giant coolers of water. I didn’t think too much of the job until we got of the bus on the parade route in downtown Puntarenas. You could fry an egg on the pavement. The sun was strong and there was no shade to be found. I realized that keeping the kids hydrated was a serious concern, as we were to participate in the parade from eight in the morning to two in the afternoon. The second the kids were in place on the route, they began to beg me for water. So I gave some to each child, and wondered what the hell I was going to do with the enormous coolers of water as we walked the parade route. Luckily my compañero Don Luis drove the coolers down in his car, and would take some of the coolers to the end of the parade route.
The parade was both incredible and miserable. It was incredible because the kids performed so well. I was proud of my lyra girls as they chimed away in sync. The drummers were hugely popular with the crowds who danced to the beat. The baton twirlers were fantastic, although I was a bit alarmed by the nauseating comments that came from creepy old men in the crown. The performers were thrilled and bursting with pride. The teachers were as well; this was the first time that my school had ever participated in this tradition.
When I say that it was miserable, I am referring to the fact that the parade route was around the circumference of the sun. It was as if someone put me on a treadmill…in a steam room…and then heaved a fifty pound cooler on my shoulders. I was happy to toss packets of water to the kids as we inched our way down the main thoroughfare of Puntarenas; I wanted that weight off me.
As anyone could have predicted, we ran out of water about a third of the way through the parade. I felt awful as I told the kids that there was no more, but also grew worried that some of the kids wouldn’t make it. It was a very long route, and the midday sun takes no mercy. One of the baton twirlers had to give up a few blocks before the end. My poor lyra girl, Wanda, kept slurring her words as she walked alongside me. Many were stumbling along by the time we reached the end of the route. Thankfully, Luis was there waiting in the shade with water, iced tea, and a lunch of arroz con pollo. As the kids cooled off and regained their strength, I could see an immense happiness wash over them. They had worked hard, and it had paid off. It was a huge victory for the school, and the entire community.
About a month ago, I entered the school and was greeted by a cacophony of drums and a kind of portable xylophone called the lyra. I was confused, because the year before, I worked hard with the previous director to form a band. After lobbying the Ministry of Education, we were both disappointed by the lack of funds available to us for a band project. With the new drums ringing in my ears, I went into the director’s office and asked her where the school got the new band equipment. She gave me a coy smile, and told me that she wouldn’t tell. She could have some impressive pull at the Ministry of Education; they could have fallen off the back of a truck. I didn’t care. I was glad that the students would finally have the opportunity to participate in the proudest moment for Ticos: the Independence Day Parade.
I was asked to help the lyra class. The school had hired a music teacher to teach the group of girls a few tunes. Since I can read music and had played the piano in the past, I was able to work with Don Alvaro to show the girls the basics. We turned out to be a good team.
For those of you who are not familiar with the lyra, imagine somebody repeatedly hitting the hell out of a flagpole with an aluminum pipe. That is what it sounds like, but with notes. Now imagine teaching this instrument to a group of elementary school girls at seven in the morning. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the migraine!
Hopped up on Excedrin, I was able to survive the brain-piercing sound that the lyra creates. I am now wondering if my childhood piano teacher was popping something more than her hard candies. Once the throbbing in my head subsided, I was able to enjoy teaching the class. The girls learned very quickly, and were thoroughly enjoying themselves. It is very rare for a teacher to actually witness a child learning in front of his or her eyes. I was privileged to see the girls correct their mistakes, and master their songs. Moreover, I was glad that they were acquiring a skill and participating in an extra-curricular activity. The pastime in my community has been watching television. Now all the neighborhood kids are practicing their lyras or drums after school.
This past Tuesday, I woke up to two things that seemed to punch me in the face: the relentless Puerto heat, and the pounding of the drums. It was 15 de Septiembre. I put on light clothes, sunscreen, and headed to the school to prepare the students for the parade.
I was shocked by what I found. The band uniforms had arrived, and looked fantastic. The kids looked crisp, clean and unified. The flag bearers wore their school uniforms and black berets. The baton twirlers donned blue and white cowgirl-themed outfits, complete with big white boots and hats. My lyra girls wore pleated skirts and royal blue polo shirts with our school name embroidered onto their chests. The drummer boys had the same shirts which were complemented by crisp white shorts and Keds. The entire group looked so proud, as were all of the teachers who were helping them get dressed.
Since I have very big muscles, my job was to pack and carry giant coolers of water. I didn’t think too much of the job until we got of the bus on the parade route in downtown Puntarenas. You could fry an egg on the pavement. The sun was strong and there was no shade to be found. I realized that keeping the kids hydrated was a serious concern, as we were to participate in the parade from eight in the morning to two in the afternoon. The second the kids were in place on the route, they began to beg me for water. So I gave some to each child, and wondered what the hell I was going to do with the enormous coolers of water as we walked the parade route. Luckily my compañero Don Luis drove the coolers down in his car, and would take some of the coolers to the end of the parade route.
The parade was both incredible and miserable. It was incredible because the kids performed so well. I was proud of my lyra girls as they chimed away in sync. The drummers were hugely popular with the crowds who danced to the beat. The baton twirlers were fantastic, although I was a bit alarmed by the nauseating comments that came from creepy old men in the crown. The performers were thrilled and bursting with pride. The teachers were as well; this was the first time that my school had ever participated in this tradition.
When I say that it was miserable, I am referring to the fact that the parade route was around the circumference of the sun. It was as if someone put me on a treadmill…in a steam room…and then heaved a fifty pound cooler on my shoulders. I was happy to toss packets of water to the kids as we inched our way down the main thoroughfare of Puntarenas; I wanted that weight off me.
As anyone could have predicted, we ran out of water about a third of the way through the parade. I felt awful as I told the kids that there was no more, but also grew worried that some of the kids wouldn’t make it. It was a very long route, and the midday sun takes no mercy. One of the baton twirlers had to give up a few blocks before the end. My poor lyra girl, Wanda, kept slurring her words as she walked alongside me. Many were stumbling along by the time we reached the end of the route. Thankfully, Luis was there waiting in the shade with water, iced tea, and a lunch of arroz con pollo. As the kids cooled off and regained their strength, I could see an immense happiness wash over them. They had worked hard, and it had paid off. It was a huge victory for the school, and the entire community.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Hanging Out With Giant Turtles
This past weekend, I traveled with my friend Hillary to take advantage of a seasonal spectacle: the homecoming of the giant green turtles. Every July, on the black sand beaches of the small barrier island of Tortuguero, massive female sea turtles arrive from all over the world to lay their eggs. Having been born in Tortuguero themselves, the turtles follow their internal GPS to deposit their eggs in nests that they themselves once crawled out of. It was a truly amazing sight.
After three busses and one boat ride (nine hours of travel) from my site, we finally arrived at Tortuguero. There are no cars allowed on the island, and none of the pathways are paved. The village is nothing more than a group of houses, restaurants and cabinas resting on foundations of sand. Without the drone of traffic, the crashing of the waves serenades the entire island. While a recent tourism boom has developed the village over the past decade, it remains fairly poor. For this reason, Ben and Millie, an older Peace Corps married couple, are stationed on the tiny island.
Feeling relaxed in the Caribbean atmosphere, Hillary and I enjoyed the traditional coconut flavored food, and took in the beauty of the Atlantic coast. Walking along the beach, we found giant depressions in the sand along the dunes. We were told by locals that these are the turtle nests, and not to disturb them. All around the nests we found empty eggshells; apparently the Leatherback turtles had already hatched and swam off into the open ocean. After checking out the beach in the afternoon, we headed back to our cabinas to meet our guide for a night tour.
Our guide was an affable native of Tortuguero. Before we got started, he explained to us the system that the conservation program had put in place for turtle viewing. The beach, he explained, we divided up into several sections. In each section, spotters cruised the beach searching for nesting turtles. On walkie-talkies, they informed the tour guides which section to go to. Once in our assigned section, we joined five other groups of about eight people. When the spotters gave us the okay, we got in line behind the other groups and approached the turtle.
The enormous shell was covered with sand from having dug a fifty centimeter deep hole in the sand for the eggs. She was illuminated by the special red flashlights the tour guides used. About a meter long and half a meter wide, the female hovered over the nest and laid several eggs at a time. She was calm, the guide explained, because turtles go into a trance-like state while depositing their eggs. After watching her for a minute or so, we stepped back so that other groups could sneak a peek.
Before our second viewing, we were led a few meters down the beach to see a different turtle heading back to sea. Having finished laying her eggs, she lumbered across the beach. Throwing one fin in front of the other, she inched her way to the water’s edge making tractor-like tracks in the sand. When the foamy water crashed into her face, she stopped for a few moments, as if to say “holy crap, am I tired.” After a few minutes, she disappeared into the dark sea. She will only return to lay more eggs, and will sadly never know her babies.
Returning to the first turtle, we found that she was already starting to cover up the nest. With great thrusts of her hind fins, she heaved sand into the hole. Her aim, I must say, was not impeccable; she flung sand all over us and our guide. With her nest buried, we left the giant creature to head back to sea alone.
In about two months, the eggs will hatch, and the little babies will make their instinctual race from their nest to the sea. This will be no easy task. Out of a nest of one hundred, only about two will return to lay their eggs. The little guys have to avoid attacks by dogs, birds and humans before even reaching the ocean. Once in the ocean, the babies have to make the long swim to the nourishing kelp forests offshore. Along the way, they are eaten by sharks and other fish. For this reason, the poor mother wears herself out by filling the large nests.
I was so glad that I had made the long trip from coast to coast to see such a beautiful natural wonder. I am forever in the dept of the turtle watcher program that organized the process so well. Before the program, I was told, the beaches were mayhem, and several poor members of the community would steal the eggs from their nests to sell. Since the program was started, turtle counts are up 300 percent. This just goes to show that while conservationists may be idealists, they can have a significant impact on the ground. In most cases, there is a direct conflict between conservation and local economies. However, because of the turtle conservation in Tortuguero, the local economy is booming with the eco-tourism industry. If only every conservation effort was so simple.
The next day, Hillary and I had dinner with Ben and Millie. They had been evacuated from Peace Corps Bolivia when the civil unrest started there. Over a good meal, they told us what it was like to be in such a complicated situation, and what life is like in their new site. I was thoroughly impressed with them. They were my parents’ age, yet seemed like my peers. Full of energy, they seemed to enjoy their life on the tranquil island. They gave me hope; perhaps I will feel that young when I am their age.
The turtle nesting at Tortuguero is a unique event that makes Costa Rica special. As I check months off the calendar, I realize that I only have about ten months left to see everything the country has to offer. This past weekend made me see that for certain Costa Rican highlights, a nine hour bus ride just may be worth it. If the turtles can swim hundreds of miles to Tortuguero, I can have the courtesy to take the bus.
After three busses and one boat ride (nine hours of travel) from my site, we finally arrived at Tortuguero. There are no cars allowed on the island, and none of the pathways are paved. The village is nothing more than a group of houses, restaurants and cabinas resting on foundations of sand. Without the drone of traffic, the crashing of the waves serenades the entire island. While a recent tourism boom has developed the village over the past decade, it remains fairly poor. For this reason, Ben and Millie, an older Peace Corps married couple, are stationed on the tiny island.
Feeling relaxed in the Caribbean atmosphere, Hillary and I enjoyed the traditional coconut flavored food, and took in the beauty of the Atlantic coast. Walking along the beach, we found giant depressions in the sand along the dunes. We were told by locals that these are the turtle nests, and not to disturb them. All around the nests we found empty eggshells; apparently the Leatherback turtles had already hatched and swam off into the open ocean. After checking out the beach in the afternoon, we headed back to our cabinas to meet our guide for a night tour.
Our guide was an affable native of Tortuguero. Before we got started, he explained to us the system that the conservation program had put in place for turtle viewing. The beach, he explained, we divided up into several sections. In each section, spotters cruised the beach searching for nesting turtles. On walkie-talkies, they informed the tour guides which section to go to. Once in our assigned section, we joined five other groups of about eight people. When the spotters gave us the okay, we got in line behind the other groups and approached the turtle.
The enormous shell was covered with sand from having dug a fifty centimeter deep hole in the sand for the eggs. She was illuminated by the special red flashlights the tour guides used. About a meter long and half a meter wide, the female hovered over the nest and laid several eggs at a time. She was calm, the guide explained, because turtles go into a trance-like state while depositing their eggs. After watching her for a minute or so, we stepped back so that other groups could sneak a peek.
Before our second viewing, we were led a few meters down the beach to see a different turtle heading back to sea. Having finished laying her eggs, she lumbered across the beach. Throwing one fin in front of the other, she inched her way to the water’s edge making tractor-like tracks in the sand. When the foamy water crashed into her face, she stopped for a few moments, as if to say “holy crap, am I tired.” After a few minutes, she disappeared into the dark sea. She will only return to lay more eggs, and will sadly never know her babies.
Returning to the first turtle, we found that she was already starting to cover up the nest. With great thrusts of her hind fins, she heaved sand into the hole. Her aim, I must say, was not impeccable; she flung sand all over us and our guide. With her nest buried, we left the giant creature to head back to sea alone.
In about two months, the eggs will hatch, and the little babies will make their instinctual race from their nest to the sea. This will be no easy task. Out of a nest of one hundred, only about two will return to lay their eggs. The little guys have to avoid attacks by dogs, birds and humans before even reaching the ocean. Once in the ocean, the babies have to make the long swim to the nourishing kelp forests offshore. Along the way, they are eaten by sharks and other fish. For this reason, the poor mother wears herself out by filling the large nests.
I was so glad that I had made the long trip from coast to coast to see such a beautiful natural wonder. I am forever in the dept of the turtle watcher program that organized the process so well. Before the program, I was told, the beaches were mayhem, and several poor members of the community would steal the eggs from their nests to sell. Since the program was started, turtle counts are up 300 percent. This just goes to show that while conservationists may be idealists, they can have a significant impact on the ground. In most cases, there is a direct conflict between conservation and local economies. However, because of the turtle conservation in Tortuguero, the local economy is booming with the eco-tourism industry. If only every conservation effort was so simple.
The next day, Hillary and I had dinner with Ben and Millie. They had been evacuated from Peace Corps Bolivia when the civil unrest started there. Over a good meal, they told us what it was like to be in such a complicated situation, and what life is like in their new site. I was thoroughly impressed with them. They were my parents’ age, yet seemed like my peers. Full of energy, they seemed to enjoy their life on the tranquil island. They gave me hope; perhaps I will feel that young when I am their age.
The turtle nesting at Tortuguero is a unique event that makes Costa Rica special. As I check months off the calendar, I realize that I only have about ten months left to see everything the country has to offer. This past weekend made me see that for certain Costa Rican highlights, a nine hour bus ride just may be worth it. If the turtles can swim hundreds of miles to Tortuguero, I can have the courtesy to take the bus.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
El Verano de San Juan
A few days ago, I co-facilitated the Second Annual PANI National Youth Congress. Co-sponsored by PANI and Peace Corps, each youth representative from every canton’s Junta de Protección (youth advocacy group) was brought from every corner of Costa Rica to participate in the three day convention. Each Peace Corps volunteer paired up with a PANI officer to represent their region and supervise their region’s youth representatives. In my case, I represented the Central Pacific Region, along with the Francis: a PANI social worker from the Oratina office. Having acquainted ourselves with the youth representatives at the regional pre-congress meeting (see June’s blog), we packed up the PANI van, jumped in, and headed for the cloud forests north of San Ramon.
Throughout the entire congress, my fellow PCVs and I referred to the event as “the all-star game.” We were taken aback by the intellect, creativity, character and radiance of the youth with which we worked. Each participant was eager to participate and learn. They immediately became best friends with each other, and exchanged songs played on their guitars. All high school aged, they were mature; they took the congress very seriously. As foreseen by PANI staff and PCVs, several romantic relationships sprung up within the first day. One PCV noted that we’d have to make an effort to keep them from running off into the bushes together at night. Another volunteer countered: “no way. The mixing of this gene pool is probably the best thing that could happen in Costa Rica right now.” After a good laugh, nobody really disagreed.
The camp site was particularly beautiful. High in the cloud forests, we were surrounded by natural wonders. Rolling hills covered by dense jungle could be seen from every area of the camp. The mollifying sounds of rivers and waterfalls could be heard in the dining hall as we took our first meal. Everyone seemed relaxed as the congress began, which made the meat and potatoes of the event come easily.
The first theme of the congress was networking. We emphasized that the youth representatives were the future leaders of Costa Rica and were the voice of Costa Rica’s youth. We encouraged them to stay in touch both on a regional and national level. Each group made a presentation to the entire group about their region. My group sang an original song, put on a skit and painted a poster. The group from Limon passed out gingerbread cookies and other local foods. It came as no surprise that they were the most popular. Once we finished, the camp opened its recreational activities to the kids. They spent the rest of their night roller-skating around the gym, playing ping-pong, wall climbing, and socializing.
The next morning, the group was offered an array of adventure activities. Split into four groups, we all competed in the highlight of the congress: Retoselva (jungle challenge). Retoselva was an army-like obstacle course through a muddy path in the jungle. Each team made their way through muddy bogs, ropes challenges, and other obstacles. By the end, everyone was covered in mud, and not a single article of clothing retained its original color. Having bonded via filth, we washed, changed and prepared for the afternoon workshops.
The second theme of the congress was participation. To illuminate the concept, we PCVs created a fun and engaging workshop. Our aim was to show the kids that they had the right to participate in the civic management of their communities. The voice of the youth, we emphasized, was to be heard and considered in the decision making process of Costa Rica as mandated by law. We had a few fun lessons, and found a way to make the reading and interpretation of the law enjoyable (cue creative presentations of each article). After the aforementioned and following activities, the conclusions and plans of the youth representatives were compiled and published. The report was the official recommendation of youth to be distributed to PANI and every other public organization in Costa Rica. I take great pride in knowing that Costa Rican policy regarding youth may have been influenced by the workshops that I planned and facilitated.
Heading home, I accompanied the youth representative from Paquera (on the Nicoya Peninsula) to the ferry terminal at the end of Puntarenas. Having left the damp gray of the cloud forest, I was lifted by the radiance of the Puerto sun. The sea shimmered in its five o’clock rays, making for a perfect Sunday evening. Riding home in the front seat with the van driver, I realized that something strange was going on: it wasn’t raining. Since the first day of the rainy season arrived in May, not one afternoon was spared a shower. I mentioned the rarity to the driver who I had been chatting with. He looked at me, patted me on the shoulder, and gave be a big grin. “Es el verano de San Juan” he said. I smiled too, and spent the rest of the ride watching the throngs of people walk through the Puerto sun toward the beach.
El verano de San Juan (summer of San Juan) is a hole in the rainy season. For a few weeks in July, the clouds hide, and let the beach goers get back to work. It is no coincidence that all students have a two week vacation during this time. It is also no surprise that it is this time of year that the city of Puntarenas puts on its annual festival: Las Fiestas Virgen del Mar.
The ten day long festival has served as a reminder for me of all that is good in Puntarenas. For these days, the heavily populated city of San José empties into the Puerto making for a raucous party. Glad to be away from the cold, damp Central Valley days, Ticos fill the Puerto’s beaches, waterfront cafes and hotels. All along the Paseo de las Touristas, booths line the walks; they offer everything from syrupy, icy granizados and carne asada to winged armchairs with ottomans. This past Sunday, I took the children from the albergue to the final day of the festival. It was an unforgettable day.
It was surely the best day I have ever had in which I was vomited on. The kids were wide eyed and excited as we stepped off the bus into the festival. I had never seen the streets of Puntarenas so full. It must have been the way Detroiters felt when the Super Bowl came to their city. Cafés that usually sit empty were packed to the brim. All along the beach, families had set up camp in the shade of trees. Babies slept in their mothers’ laps while they dished out homemade arroz con pollo to the rest of the family. Friends chatted in the sun while holding sweaty beers. Raisin-faced ladies sold vigarones from their stalls: sizzlin’, cracklin’ hot chicharones served on shredded cabbage, covered in chimmichuri and wrapped in an almond leaf. Holding hands as we walked, we stopped every so often to investigate one of these wonders. The kids were enticed by the cheap Chinese toys for sale; I couldn’t stop looking at the packs of scantily clad Ticas.
After making our way through the packed crowds and the pushy salesmen, we had found El Dorado: the rides. I thought that the kids’ eyes were going to pop out when they caught glimpses of the roaring rollercoasters. Each child grabbed and pulled at my clothing in sync and asked if they could go on (what seemed to be all of) the rides. With PANI money, the tia (literal translation: aunt (tio is uncle), PANI live-in albergue caretaker) and I paid for tickets. Excited as hell, we ran for the bumper cars and hopped in. Bairón and I shared a car and wasted no time in wasting our friends. Next, we mounted the haunted house ride, which was markedly tame. After the carousel, we concluded that we were done, and headed for the beach for the main attraction.
A boat’s whistle blew, and thus started the cruise of the Virgen del Mar. Making their way from the tip of the peninsula of Puntarenas toward the pier, dozens of boats held their annual parade. Each ponga, lancha or fishing boat was colorfully decorated. They all followed the lead boat which mounted Carmen: la virgin del mar (the virgin of the sea). Carmen is the patron saint of fishermen, and thus, Puntarenas. The hundreds of people packing the boats raised their glasses to her as their boats bounced along the ocean. The crowds of people lining the beach waved to them. They waved back.
With the parade over, we turned away from the beach and headed for a marisqueria for a lunch of seafood. It was when we made our first steps toward the restaurant that the vomit came. Bairón, hot in the sun and dizzy from the rides, unloaded the contents of his stomach onto the boardwalk. I asked him if he was okay, and he said that he had a stomachache. Needless to say, he did not order seafood when we sat down at the marisqueria. After taking a few sips of the ginger ale that we ordered him, he vomited two more times in the restaurant. Luckily, the waitress was a saint and helped the tia and I clean up while the other children enjoyed their arroz con camarones. Somehow, some way, none of the vomit had gotten on me.
After eating, we walked over to the beach where the kids played in the surf and I sat in the shade with the tia and the reposing Bairón. All around us were families laying together. There was a feeling of family in the air. This was a rare time that Tico dads could enjoy a touch of sun with their kids, and a spot of shade with their wives. Even the albergue kids felt it and treated each other like siblings. Bairón kept calling me “papa;” I continually corrected him. “Tio,” I would say while patting him on the back. “Soy su tio.”
When the kids had finished with the beach, we said goodbye to our neighbors and walked back to the bus stop. As we were walking, I thought about how much I missed my family. The authentically Tico nature of the festival would have been appreciated by my family. I then looked around at the sleeping albergue kids on the bus ride home and got chills. I realized that I had become their family. The tia smiled at me, looking a Bairón’s head resting on my side. I smiled back, feeling quite happy about the fantastic day we were ending. That was until I heard a familiar gurgle, and found my legs covered in puke.
Throughout the entire congress, my fellow PCVs and I referred to the event as “the all-star game.” We were taken aback by the intellect, creativity, character and radiance of the youth with which we worked. Each participant was eager to participate and learn. They immediately became best friends with each other, and exchanged songs played on their guitars. All high school aged, they were mature; they took the congress very seriously. As foreseen by PANI staff and PCVs, several romantic relationships sprung up within the first day. One PCV noted that we’d have to make an effort to keep them from running off into the bushes together at night. Another volunteer countered: “no way. The mixing of this gene pool is probably the best thing that could happen in Costa Rica right now.” After a good laugh, nobody really disagreed.
The camp site was particularly beautiful. High in the cloud forests, we were surrounded by natural wonders. Rolling hills covered by dense jungle could be seen from every area of the camp. The mollifying sounds of rivers and waterfalls could be heard in the dining hall as we took our first meal. Everyone seemed relaxed as the congress began, which made the meat and potatoes of the event come easily.
The first theme of the congress was networking. We emphasized that the youth representatives were the future leaders of Costa Rica and were the voice of Costa Rica’s youth. We encouraged them to stay in touch both on a regional and national level. Each group made a presentation to the entire group about their region. My group sang an original song, put on a skit and painted a poster. The group from Limon passed out gingerbread cookies and other local foods. It came as no surprise that they were the most popular. Once we finished, the camp opened its recreational activities to the kids. They spent the rest of their night roller-skating around the gym, playing ping-pong, wall climbing, and socializing.
The next morning, the group was offered an array of adventure activities. Split into four groups, we all competed in the highlight of the congress: Retoselva (jungle challenge). Retoselva was an army-like obstacle course through a muddy path in the jungle. Each team made their way through muddy bogs, ropes challenges, and other obstacles. By the end, everyone was covered in mud, and not a single article of clothing retained its original color. Having bonded via filth, we washed, changed and prepared for the afternoon workshops.
The second theme of the congress was participation. To illuminate the concept, we PCVs created a fun and engaging workshop. Our aim was to show the kids that they had the right to participate in the civic management of their communities. The voice of the youth, we emphasized, was to be heard and considered in the decision making process of Costa Rica as mandated by law. We had a few fun lessons, and found a way to make the reading and interpretation of the law enjoyable (cue creative presentations of each article). After the aforementioned and following activities, the conclusions and plans of the youth representatives were compiled and published. The report was the official recommendation of youth to be distributed to PANI and every other public organization in Costa Rica. I take great pride in knowing that Costa Rican policy regarding youth may have been influenced by the workshops that I planned and facilitated.
Heading home, I accompanied the youth representative from Paquera (on the Nicoya Peninsula) to the ferry terminal at the end of Puntarenas. Having left the damp gray of the cloud forest, I was lifted by the radiance of the Puerto sun. The sea shimmered in its five o’clock rays, making for a perfect Sunday evening. Riding home in the front seat with the van driver, I realized that something strange was going on: it wasn’t raining. Since the first day of the rainy season arrived in May, not one afternoon was spared a shower. I mentioned the rarity to the driver who I had been chatting with. He looked at me, patted me on the shoulder, and gave be a big grin. “Es el verano de San Juan” he said. I smiled too, and spent the rest of the ride watching the throngs of people walk through the Puerto sun toward the beach.
El verano de San Juan (summer of San Juan) is a hole in the rainy season. For a few weeks in July, the clouds hide, and let the beach goers get back to work. It is no coincidence that all students have a two week vacation during this time. It is also no surprise that it is this time of year that the city of Puntarenas puts on its annual festival: Las Fiestas Virgen del Mar.
The ten day long festival has served as a reminder for me of all that is good in Puntarenas. For these days, the heavily populated city of San José empties into the Puerto making for a raucous party. Glad to be away from the cold, damp Central Valley days, Ticos fill the Puerto’s beaches, waterfront cafes and hotels. All along the Paseo de las Touristas, booths line the walks; they offer everything from syrupy, icy granizados and carne asada to winged armchairs with ottomans. This past Sunday, I took the children from the albergue to the final day of the festival. It was an unforgettable day.
It was surely the best day I have ever had in which I was vomited on. The kids were wide eyed and excited as we stepped off the bus into the festival. I had never seen the streets of Puntarenas so full. It must have been the way Detroiters felt when the Super Bowl came to their city. Cafés that usually sit empty were packed to the brim. All along the beach, families had set up camp in the shade of trees. Babies slept in their mothers’ laps while they dished out homemade arroz con pollo to the rest of the family. Friends chatted in the sun while holding sweaty beers. Raisin-faced ladies sold vigarones from their stalls: sizzlin’, cracklin’ hot chicharones served on shredded cabbage, covered in chimmichuri and wrapped in an almond leaf. Holding hands as we walked, we stopped every so often to investigate one of these wonders. The kids were enticed by the cheap Chinese toys for sale; I couldn’t stop looking at the packs of scantily clad Ticas.
After making our way through the packed crowds and the pushy salesmen, we had found El Dorado: the rides. I thought that the kids’ eyes were going to pop out when they caught glimpses of the roaring rollercoasters. Each child grabbed and pulled at my clothing in sync and asked if they could go on (what seemed to be all of) the rides. With PANI money, the tia (literal translation: aunt (tio is uncle), PANI live-in albergue caretaker) and I paid for tickets. Excited as hell, we ran for the bumper cars and hopped in. Bairón and I shared a car and wasted no time in wasting our friends. Next, we mounted the haunted house ride, which was markedly tame. After the carousel, we concluded that we were done, and headed for the beach for the main attraction.
A boat’s whistle blew, and thus started the cruise of the Virgen del Mar. Making their way from the tip of the peninsula of Puntarenas toward the pier, dozens of boats held their annual parade. Each ponga, lancha or fishing boat was colorfully decorated. They all followed the lead boat which mounted Carmen: la virgin del mar (the virgin of the sea). Carmen is the patron saint of fishermen, and thus, Puntarenas. The hundreds of people packing the boats raised their glasses to her as their boats bounced along the ocean. The crowds of people lining the beach waved to them. They waved back.
With the parade over, we turned away from the beach and headed for a marisqueria for a lunch of seafood. It was when we made our first steps toward the restaurant that the vomit came. Bairón, hot in the sun and dizzy from the rides, unloaded the contents of his stomach onto the boardwalk. I asked him if he was okay, and he said that he had a stomachache. Needless to say, he did not order seafood when we sat down at the marisqueria. After taking a few sips of the ginger ale that we ordered him, he vomited two more times in the restaurant. Luckily, the waitress was a saint and helped the tia and I clean up while the other children enjoyed their arroz con camarones. Somehow, some way, none of the vomit had gotten on me.
After eating, we walked over to the beach where the kids played in the surf and I sat in the shade with the tia and the reposing Bairón. All around us were families laying together. There was a feeling of family in the air. This was a rare time that Tico dads could enjoy a touch of sun with their kids, and a spot of shade with their wives. Even the albergue kids felt it and treated each other like siblings. Bairón kept calling me “papa;” I continually corrected him. “Tio,” I would say while patting him on the back. “Soy su tio.”
When the kids had finished with the beach, we said goodbye to our neighbors and walked back to the bus stop. As we were walking, I thought about how much I missed my family. The authentically Tico nature of the festival would have been appreciated by my family. I then looked around at the sleeping albergue kids on the bus ride home and got chills. I realized that I had become their family. The tia smiled at me, looking a Bairón’s head resting on my side. I smiled back, feeling quite happy about the fantastic day we were ending. That was until I heard a familiar gurgle, and found my legs covered in puke.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Rhapsody in Blue
If a picture is worth a thousand words, then what might be the quantitative value of a song? I often find myself saying, “oh! I love this song; I’ve got great memories attached to it.” When this happens, I usually think of something that was playing at the end of a particularly successful date, or a poignant moment of triumph in my life. At this moment, I am listening to a particular piece that transcends all moments. For me, it has come to be the theme of my hometown of New York. I’m listening to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.
The piece is just so quintessentially New York. As the piano notes crescendo, Woody Allen’s voice takes over my inner monologue. Suddenly, I am trapped in the film Manhattan. I look at the New York themed photo collage that I have pasted to my wall, and enter a New York montage. Imagine myself on the Brooklyn Bridge, looking out on the skyline. I peek into a street where Gershwin himself may have walked down, and hummed the beginning of the jazz melody that would one day play here in this Costa Rican neighborhood. As I look through my photo album, I find myself in a ballfield in Central Park. I have just finished playing in a game in which my high school team has won. I grab a handful of infield dirt, smell the freshly cut grass, and look up at the stately towers of the Upper East Side.
I have always wanted to be like Woody Allen. He is an icon of New York, a man who appreciates its beauty, and works the city into his art. I guess that it doesn’t hurt that he is a short, bald man who consistently dates beautiful women in his films. Even though he is a famous writer/director/actor, and I am an anonymous New Yorker, I see myself in him.
Like Woody, I am a native New Yorker. I consider the city’s and my history to be shared. I have never become disappointed by or fed up with its spirit.
My friend Emile was with me every step of the way in my discovery of the city. Throughout adolescence, we embraced several parts of New York that had significant meaning for us: the gourmet food stores where we would gorge ourselves on free samples of high end cheese and olives on the way home from school; the BYOB jazz club that would turn a blind eye to minors enjoying forties while tapping their feet to the music. Certain sidewalks bled memories for us on streets where we had broken up with girlfriends, or made new ones. Emile always shared with me an unwavering adoration of the city that raised us.
Now, Emile is ready to leave New York. He feels betrayed by the way the city has changed. The gentrification began long before Emile and I began knowing the city’s jazz clubs and museums. However, as of late, it has reshaped the face of the neighborhood that we grew up in. Buildings that held the beloved barber shops, corner stores, and restaurants that shaped our identities have been bulldozed to make way for luxury high-rises. When we were kids, the neighborhood was strictly middle class. Now, one-bedroom apartments go for a million dollars.
While the transformation of my city saddens me at times, I feel that New York still has (and will never lose) the spirit that inspired Gershwin, Woody and me. It is still the pinnacle. If you want to be the best at anything, you’d better be ready to spend some time in New York. Art and creativity seep out of the city’s every pore. When places are gentrified, they are sometimes reborn: the nightlife scene that started in a reblushed Lower East Side has played a major role in the evolution of rock and roll. I am not saying that it is not a shame that thousands of people had to move out because they could not afford the astronomical rent hikes. I am saying that the spirit of New York would never allow its changing face to become boring. No matter what rents are like, the subway still shakes your feet, and the city still never sleeps.
I close my photo album, and the piece ends. I look out my window at my mango tree and smile. While I miss my city, I know it will be there waiting when my service ends. It is not perfect. It has probably changed a great deal in my absence. But I know that it will always be the place where Gershwin’s notes fall in harmony with the sounds and sights of the city. It will have the streets I know by heart. It will have Monet’s Water Lilies, and Van Gough’s Women Picking Olives. It will have my family; it will have my Yankees. It is my town, and it always will be.
The piece is just so quintessentially New York. As the piano notes crescendo, Woody Allen’s voice takes over my inner monologue. Suddenly, I am trapped in the film Manhattan. I look at the New York themed photo collage that I have pasted to my wall, and enter a New York montage. Imagine myself on the Brooklyn Bridge, looking out on the skyline. I peek into a street where Gershwin himself may have walked down, and hummed the beginning of the jazz melody that would one day play here in this Costa Rican neighborhood. As I look through my photo album, I find myself in a ballfield in Central Park. I have just finished playing in a game in which my high school team has won. I grab a handful of infield dirt, smell the freshly cut grass, and look up at the stately towers of the Upper East Side.
I have always wanted to be like Woody Allen. He is an icon of New York, a man who appreciates its beauty, and works the city into his art. I guess that it doesn’t hurt that he is a short, bald man who consistently dates beautiful women in his films. Even though he is a famous writer/director/actor, and I am an anonymous New Yorker, I see myself in him.
Like Woody, I am a native New Yorker. I consider the city’s and my history to be shared. I have never become disappointed by or fed up with its spirit.
My friend Emile was with me every step of the way in my discovery of the city. Throughout adolescence, we embraced several parts of New York that had significant meaning for us: the gourmet food stores where we would gorge ourselves on free samples of high end cheese and olives on the way home from school; the BYOB jazz club that would turn a blind eye to minors enjoying forties while tapping their feet to the music. Certain sidewalks bled memories for us on streets where we had broken up with girlfriends, or made new ones. Emile always shared with me an unwavering adoration of the city that raised us.
Now, Emile is ready to leave New York. He feels betrayed by the way the city has changed. The gentrification began long before Emile and I began knowing the city’s jazz clubs and museums. However, as of late, it has reshaped the face of the neighborhood that we grew up in. Buildings that held the beloved barber shops, corner stores, and restaurants that shaped our identities have been bulldozed to make way for luxury high-rises. When we were kids, the neighborhood was strictly middle class. Now, one-bedroom apartments go for a million dollars.
While the transformation of my city saddens me at times, I feel that New York still has (and will never lose) the spirit that inspired Gershwin, Woody and me. It is still the pinnacle. If you want to be the best at anything, you’d better be ready to spend some time in New York. Art and creativity seep out of the city’s every pore. When places are gentrified, they are sometimes reborn: the nightlife scene that started in a reblushed Lower East Side has played a major role in the evolution of rock and roll. I am not saying that it is not a shame that thousands of people had to move out because they could not afford the astronomical rent hikes. I am saying that the spirit of New York would never allow its changing face to become boring. No matter what rents are like, the subway still shakes your feet, and the city still never sleeps.
I close my photo album, and the piece ends. I look out my window at my mango tree and smile. While I miss my city, I know it will be there waiting when my service ends. It is not perfect. It has probably changed a great deal in my absence. But I know that it will always be the place where Gershwin’s notes fall in harmony with the sounds and sights of the city. It will have the streets I know by heart. It will have Monet’s Water Lilies, and Van Gough’s Women Picking Olives. It will have my family; it will have my Yankees. It is my town, and it always will be.
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