Throughout my two years here in Peace Corps Costa Rica, there have been two students whose potential has caught my attention. Juan* is one of the elementary school dropouts in my “Aula Abierta” class. Jordy is the bright star of the “green” albergue for younger children. Both kids never cease to impress me with the quickness in which they process my lessons and themes. My observation of their intelligence leaves me feeling both hopeful and apprehensive. Both of these children are going to need a significant amount of support and guidance if they are to realize their potential.
The other kids in Aula Abierta call Juan “Gordo.” Juan embraces the nickname and sometimes even introduces himself as “Gordo” to new teachers and students. However, the dub is a misnomer. Juan may have a bit of a pot belly, but is hardly fat. He is a gifted soccer player, and carries himself with grace and poise. His face is round, but handsome. Juan is confident to the point of cockiness, but has his anxieties. The adoption of “Gordo” hints at such self-consciousness. While Juan participates in his fair share of horseplay in the classroom, he respects it. He listens intently to my lessons and the thoughts of his classmates. It is as if there are two Juans hidden under that thick skin: “Gordo:” the class clown, and Juan: the genius.
To say that Juan comes from a troubled family is an understatement. On my fourth day in my site, I went for a run along the ocean-hugging road known as “La Costanera.” Not long into my run, I was accosted by seven young men on bicycles. They stopped me, put a .22 to my chest, and took my money. Several months later, Juan told me an interesting story. As he was walking along the beach with his uncle at the Puntarenas carnivals, his uncle spotted me in the crowd with the albergue children in tow. He pointed me out to Juan and told him about the time he and his buddies held me up for the equivalent of four dollars. The uncle laughed, but Juan didn’t. His family had attacked a teacher for whom he had shown nothing but respect.
Juan’s grandmother sells drugs. His mother sells drugs. It is not such a shocker that in his mid-teens, Juan is selling. One may look at this child and consider him a goner. But he still comes to school. When I arrived in the Aula Abierta classroom in May of 2008, he was there. During the academic year of 2009, he was there. However, as the year wore on, he would start showing up less and less. During the last months of the semester, he was nowhere to be found. But each year, including this one, he turns up again. Sitting at his desk with a smile and an open notebook, he puts “Gordo” aside and reveals the real Juan.
Juan lights up the classroom. He shows great enthusiasm for the English language, and learns faster than anybody else. Every now and then, he annoys me by asking me to translate all words pertaining to the smoking of marijuana. But for the most part, Juan pays attention, participates, and helps me keep the other students in check. When we are working on a new concept in English, I observe the wheels turning in his head. I see that English comes easy to him. In a country like Costa Rica in which English equals a career, his potential is limitless.
I once heard Warren Buffet explain why he was a liberal. He told his audience that being born is like a lottery. One can get lucky and be born into a comfortable, supportive family, or be unlucky and be born to a disadvantaged family. He explained that he got to where he is today by winning that lottery. How easy it could have been for him to be born into poverty! It was therefore his responsibility to do what he could to help those who were not as fortunate as he.
His explanation struck a cord in me. Where would I be if I was born into a family where the cards were stacked against me? A family in the South Bronx? A township in South Africa? I surely would not have received the quality education that I was lucky enough to get. With this concept of the “birth lottery” in my head, I often wonder: what would happen if Juan was born into a family as educated and supportive as mine?
The thought of Juan in a clean home, doing homework with his father is too much for me. With his charisma and critical mind, I imagine how he would whoop ass in a college classroom. When I bring myself back to reality, I realize that in all likelihood, this will not happen. I do what I can to provide him with skills he can use to pull himself out of Jireth. He has the mind, he has the attitude. But the “crabs in a bucket” syndrome runs deep here. All I can do is maximize the time I have with him, hope for the best, and let him go.
Jordy is very different from Juan, but shares the same challenges. Those who don’t know Juan call him a “vaga” (bum), and are legitimately afraid of the drug dealer. However, Jordy comes off as a well-bred, wholesome kid. People say hello to him on the street because he and his little brother, Bairón, are outgoing and well-known in the community. Like Juan, Jordy is extremely intelligent. I see it when we study for tests together. The “ah-ha!” moment comes all too quickly for Jordy. Jordy is also incredibly perceptive. With his deadly combination of book and street smarts, his potential is overwhelming.
Juan’s family may be a band of unsavory characters, but at least he had one. Jordy and Bairón are wards of the state. The only thing that we know about his parents is that they were refugees from Nicaragua. Bairón has severe mental disabilities, which imply a lack of proper prenatal care. Despite the fact that their parents were incapable of caring for them, Jordy and Bairón are amazingly functional.
Jordy has beaten the odds and has been thriving in the albergue. This may be because the tias in the albergue do a good job of caring for the children. He is fed and clothed. The tias make sure that he goes to school every day and does his homework at night. It is not unusual to have a kid enter the albergue with egregious signs of abuse: lacerations, burns, bruises, dental and nutritional problems. However, after a few months in the albergue, these children usually fill out and appear healthy again.
However, an orphanage is not enough to provide Jordy with the life he needs. Jordy comes off as a normal kid, but much lies beneath the surface. He has a complex mind that has been evolving. Jordy is one of the few children at the albergue who I have known for my entire service. Over the past two years, I have watched him learn and grow. What I have recently observed worries me.
At the precarious age of twelve, Jordy is changing both mentally and physically. His muscles are becoming defined; his face is taking on a more mature expression. He is still excelling in school, but adopting a different attitude. He is talking back to the tias, bossing around his brother and the other smaller children in the albergue. I often find him disciplining Bairón, and have to explain to him that I am the adult and that discipline is my job. But this logic is not followed by Jordy who is, in fact, becoming an adult. When I first met Jordy, he was happy being a child. But new hormones are pumping through his veins; I can tell that his coming of age will be at odds with albergue living.
Adolescence is arguably the most fragile time of a person’s life. I remember how difficult it was for me to get through. Everything gets turned upside down. Suddenly those who got bad grades were the coolest. Hanging out with and being accepted by one’s peers becomes priority one. For me, it felt like I was walking on a tightrope: a future of trouble was one wrong step away.
In elementary school, I was a good kid. I got straight As in school, did what my parents asked. However, things got a bit shaky in the eighth grade. I got in trouble at school. My grades were no longer that string of pearly As. But my parents and brother were there to keep me moving along that tightrope. My family was then, and still is, my advocate. They spoke to me about the changes that I was going through, and helped me deal with the tremendous drama that was life as an adolescent. They were the safety net under that line. The problems we dealt with helped build me as a person, and made me the man I am today. I am pretty sure that I turned out okay.
The invaluable support that a family provides at such a turning point in one’s life is what Jordy is missing. Sure, a tia can get one through such childhood dilemmas as losing teeth or wetting the bed. But the complexity of adolescent issues requires a real family. Jordy knows this, and has become angry. What gets me is that compared to the mess that accompanies adolescence in most people, Jordy would be easy. He listens. He wants to do well, and makes good decisions. That anger and uncertainty in him could easily be mollified by a competent parent.
I do what I can to help Jordy in this transition. We take walks, and talk about the issues in his life. When he gets into a rage, I take him to the park to throw the Frisbee around. The repetition calms him, and eventually cheers him up. Once his nerves are cooled, he always opens up.
The role I play helps, but is not enough. It tears me apart. Sometimes I contemplate adopting the brothers. But that dream quickly evaporates as I consider the sea of debt I am going to be in over the coming years. And how, exactly, am I going to raise two Tico boys in New York, without any income while getting my JD? Bairón calls me Papa. A twinge of pain goes through my heart as I correct him. “Tio, Bairón,” I say. “Soy su Tio.”
My role in the lives of Juan and Jordy are exactly what my job description requires of a volunteer in the Children, Youth and Families program. I am happy to play such a part, but can’t help but wonder if my work will yield results. The two boys are walking the tightrope, and I don’t know how much my efforts will do to keep them steady. For them, the stakes are higher than they were for me; I had a safety net.
As I prepare to leave Costa Rica for good, I hold onto the hope that my involvement in the lives of my students will make a positive impact, no matter how small. I did not come here expecting to “save” my community or the children in it. Juan may continue selling drugs. He may become addicted to drugs. Jordy may fall in with the wrong crowd and damage his academic record. However, if something that I did helps either of them to choose a healthier path, then I have succeeded. The hard part about leaving is that I will never know. But something tells me that the real Juan and the bright Jordy will be all right. And it is that intuition that makes it possible for me to prepare to say goodbye and close my Peace Corps service in Costa Rica.
*The names of people mentioned in this post have been changed for their protection.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Hiking Corcovado
Last week, my girlfriend Elizabeth took a short break from her life as a Teach for America member in Miami, and came to visit me. Elizabeth (everyone calls her “Z”), comes from an outdoorsy family, which is just like mine, if you consider the sculpture gardens of museums outdoors. Since I have discovered an affinity for the great outdoors during my time here in Costa Rica, Z and I decided to take our five days together and hike across Costa Rica’s largest and most remote national park: Corcovado.
Every time Z arrives in Costa Rica, I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. She is classically beautiful and very intelligent. She works in the Miami-Dade public school system as a geography and civics teacher in a “D” middle school. The neighborhood in which she works is unsavory, and the children can be difficult. Z grapples with the same problems that I do as a Peace Corps volunteer. With so much in common (we both went to Michigan, have similar work, have an unhealthy obsession with fine foods and wines), it was only a matter of time before we came together. For the first time in years, I have found myself in love.
With Z in my arms, we boarded our small Nature Air plane headed for Puerto Jimenez. Normally, I am quite frugal here in Costa Rica. However, the bus ride to Puerto Jimenez lasts ten uncomfortable hours, whereas the flight lasts forty-five short minutes. So Z and I splurged and bought ourselves two extra days of vacation by winging our way south toward the desolate Osa Peninsula of the south Pacific coast. I peered down as we flew, admiring the blond mountains of the central valley, the Cathedral point peninsula of Manuel Antonio, the unique “whale’s tail” spit at Bahia Ballena, and finally the untouched wilderness of the Osa. Staring down at Corcovado as our tiny plane descended, I whispered to Z, “there’s nobody there.” I was right.
The heat smacked us in the face as we deplaned. It was welcoming for me; the weather of Jimenez is comparable to that of Puntarenas. This was Z’s first time in the overbearing Costa Rican heat. We were both glad that we had an air-conditioned room waiting for us at the fantastic Cabinas Jimenez.
We strolled through the small town, passing marisquerias, sodas and the promenade that lines the shores of the Gulfo Dulce. Immediately, I knew that Puerto Jimenez would be very different from the towns I know on the central Pacific. It was calm, safe, and clean.
That night, we took it easy. We had a short meeting with our guide, Rodolfo, at the tour company’s office. Pointing to the map, he showed us our route, and mentioned animals that we may see along the way. Rodolfo was a handsome Tico, who was clearly very experienced. After thanking the genial Rodolfo, we went to a restaurant where we ate fish that was clearly caught that day. Back in the room, we got our packs ready, and went to sleep.
When the alarm went off a bit after four in the morning, I jumped up and got myself ready. Z looked at me like I was crazy and caught a few more minutes of sleep. After coating myself in a film of sunscreen and bug spray, I was ready for the adventure to begin. Little did I know that what was coming my way would wipe the boyish smile off my face.
Rodolfo and his driver picked us up in a white, four-door pickup at five-thirty. I didn’t really give much thought to him when he said that my pack was a bit heavy as he tossed it in the back of the truck. I told him that it was the two big bottles of water that I had packed. “Uh-huh,” he said.
We drove on a newly paved road that was evidence of the growing popularity of the Osa. We stopped for breakfast at a little shack of a soda. As Z and I put away fried eggs, gallo pinto, coffee and avocado halves, I chatted it up with the proprietors and Rodolfo. I was giddy.
After a few kilometers, we pulled off the paved road and left civilization. At one point, we stopped and Rodolfo pointed out a pair of toucans eating their breakfast in the trees. The toucans were fun to look at. Their bodies are small, yet their beaks are huge. It is a wonder that they can fly with those neon colored things hanging off of their faces. Rodolfo then pointed to the other side of the road, where several scarlet macaws were playing in the branches. For those who are unfamiliar with scarlet macaws, think big parrots, but with deep red, blue and yellow feathers. The colors are so strikingly beautiful that it looks as if someone had painted them on. After watching them fly around, we got back in the truck and kept driving toward the park entrance.
A few kilometers further, we came to a river that split the road in two. “Shit,” I thought. “The road is out. What are we going to do?” My heart missed a few beats when I realized that the driver was not slowing down, but speeding up. With a few bumps, he flew the truck into the river, and drove right through it. After this happened a couple of times, I learned that the roads in those parts simply went through rivers if they weren’t deeper than two feet. So through the rivers we went until we reached the wooden structures of the Los Patos ranger station: the entrance to Corcovado National Park.
The driver waved to Rodolfo, Z and I, and drove off, leaving us with forty-five kilometers of hiking ahead of us. Each of us sprayed liberal amounts of high-deet bug spray onto our limbs and began our hike. The first day of hiking was through primary rainforest, which meant that it had never been touched by humans. With the lush foliage walling either side of the trail, we made our way up and down the hills. My hands immediately began to swell, and my arms started to tingle from all of the poisonous deet I had applied. Up and down we went, and before I knew it, I had sweat through every item of clothing on my body. Worried about dehydration, I took big gulps from my bottle.
Rodolfo led us through the paths effortlessly. He wore a small backpack and a tiny water bottle. Z walked behind him, and I behind her. As difficult as it was, we kept up with Rodolfo, who had the manner of a boy taking a light walk though the woods. We clipped away the kilometers at a rapid pace, which made both Z and I incredibly tired. I biffed it a few times, rolling my ankle on the omnipresent tree roots.
Regardless of the pace, I was happy. I kept thinking about how lucky I was to get to see such a beautiful place. My mind wandered to pure places. I thought about God, and how only he could create such beautiful birds and trees and animals. My mind was floating; I was high on the rainforest.
After a few hours, we stopped at a river to take a break. Z and I took several swigs from my bottles, while Rodolfo sat on the bank, smiling at the sun. We already looked worked, yet Rodolfo had not even broken a sweat. He took a small sip from his bottle and looked at me.
“You sweat a lot, eh?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “That’s why I packed extra water. I sweat so much that I get dehydrated quickly”
“What do you mean extra water?”
It was at this point, that Z and I realized that Rodolfo did not have the two big bottles of water that he told us he would bring. The smile on my face fell away. Z and I gave each other looks that said “oh, fuck.” Rodolfo picked up on this and said “this river water is fresh. It is safe to drink.” I looked up at Z who gave me a sharp, warning glare.
“I’ve already had Giardia once,” she said. “You go ahead if you want to.”
I stopped drinking my water and put the bottle away. Dehydration is one thing, parasites are another. We stood up to continue the hike.
“How much ground did we cover?” I asked
“About five kilometers,” Rodolfo responded. “We have about nineteen more to go.” I frowned at Z. “But the rest of the hike is flat.” I smiled at Z. “So we are going to have to pick up the pace!” I grimaced.
So we left the riverbank, and hiked so fast that I felt like I was running. At this point, I was already exhausted and began the long process of keeping my mind off of the immense amount of ground that we had to cover. At first, it was exciting; I imagined that I was Daniel Day Lewis in the climax of The Last of the Mohicans. The music started playing in my head, and for a while, it worked. After a bit, I fell out of the role that my head had created for myself. Somehow, “Old MacDonald had a Farm” crept into my head because Rodolfo had mentioned something about pigs. This played in my head for a good while, until I realized what was happening and made it stop. I can assure you, at this point, I was feeling the beginning stages of dehydration.
I switched the song in my head to "Fugee-La" by The Fugees, and that raised my spirits for a moment. Then I became so miserable, that I wanted to punch my past-self for floating on air at the beginning of the hike. I began to thing of all the possible ways that the hike could be worse: if I was in Nam, and Charlie was behind those giant trees; if someone was chasing me with a knife; if I didn’t have Z there with me; if I was lost; if I had a hangnail on my toe; if I had the flu. This is what ran through my mind as my body rapidly leaked water that I didn’t have to replace it.
As we hiked the final kilometers of our journey, things got pretty bad. I, of course, did not tell this to Z or Rodolfo, because I am a man. However, I do remember us stopping and Rodolfo pointing out a unique tree. I looked at the tree and it slowly began to morph into different sizes and shapes as if I was on acid. “That’s a nice tree, Rodolfo,” I slurred. “Now, let’s go.”
With a kilometer or so to go, I found myself more stumbling than walking. By this time, I had developed an unbearable chafed rash between my legs, and my hiking shoes had cut into my ankles, drawing blood. Rodolfo stopped us, went into the jungle, and came back holding two lemons. He cut one in half and handed Z and I some lemon. I looked at him with total confusion. Would the lemon quench my thirst? Are the liquids enough to make an impact? I sucked juice from the lemon and looked back at Rodolfo with pure anger. The lemon was sour as hell and only made me thirsty. At this point, I was not sure what was going on.
After twenty-four kilometers of hiking, we emerged from the jungle into a clearing. Across a great green lawn was the Sirena ranger’s station. Z and I heaved off our packs, took off our mud-soaked shoes, and sat down on comfortable Adirondack chairs. Rodolfo brought us each a giant bottle of water, which we promptly downed. Several people were sitting on the porch of the compound, and looked at us with interest. These were all people who had arrived by boat or plane. A couple of them began asking us questions which I answered in a language that was not entirely English. Z and I kissed, and sat for a while regaining our strength. Rodolfo came over and informed us that we had done the 24 kilometers in six and a half hours: half an hour short of his record.
The Sirena ranger’s station is a surreal place. Surrounded by untamed rainforest for dozens of miles in every direction, the compound is completely isolated. About three-hundred meters down a grass landing strip from the beach, all supplies and materials are brought by boat and plane. The place was an oasis for us, a hallucination.
After catching our breaths on the porch, Rodolfo showed us around the grounds. We would be staying in a tent which was in a shared, screened-in room. There was a dining hall, a few dorm rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom with showers. He told us to shower, and then check each other’s whole bodies for ticks. I looked at Z and gave her a wanton look. We smiled for the first time in hours.
After peeling ticks off of our bodies, we suited up again for our late afternoon hike to the beach. Feeling rejuvenated by the water and shower, I was chatty again. We were on our way to the mouth of the Sirena river. After a paltry kilometer’s walk through the woods, we emerged onto the most deserted beach that I have ever seen. For miles, there were no people, houses, buildings, or any sign of civilization. We realized just how remote Sirena was.
My whole life, I have been obsessed with sharks. I did projects on them in elementary school; Shark Week is a holy time for me. Therefore, my excitement grew as we strolled along the beach toward the river mouth known to be the best shark watching spot in Costa Rica. This was the moment that I was waiting for.
The sun inched its way toward the horizon, seeming to hover over the blue ocean. We gazed out at the spot where the river meets the ocean, looking for fins. Suddenly, there they were: big bull sharks. They looked black with the sun behind them. Sporadically, one would pop its dorsal and tail fin out of the water, revealing its size. Stalking the shallow waters for fish popping out of the river, the sharks always can be found at Boca Sirena. After years of studying sharks, I finally saw one in the wild. It was exhilarating.
After a bit of shark-watching, Rodolfo took us away from the ocean to the banks of the Sirena River. Z and I stepped up and felt very glad to be on the south bank; on the opposite side lounged three giant crocodiles. One lay with his mouth open, exposing rows of large, white, razor-sharp teeth. Two of them seemed very relaxed, but one was walking around. As we watched them sun themselves, we grew as tired as they must have been. As the sun sank lower and lower, we abandoned the beach and made our way back to the station.
After a surprisingly good dinner in the dining hall, Z and I crawled into our tent. We curled up together and asked Rodolfo what time it was. 6:55. We spent the rest of the evening telling each other stories of how we met, which surely induced the vomiting of everyone else in the room. That night, we slept like logs.
Once again, we were awake at four, and hiking by a bit after five. This time, I had no illusions about what I was getting into. We had nineteen kilometers to hike, half of which was on the sandy beach. The cuts on my ankles made every step feel as if someone was cutting my Achilles tendon with a razor. My inner thighs were on fire from the rash, which made me walk bow-legged. My shoulders felt like they were being stabbed with daggers because my pack was so heavy. I was not a happy camper.
For someone who generally likes long walks on the beach, I was miserable. Every step was difficult because the sand gave so much. I found myself winded before we even ate breakfast. I admired Z for making it look easy as she glided across the deserted beaches. Rodolfo still had not released a bead of sweat, which made me hate him a little. Soaked with sweat, I took it one step at a time: “mule consciousness” as my father calls it.
While grueling and painful, the hike was exciting. Right away, we saw the rare Tapir running on the beach and bathing in a river. We saw monkeys, pisotes, anteaters, toucans, scarlet macaws and many interesting trees. The beach itself was both beautiful and haunting. At dawn, the beach looked smoky and mysterious. Shedding trees loomed over the sand and off of the bluffs and headlands. We were the only ones for many miles, swallowed by the massive park.
This time, I did not think about Vietnam or The Fugees. The pain of the hike was all-encompassing. It made it impossible to think about the beauty around me. Because of this, I collapsed in joy when we reached a resort at the exit of the park. Z, Rodolfo and I drank water, and relaxed after crossing the park’s south boundary. I slept in a hammock for half an hour before realizing that we still had three more kilometers more to hike on the beach to our rendezvous point with the white pick up. Feeling a bit revitalized by sleep, I strapped on my sandals and joined Z for the last leg of the journey.
These were the worst moments of my life. I had to stop frequently and rest. Z was a saint and walked with me. I was ready to kill Rodolfo for no reason other than the fact that he still hadn’t broken a sweat. By the time we reached the truck, I was considering the possibility that Rodolfo was a robot. I still ponder this sometimes.
The two hour ride from the town of Carate back to Puerto Jimenez was just pure. Z and I had done it: 45 kilometers in a matter of hours. When it came time to get out of the truck, neither of us could walk; our muscles had seized up. After falling into our rooms, we showered, checked for ticks and went to sleep.
It is only a few days since I returned from Corcovado, and my body still aches a bit. Looking back on it, I am very proud. Was it miserable? Yes. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely. Would I do it again? No.
I am glad that I had an opportunity to see a place that people rarely get to see. I am thrilled that I was able to do it with someone that I care about. As for our tour guide, I am still a bit angry that he never broke a sweat. Overall, Corcovado was an amazing experience. As I begin to close my Peace Corps service over the following months, I cherish these experiences. Before I know it, I will be back in New York, dreaming about sharks and tapirs and crocodiles. Until then, I will just have to take advantage of the fact that I am living the Tico adventure.
Every time Z arrives in Costa Rica, I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. She is classically beautiful and very intelligent. She works in the Miami-Dade public school system as a geography and civics teacher in a “D” middle school. The neighborhood in which she works is unsavory, and the children can be difficult. Z grapples with the same problems that I do as a Peace Corps volunteer. With so much in common (we both went to Michigan, have similar work, have an unhealthy obsession with fine foods and wines), it was only a matter of time before we came together. For the first time in years, I have found myself in love.
With Z in my arms, we boarded our small Nature Air plane headed for Puerto Jimenez. Normally, I am quite frugal here in Costa Rica. However, the bus ride to Puerto Jimenez lasts ten uncomfortable hours, whereas the flight lasts forty-five short minutes. So Z and I splurged and bought ourselves two extra days of vacation by winging our way south toward the desolate Osa Peninsula of the south Pacific coast. I peered down as we flew, admiring the blond mountains of the central valley, the Cathedral point peninsula of Manuel Antonio, the unique “whale’s tail” spit at Bahia Ballena, and finally the untouched wilderness of the Osa. Staring down at Corcovado as our tiny plane descended, I whispered to Z, “there’s nobody there.” I was right.
The heat smacked us in the face as we deplaned. It was welcoming for me; the weather of Jimenez is comparable to that of Puntarenas. This was Z’s first time in the overbearing Costa Rican heat. We were both glad that we had an air-conditioned room waiting for us at the fantastic Cabinas Jimenez.
We strolled through the small town, passing marisquerias, sodas and the promenade that lines the shores of the Gulfo Dulce. Immediately, I knew that Puerto Jimenez would be very different from the towns I know on the central Pacific. It was calm, safe, and clean.
That night, we took it easy. We had a short meeting with our guide, Rodolfo, at the tour company’s office. Pointing to the map, he showed us our route, and mentioned animals that we may see along the way. Rodolfo was a handsome Tico, who was clearly very experienced. After thanking the genial Rodolfo, we went to a restaurant where we ate fish that was clearly caught that day. Back in the room, we got our packs ready, and went to sleep.
When the alarm went off a bit after four in the morning, I jumped up and got myself ready. Z looked at me like I was crazy and caught a few more minutes of sleep. After coating myself in a film of sunscreen and bug spray, I was ready for the adventure to begin. Little did I know that what was coming my way would wipe the boyish smile off my face.
Rodolfo and his driver picked us up in a white, four-door pickup at five-thirty. I didn’t really give much thought to him when he said that my pack was a bit heavy as he tossed it in the back of the truck. I told him that it was the two big bottles of water that I had packed. “Uh-huh,” he said.
We drove on a newly paved road that was evidence of the growing popularity of the Osa. We stopped for breakfast at a little shack of a soda. As Z and I put away fried eggs, gallo pinto, coffee and avocado halves, I chatted it up with the proprietors and Rodolfo. I was giddy.
After a few kilometers, we pulled off the paved road and left civilization. At one point, we stopped and Rodolfo pointed out a pair of toucans eating their breakfast in the trees. The toucans were fun to look at. Their bodies are small, yet their beaks are huge. It is a wonder that they can fly with those neon colored things hanging off of their faces. Rodolfo then pointed to the other side of the road, where several scarlet macaws were playing in the branches. For those who are unfamiliar with scarlet macaws, think big parrots, but with deep red, blue and yellow feathers. The colors are so strikingly beautiful that it looks as if someone had painted them on. After watching them fly around, we got back in the truck and kept driving toward the park entrance.
A few kilometers further, we came to a river that split the road in two. “Shit,” I thought. “The road is out. What are we going to do?” My heart missed a few beats when I realized that the driver was not slowing down, but speeding up. With a few bumps, he flew the truck into the river, and drove right through it. After this happened a couple of times, I learned that the roads in those parts simply went through rivers if they weren’t deeper than two feet. So through the rivers we went until we reached the wooden structures of the Los Patos ranger station: the entrance to Corcovado National Park.
The driver waved to Rodolfo, Z and I, and drove off, leaving us with forty-five kilometers of hiking ahead of us. Each of us sprayed liberal amounts of high-deet bug spray onto our limbs and began our hike. The first day of hiking was through primary rainforest, which meant that it had never been touched by humans. With the lush foliage walling either side of the trail, we made our way up and down the hills. My hands immediately began to swell, and my arms started to tingle from all of the poisonous deet I had applied. Up and down we went, and before I knew it, I had sweat through every item of clothing on my body. Worried about dehydration, I took big gulps from my bottle.
Rodolfo led us through the paths effortlessly. He wore a small backpack and a tiny water bottle. Z walked behind him, and I behind her. As difficult as it was, we kept up with Rodolfo, who had the manner of a boy taking a light walk though the woods. We clipped away the kilometers at a rapid pace, which made both Z and I incredibly tired. I biffed it a few times, rolling my ankle on the omnipresent tree roots.
Regardless of the pace, I was happy. I kept thinking about how lucky I was to get to see such a beautiful place. My mind wandered to pure places. I thought about God, and how only he could create such beautiful birds and trees and animals. My mind was floating; I was high on the rainforest.
After a few hours, we stopped at a river to take a break. Z and I took several swigs from my bottles, while Rodolfo sat on the bank, smiling at the sun. We already looked worked, yet Rodolfo had not even broken a sweat. He took a small sip from his bottle and looked at me.
“You sweat a lot, eh?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “That’s why I packed extra water. I sweat so much that I get dehydrated quickly”
“What do you mean extra water?”
It was at this point, that Z and I realized that Rodolfo did not have the two big bottles of water that he told us he would bring. The smile on my face fell away. Z and I gave each other looks that said “oh, fuck.” Rodolfo picked up on this and said “this river water is fresh. It is safe to drink.” I looked up at Z who gave me a sharp, warning glare.
“I’ve already had Giardia once,” she said. “You go ahead if you want to.”
I stopped drinking my water and put the bottle away. Dehydration is one thing, parasites are another. We stood up to continue the hike.
“How much ground did we cover?” I asked
“About five kilometers,” Rodolfo responded. “We have about nineteen more to go.” I frowned at Z. “But the rest of the hike is flat.” I smiled at Z. “So we are going to have to pick up the pace!” I grimaced.
So we left the riverbank, and hiked so fast that I felt like I was running. At this point, I was already exhausted and began the long process of keeping my mind off of the immense amount of ground that we had to cover. At first, it was exciting; I imagined that I was Daniel Day Lewis in the climax of The Last of the Mohicans. The music started playing in my head, and for a while, it worked. After a bit, I fell out of the role that my head had created for myself. Somehow, “Old MacDonald had a Farm” crept into my head because Rodolfo had mentioned something about pigs. This played in my head for a good while, until I realized what was happening and made it stop. I can assure you, at this point, I was feeling the beginning stages of dehydration.
I switched the song in my head to "Fugee-La" by The Fugees, and that raised my spirits for a moment. Then I became so miserable, that I wanted to punch my past-self for floating on air at the beginning of the hike. I began to thing of all the possible ways that the hike could be worse: if I was in Nam, and Charlie was behind those giant trees; if someone was chasing me with a knife; if I didn’t have Z there with me; if I was lost; if I had a hangnail on my toe; if I had the flu. This is what ran through my mind as my body rapidly leaked water that I didn’t have to replace it.
As we hiked the final kilometers of our journey, things got pretty bad. I, of course, did not tell this to Z or Rodolfo, because I am a man. However, I do remember us stopping and Rodolfo pointing out a unique tree. I looked at the tree and it slowly began to morph into different sizes and shapes as if I was on acid. “That’s a nice tree, Rodolfo,” I slurred. “Now, let’s go.”
With a kilometer or so to go, I found myself more stumbling than walking. By this time, I had developed an unbearable chafed rash between my legs, and my hiking shoes had cut into my ankles, drawing blood. Rodolfo stopped us, went into the jungle, and came back holding two lemons. He cut one in half and handed Z and I some lemon. I looked at him with total confusion. Would the lemon quench my thirst? Are the liquids enough to make an impact? I sucked juice from the lemon and looked back at Rodolfo with pure anger. The lemon was sour as hell and only made me thirsty. At this point, I was not sure what was going on.
After twenty-four kilometers of hiking, we emerged from the jungle into a clearing. Across a great green lawn was the Sirena ranger’s station. Z and I heaved off our packs, took off our mud-soaked shoes, and sat down on comfortable Adirondack chairs. Rodolfo brought us each a giant bottle of water, which we promptly downed. Several people were sitting on the porch of the compound, and looked at us with interest. These were all people who had arrived by boat or plane. A couple of them began asking us questions which I answered in a language that was not entirely English. Z and I kissed, and sat for a while regaining our strength. Rodolfo came over and informed us that we had done the 24 kilometers in six and a half hours: half an hour short of his record.
The Sirena ranger’s station is a surreal place. Surrounded by untamed rainforest for dozens of miles in every direction, the compound is completely isolated. About three-hundred meters down a grass landing strip from the beach, all supplies and materials are brought by boat and plane. The place was an oasis for us, a hallucination.
After catching our breaths on the porch, Rodolfo showed us around the grounds. We would be staying in a tent which was in a shared, screened-in room. There was a dining hall, a few dorm rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom with showers. He told us to shower, and then check each other’s whole bodies for ticks. I looked at Z and gave her a wanton look. We smiled for the first time in hours.
After peeling ticks off of our bodies, we suited up again for our late afternoon hike to the beach. Feeling rejuvenated by the water and shower, I was chatty again. We were on our way to the mouth of the Sirena river. After a paltry kilometer’s walk through the woods, we emerged onto the most deserted beach that I have ever seen. For miles, there were no people, houses, buildings, or any sign of civilization. We realized just how remote Sirena was.
My whole life, I have been obsessed with sharks. I did projects on them in elementary school; Shark Week is a holy time for me. Therefore, my excitement grew as we strolled along the beach toward the river mouth known to be the best shark watching spot in Costa Rica. This was the moment that I was waiting for.
The sun inched its way toward the horizon, seeming to hover over the blue ocean. We gazed out at the spot where the river meets the ocean, looking for fins. Suddenly, there they were: big bull sharks. They looked black with the sun behind them. Sporadically, one would pop its dorsal and tail fin out of the water, revealing its size. Stalking the shallow waters for fish popping out of the river, the sharks always can be found at Boca Sirena. After years of studying sharks, I finally saw one in the wild. It was exhilarating.
After a bit of shark-watching, Rodolfo took us away from the ocean to the banks of the Sirena River. Z and I stepped up and felt very glad to be on the south bank; on the opposite side lounged three giant crocodiles. One lay with his mouth open, exposing rows of large, white, razor-sharp teeth. Two of them seemed very relaxed, but one was walking around. As we watched them sun themselves, we grew as tired as they must have been. As the sun sank lower and lower, we abandoned the beach and made our way back to the station.
After a surprisingly good dinner in the dining hall, Z and I crawled into our tent. We curled up together and asked Rodolfo what time it was. 6:55. We spent the rest of the evening telling each other stories of how we met, which surely induced the vomiting of everyone else in the room. That night, we slept like logs.
Once again, we were awake at four, and hiking by a bit after five. This time, I had no illusions about what I was getting into. We had nineteen kilometers to hike, half of which was on the sandy beach. The cuts on my ankles made every step feel as if someone was cutting my Achilles tendon with a razor. My inner thighs were on fire from the rash, which made me walk bow-legged. My shoulders felt like they were being stabbed with daggers because my pack was so heavy. I was not a happy camper.
For someone who generally likes long walks on the beach, I was miserable. Every step was difficult because the sand gave so much. I found myself winded before we even ate breakfast. I admired Z for making it look easy as she glided across the deserted beaches. Rodolfo still had not released a bead of sweat, which made me hate him a little. Soaked with sweat, I took it one step at a time: “mule consciousness” as my father calls it.
While grueling and painful, the hike was exciting. Right away, we saw the rare Tapir running on the beach and bathing in a river. We saw monkeys, pisotes, anteaters, toucans, scarlet macaws and many interesting trees. The beach itself was both beautiful and haunting. At dawn, the beach looked smoky and mysterious. Shedding trees loomed over the sand and off of the bluffs and headlands. We were the only ones for many miles, swallowed by the massive park.
This time, I did not think about Vietnam or The Fugees. The pain of the hike was all-encompassing. It made it impossible to think about the beauty around me. Because of this, I collapsed in joy when we reached a resort at the exit of the park. Z, Rodolfo and I drank water, and relaxed after crossing the park’s south boundary. I slept in a hammock for half an hour before realizing that we still had three more kilometers more to hike on the beach to our rendezvous point with the white pick up. Feeling a bit revitalized by sleep, I strapped on my sandals and joined Z for the last leg of the journey.
These were the worst moments of my life. I had to stop frequently and rest. Z was a saint and walked with me. I was ready to kill Rodolfo for no reason other than the fact that he still hadn’t broken a sweat. By the time we reached the truck, I was considering the possibility that Rodolfo was a robot. I still ponder this sometimes.
The two hour ride from the town of Carate back to Puerto Jimenez was just pure. Z and I had done it: 45 kilometers in a matter of hours. When it came time to get out of the truck, neither of us could walk; our muscles had seized up. After falling into our rooms, we showered, checked for ticks and went to sleep.
It is only a few days since I returned from Corcovado, and my body still aches a bit. Looking back on it, I am very proud. Was it miserable? Yes. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely. Would I do it again? No.
I am glad that I had an opportunity to see a place that people rarely get to see. I am thrilled that I was able to do it with someone that I care about. As for our tour guide, I am still a bit angry that he never broke a sweat. Overall, Corcovado was an amazing experience. As I begin to close my Peace Corps service over the following months, I cherish these experiences. Before I know it, I will be back in New York, dreaming about sharks and tapirs and crocodiles. Until then, I will just have to take advantage of the fact that I am living the Tico adventure.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Ticos: A People of Contradictions
Ticos are a mysterious people. Just when I think that I’ve got them pinned down, they surprise me with new behavior. I am finishing my second year in country, and am yet to fully understand them. I try not to make generalizations about Ticos, but have found it to be impossible. When an individual is integrated so completely into a culture, one cannot help but pick up on patterns. As I begin to close my service here in Costa Rica, I have found Ticos to have a fantastic culture. However, it is one riddled with contradictions that have made Ticos difficult to understand.
The most prominent contradiction that I have observed relates to the way women are treated in Tico culture. Having seen the detrimental effects of the “machista” way of life on women here, I have grown to appreciate the equal opportunities women are granted in the United States. The machista culture instills in the minds of young girls and women the idea that they are not deserving of all the educational, professional and cultural opportunities that males are entitled to. I know that this is not unique to Latino culture, or that of any other country. However, it is difficult for me to see my brightest female students hindered by teenage pregnancy, abusive male figureheads and a status quo that expects them to stay in the home.
I discovered the detrimental effects of sexism in Tico life early on in my service, and let it embitter me. I resented Ticos for being so shortsighted and obtuse in their perspective. But then I began to notice a glaring difference between a public, macro treatment of women, and the private, micro attitude that I had initially observed. What first caught my attention was the large amount of professional women that I work with. Granted, I am working in institutions of education and social work; however, I saw that women were not only included in the workplace, they oftentimes ran it. I noticed that the directors of most of the schools in the area were women. The director of the Puntarenas PANI office is a woman, as are most of her subordinates. What really piqued my attention took place this past June, when a woman named Laura Chinchilla won the leading party’s primary to become the current frontrunner for next month’s presidential elections. If trends continue, the next Tico president will be a woman! How does that happen in a culture that has been traditionally machista?
The only sense that I have been able to make of such a discrepancy is that I have been living in the most impoverished population of Costa Rica. When I meet wealthier families in Escazu, I don’t see teenage pregnancy or stay at home wives. So is wealth the golden ticket? Does the amount of opportunity for women increase with the size of the family bank account?
In short, yes. In my opinion (and I do not think that I am the first to say it), the more money one’s family has, the higher their level of education. With education comes open mindedness and a pattern of planning. This means that a teenage girl knows to use condoms, because her parents have spoken with her about them. This means that a young girl will do her homework because her father in helping her because he has the time to, and wants her to live a life of continued wealth. Don’t get me wrong, there are outliers: wealthy denigrated women and poor empowered ones. However, my observation has been that the poorer the population, the less opportunity there is for girls and women.
The strangest contradictions that I observe in Tico culture stem from the Catholic Church. For all intents and purposes, Ticos are Catholic. It is the proud national religion; most people go to church on Sundays with great joy and enthusiasm. What has made me scratch my head is that Catholicism is so ingrained in the culture, yet much behavior of Ticos does not reflect Catholic values. For example, it is illegal to get an abortion in Costa Rica. This is a clear reflection of the Catholic way of life on Tico public policy. However, prostitution is legal here. Not only is it legal, but it is unregulated. I may be wrong, but I think that such a policy stands in stark contrast to Catholic values. I am yet to understand the thought process that brought such a contradiction to be.
I once had a hilarious conversation with a fellow teacher at the school. She was hosting an American student studying abroad in Puntarenas. Having observed the study abroad students, she snapped her fingers and said to me “los estudiantes gringos son muy PROMISCUOUS!” She told me of how she had seen the study abroad students dancing in the bars and having sex on the beach. She snapped her fingers again when she told me about the giant bulk box of condoms she had found in her guest’s room. I told her that it was true, American college students do like their casual sex. I told her though that after college, we Americans usually calm down a bit and eventually start families. She furrowed her brow and said “huh! You Americans have a lot of sex, then get married, then have children. Us Ticos, we do it the other way around!” I laughed until I got stitches in my sides.
After I caught my breath, I realized that she wasn’t kidding. Most Ticos do have sex and children out of wedlock. Most couples that I know don’t even get married, they simply cohabitate, which eventually becomes a “Union Libre.” What puzzles me is that such a Catholic people could create such a pattern. Could it be that my American conception of Catholic law is different from the Tico paradigm? Is this okay by Tico Catholic standards? In a country that finds the church valuable enough to influence its laws, how is it that basic rules of marriage are sidestepped? I do not make judgment on the Tico family structure; I wonder why the contradiction exists.
Costa Rica is considered by the entire world to be an environmentally friendly nation. All foreigners who visit these shores expect Costa Rica to surpass the green initiatives of their countries. They expect recycling, clean air, clean water and the preservation of all of the wildlife that their native countries have already purged by their eco-unfriendly ways. For the most part, their expectations are met because they are usually escorted to the tourist villages that dot the Costa Rican map. They usually interact with Ticos who are in the tourism industry, and other tourists. What most visitors do not see is the average Tico town.
In the average Tico town, littering is not unusual or discouraged. I have seen people on the beaches of Puntarenas bring bags of trash from their homes, and heave them into the ocean. My town does not recycle. Following Tico tradition, many Ticos burn their trash. In the past, this was the only way to get rid of it. So even though my town gets trash pick-up twice a week, people still burn huge piles of plastic and chemicals, releasing untold amounts of carcinogens into the air.
I am not trying to tarnish the Ticos’ green reputation. They do have an unusually small carbon footprint and are successful conservationists. I just noticed that there is a discord between the policies of Costa Rica and the behavior of its people.
One of Costa Rica’s green policies is unrivaled in its dedication to preserve its unique biodiversity: its national park system. As I mentioned in a previous blog, about a quarter of all Costa Rican land is protected. The Costa Rican government is wise in protecting such land; it is this land that tourists fly thousands of miles to see. However, two trends are likely to threaten the protected and unprotected natural beauty of Costa Rica: development and population booms.
Costa Rica is a small country with a small population. About four million people live in Costa Rica and about three million of those live in the densely populated Central Valley. This means that Costa Rica can afford to devote a quarter of its land to preservation. When there are few people who depend on that land for farming or developing, fencing it off is easy. A fellow volunteer once asked me the million dollar question: what happens in a few years when the population doubles?
Costa Rica is a very different country now as opposed to twenty years ago. It is becoming developed and more crowded. Thousands of foreign expatriates live here and tens of thousands of tourists visit each year. In the past several years, the country has been infused with tourist money which it has used to develop itself. With new roads, new hotels and even new towns, more land is being cleared. The writing on the wall says that Costa Rica has only just begun to grow.
So if the population keeps growing at such an exponential rate, how long will Costa Rica be able to keep its eco-friendly stamp? I do not know. However, I do know that one simple product can alleviate the problem: the condom. Families here are huge. The size of the families here has little to do with the church or the country’s obsession with babies; it is the absence of family planning.
Planned pregnancies here are rare; most happen because of a lack of knowledge regarding contraception. This phenomenon can be changed via education. A case-in-point is the role of the condom in America. My generation may be the first to come to expect condom use. In college, if two people were having sex, it was assumed that they were using condoms or birth control pills. My parents’ generation was not the same way. The generation before? Forget about it.
I feel that when I teach condom use in my community, its benefits are twofold: protecting people from unwanted pregnancy and disease, and protecting the environment. If Costa Rica can plan pregnancies, it can remain a small country. If it can remain a small country, its natural beauty should remain safe. If the population continues to burgeon, who knows what will happen to the protected areas?
Ticos are full of contradictions. But what people are not? I am from a country that is “fighting war for peace.” France prides itself on its lack of dirty coal energy, yet has several of its nuclear plants on its border, upwind of Germany. So I guess Ticos are fairly normal in their culture of contradictions. I just thought that it may be a good idea to acknowledge them in order to learn from them.
The most prominent contradiction that I have observed relates to the way women are treated in Tico culture. Having seen the detrimental effects of the “machista” way of life on women here, I have grown to appreciate the equal opportunities women are granted in the United States. The machista culture instills in the minds of young girls and women the idea that they are not deserving of all the educational, professional and cultural opportunities that males are entitled to. I know that this is not unique to Latino culture, or that of any other country. However, it is difficult for me to see my brightest female students hindered by teenage pregnancy, abusive male figureheads and a status quo that expects them to stay in the home.
I discovered the detrimental effects of sexism in Tico life early on in my service, and let it embitter me. I resented Ticos for being so shortsighted and obtuse in their perspective. But then I began to notice a glaring difference between a public, macro treatment of women, and the private, micro attitude that I had initially observed. What first caught my attention was the large amount of professional women that I work with. Granted, I am working in institutions of education and social work; however, I saw that women were not only included in the workplace, they oftentimes ran it. I noticed that the directors of most of the schools in the area were women. The director of the Puntarenas PANI office is a woman, as are most of her subordinates. What really piqued my attention took place this past June, when a woman named Laura Chinchilla won the leading party’s primary to become the current frontrunner for next month’s presidential elections. If trends continue, the next Tico president will be a woman! How does that happen in a culture that has been traditionally machista?
The only sense that I have been able to make of such a discrepancy is that I have been living in the most impoverished population of Costa Rica. When I meet wealthier families in Escazu, I don’t see teenage pregnancy or stay at home wives. So is wealth the golden ticket? Does the amount of opportunity for women increase with the size of the family bank account?
In short, yes. In my opinion (and I do not think that I am the first to say it), the more money one’s family has, the higher their level of education. With education comes open mindedness and a pattern of planning. This means that a teenage girl knows to use condoms, because her parents have spoken with her about them. This means that a young girl will do her homework because her father in helping her because he has the time to, and wants her to live a life of continued wealth. Don’t get me wrong, there are outliers: wealthy denigrated women and poor empowered ones. However, my observation has been that the poorer the population, the less opportunity there is for girls and women.
The strangest contradictions that I observe in Tico culture stem from the Catholic Church. For all intents and purposes, Ticos are Catholic. It is the proud national religion; most people go to church on Sundays with great joy and enthusiasm. What has made me scratch my head is that Catholicism is so ingrained in the culture, yet much behavior of Ticos does not reflect Catholic values. For example, it is illegal to get an abortion in Costa Rica. This is a clear reflection of the Catholic way of life on Tico public policy. However, prostitution is legal here. Not only is it legal, but it is unregulated. I may be wrong, but I think that such a policy stands in stark contrast to Catholic values. I am yet to understand the thought process that brought such a contradiction to be.
I once had a hilarious conversation with a fellow teacher at the school. She was hosting an American student studying abroad in Puntarenas. Having observed the study abroad students, she snapped her fingers and said to me “los estudiantes gringos son muy PROMISCUOUS!” She told me of how she had seen the study abroad students dancing in the bars and having sex on the beach. She snapped her fingers again when she told me about the giant bulk box of condoms she had found in her guest’s room. I told her that it was true, American college students do like their casual sex. I told her though that after college, we Americans usually calm down a bit and eventually start families. She furrowed her brow and said “huh! You Americans have a lot of sex, then get married, then have children. Us Ticos, we do it the other way around!” I laughed until I got stitches in my sides.
After I caught my breath, I realized that she wasn’t kidding. Most Ticos do have sex and children out of wedlock. Most couples that I know don’t even get married, they simply cohabitate, which eventually becomes a “Union Libre.” What puzzles me is that such a Catholic people could create such a pattern. Could it be that my American conception of Catholic law is different from the Tico paradigm? Is this okay by Tico Catholic standards? In a country that finds the church valuable enough to influence its laws, how is it that basic rules of marriage are sidestepped? I do not make judgment on the Tico family structure; I wonder why the contradiction exists.
Costa Rica is considered by the entire world to be an environmentally friendly nation. All foreigners who visit these shores expect Costa Rica to surpass the green initiatives of their countries. They expect recycling, clean air, clean water and the preservation of all of the wildlife that their native countries have already purged by their eco-unfriendly ways. For the most part, their expectations are met because they are usually escorted to the tourist villages that dot the Costa Rican map. They usually interact with Ticos who are in the tourism industry, and other tourists. What most visitors do not see is the average Tico town.
In the average Tico town, littering is not unusual or discouraged. I have seen people on the beaches of Puntarenas bring bags of trash from their homes, and heave them into the ocean. My town does not recycle. Following Tico tradition, many Ticos burn their trash. In the past, this was the only way to get rid of it. So even though my town gets trash pick-up twice a week, people still burn huge piles of plastic and chemicals, releasing untold amounts of carcinogens into the air.
I am not trying to tarnish the Ticos’ green reputation. They do have an unusually small carbon footprint and are successful conservationists. I just noticed that there is a discord between the policies of Costa Rica and the behavior of its people.
One of Costa Rica’s green policies is unrivaled in its dedication to preserve its unique biodiversity: its national park system. As I mentioned in a previous blog, about a quarter of all Costa Rican land is protected. The Costa Rican government is wise in protecting such land; it is this land that tourists fly thousands of miles to see. However, two trends are likely to threaten the protected and unprotected natural beauty of Costa Rica: development and population booms.
Costa Rica is a small country with a small population. About four million people live in Costa Rica and about three million of those live in the densely populated Central Valley. This means that Costa Rica can afford to devote a quarter of its land to preservation. When there are few people who depend on that land for farming or developing, fencing it off is easy. A fellow volunteer once asked me the million dollar question: what happens in a few years when the population doubles?
Costa Rica is a very different country now as opposed to twenty years ago. It is becoming developed and more crowded. Thousands of foreign expatriates live here and tens of thousands of tourists visit each year. In the past several years, the country has been infused with tourist money which it has used to develop itself. With new roads, new hotels and even new towns, more land is being cleared. The writing on the wall says that Costa Rica has only just begun to grow.
So if the population keeps growing at such an exponential rate, how long will Costa Rica be able to keep its eco-friendly stamp? I do not know. However, I do know that one simple product can alleviate the problem: the condom. Families here are huge. The size of the families here has little to do with the church or the country’s obsession with babies; it is the absence of family planning.
Planned pregnancies here are rare; most happen because of a lack of knowledge regarding contraception. This phenomenon can be changed via education. A case-in-point is the role of the condom in America. My generation may be the first to come to expect condom use. In college, if two people were having sex, it was assumed that they were using condoms or birth control pills. My parents’ generation was not the same way. The generation before? Forget about it.
I feel that when I teach condom use in my community, its benefits are twofold: protecting people from unwanted pregnancy and disease, and protecting the environment. If Costa Rica can plan pregnancies, it can remain a small country. If it can remain a small country, its natural beauty should remain safe. If the population continues to burgeon, who knows what will happen to the protected areas?
Ticos are full of contradictions. But what people are not? I am from a country that is “fighting war for peace.” France prides itself on its lack of dirty coal energy, yet has several of its nuclear plants on its border, upwind of Germany. So I guess Ticos are fairly normal in their culture of contradictions. I just thought that it may be a good idea to acknowledge them in order to learn from them.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Sustainability
Throughout the Peace Corps experience, the importance of sustainability in projects is drilled into the head of every volunteer. Because we volunteers offer our sites no financial backing for their development, we can only offer our ideas and hard work. The goal is that the results of our work will not fade when we leave our sites. Rather a lasting impact is expected of us; we are expected to plant a seed that the site then cultivates. To simplify: “you give a man a fish; you feed him for a day. You teach him how to fish, you feed him for life.”
To consistently create sustainable projects in one’s site is easier said than done. A volunteer cannot simply create the perfect sustainable project in his or her head and implement it. The volunteer must first consult with counterparts, and tailor projects to their needs. I have had many creative, sustainable project proposals shot down by my school’s director. I have been told by some of my counterparts exactly what they need; these requests are often for unsustainable work. So I have had to find a balance between catering to the desires of the institutions in which I work and working on projects that I feel could be sustainable.
A major problem that many of my colleagues in the Children, Youth and Families program encounter is that sustainability is not easy to measure in educational work. Who knows if what you teach has a lasting impact on the community? How can you tell if the community will take ownership over the information that you share? For most volunteers, you just have to put your work out there and hope that the information catches on somewhere and takes off after you leave.
I am a rare volunteer who has been lucky enough to see sustainability in action. The other day, I was approached by Xinia, the teacher at the school who facilitates the Chicas Super Poderosas group with me. She invited me to a workshop that she was putting on for a small group of students. I happily accepted and did not think much of it.
The next day, I walked into a classroom filled with children laying on mats. I smiled; the kids looked like they were excited about any workshop that involved laying down. As Xinia made her way through the lesson, I became filled with pride. What had me so excited was that the workshop was a variation on one of the lessons we gave during the Chicas Super Poderosas program. It was as if she had torn a page from the manual.
I had always planned on speaking with Xinia about continuing Chicas Super Poderosas after I leave. However, she beat me to the punch by putting on the workshop. Afterwards, we spoke about the coming end of the school year and the Chicas program. We agreed that we would start a new Chicas group the following school year in February. I reminded her that I would be ending my service before the program would end. She told me not to worry, that she would continue it. I beamed.
As I went to leave the school that day, I passed by the small classrooms and then paused. In a poetic moment, I took in what I had just experienced and took note of a group of small fruit trees lining the walkway. A year and a half ago, I had planted the trees as saplings. Now they had taken the form of small trees which would hopefully bear fruit long after I’m gone. I know that the metaphor may be a bit cheesy, but it is valid. I had planted a tree, both real and metaphorical, and now know that they will be there after I’m gone. My hope is that years from now, Chicas Super Poderosas can be identified as a part of the culture of the school just as the trees are part of its landscape.
To consistently create sustainable projects in one’s site is easier said than done. A volunteer cannot simply create the perfect sustainable project in his or her head and implement it. The volunteer must first consult with counterparts, and tailor projects to their needs. I have had many creative, sustainable project proposals shot down by my school’s director. I have been told by some of my counterparts exactly what they need; these requests are often for unsustainable work. So I have had to find a balance between catering to the desires of the institutions in which I work and working on projects that I feel could be sustainable.
A major problem that many of my colleagues in the Children, Youth and Families program encounter is that sustainability is not easy to measure in educational work. Who knows if what you teach has a lasting impact on the community? How can you tell if the community will take ownership over the information that you share? For most volunteers, you just have to put your work out there and hope that the information catches on somewhere and takes off after you leave.
I am a rare volunteer who has been lucky enough to see sustainability in action. The other day, I was approached by Xinia, the teacher at the school who facilitates the Chicas Super Poderosas group with me. She invited me to a workshop that she was putting on for a small group of students. I happily accepted and did not think much of it.
The next day, I walked into a classroom filled with children laying on mats. I smiled; the kids looked like they were excited about any workshop that involved laying down. As Xinia made her way through the lesson, I became filled with pride. What had me so excited was that the workshop was a variation on one of the lessons we gave during the Chicas Super Poderosas program. It was as if she had torn a page from the manual.
I had always planned on speaking with Xinia about continuing Chicas Super Poderosas after I leave. However, she beat me to the punch by putting on the workshop. Afterwards, we spoke about the coming end of the school year and the Chicas program. We agreed that we would start a new Chicas group the following school year in February. I reminded her that I would be ending my service before the program would end. She told me not to worry, that she would continue it. I beamed.
As I went to leave the school that day, I passed by the small classrooms and then paused. In a poetic moment, I took in what I had just experienced and took note of a group of small fruit trees lining the walkway. A year and a half ago, I had planted the trees as saplings. Now they had taken the form of small trees which would hopefully bear fruit long after I’m gone. I know that the metaphor may be a bit cheesy, but it is valid. I had planted a tree, both real and metaphorical, and now know that they will be there after I’m gone. My hope is that years from now, Chicas Super Poderosas can be identified as a part of the culture of the school just as the trees are part of its landscape.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Museo de los Niños
The adolescent girls at the albergue were pumped. They had completed the Chicas Súper Poderosas program and were ready for their gira (field trip). They had braved the “communication skills obstacle course” lesson, and the famous “day spa stress management” workshop. They were truly chicas super poderosas. The last session of the program: a trip to the children’s museum in San Jose.
The trip took a lot of planning and preparation. I met with the PANI (Costa Rican children’s services agency) director several times, and it seemed like each time we met, some detail of the trip had changed. However, in the end, she really came through. She managed to find the funds for transportation and lunch. A free-lance volunteer from California helped us get free admission to the museum. With an amazingly smooth planning period behind us, we prepared to leave Puntarenas and head for the big city.
I arrived at the albergue last Saturday at six-thirty in the morning, ready for the trip. The girls were all dressed up and ready to go. The tias donned their Sunday best; I was thrilled that they were so enthusiastic. The funniest part of the girls’ wardrobe was the layering. They wore t-shirts covered by long sleeved shirts covered by sweatshirts covered by jackets. For any gringo, San Jose would be considered a warm, tropical climate with temperatures in the low seventies. For these girls accustomed to the oppressive heat of Puntarenas, San Jose may as well have been the North Pole.
Per usual in Tico time, the bus arrived an hour late. But no matter to the girls; the anticipation of visiting the capital city was boiling in their veins. The hour spent waiting somehow turned into a dance party…as it usually does in Costa Rica. The tias were brimming with excitement and had to dance. So at six-thirty in the morning, nine adolescent girls, two tias, and this maladroit gringo boogied down to the dismay of all of the neighbors.
As we embarked on the two hour ride east to the capital, I received the biggest surprise of the trip: the girls were perfectly behaved. They sat still in their seats and gazed at the beautiful mountains as we passed them. The only trouble with the ride came from the mini-bus driver. Like a child with severe ADD, his eyes would stray from the road in front of him to check out a billboard or a stuffed animal that a child was playing with. I had suddenly become my father teaching me how to drive.
“Keep your eyes on the road.” I would say to him.
“Si, si, si!”
“Center your car in the lane.”
“Si, si, si!”
“Now it is raining, this is when you turn on your wipers.”
“Si, si, si!”
And so it went. Quick note to my father: I apologize for having been a 15 year old learning to drive.
We arrived safely and soundly at the museum, no thanks to our space cadet of a driver. As we approached the museum, the girls gasped with excitement. The structure is an impressive site: it is a looming converted prison on top of a hill at the northern edge of San Jose. While the building has been painted bright, friendly colors, it is clear that it used to house convicts with its panoptical design. Regardless, it was an amazing sight for the girls.
We got off the bus and filed into the museum where we met Ana Lucia, the PANI Director. In the first room, the girls participated in a hands-on lesson on the five senses, and how difficult it is to function without one of them. This was done to teach empathy for disabled people. The following exhibits were on space and space travel, volcanoes and earthquakes, and the history of Costa Rica and the evolution of Tico culture. In each room, guides explained the fun, hands-on exhibits while the girls took it in. Giggling from room to room, the girls were having a blast. They were clearly learning and having fun at the same time, which is the goal of every teacher.
We filed through the exhibits. From the rainforest to the human body to electricity, the girls soaked up the information. As we made our way through the museum, I had time to bond with the girls. They all got a kick out of my performance in the hall of mirrors (lets just say that the fat mirror was a big hit for them). Just as importantly, I had a chance to bond with Ana Lucia. Things are always a bit forced and curt when I see her in the PANI office. However, in the informal atmosphere of the museum, we were able to let our guards down and have fun. By the time we left the museum, I was even making her laugh.
After the morning that they had, you better bet that the girls were starving. So we walked down Avenida Central until we came to the golden arches. Yes, we had arrived at McDonalds. The kids were flipping out. For a group used to eating rice and beans every day, this was the best moment of their lives. After everyone had eaten their Happy Meals and ice cream, soft smiles settled on the girls’ faces.
It was time to go home. It had been quite the day, and the girls’ eyelids were growing heavy. We sat in front of the stately Teatro Nacional as we waited for the bus to pick us up (which it did forty-five minutes late). As the girls got into the bus and waved goodbye to San Jose, I couldn’t help but feel proud. I was proud of the girls for behaving so perfectly, proud of PANI for delivering, and proud of myself for getting the trip going.
Only six months left of my service remain. I know that as May comes closer and closer, I will have fewer of these moments of pride and success. So as I observed the girls learning and interacting, I did not take it for granted. I realized that it was a high point in my service, noted it, and was grateful.
The trip took a lot of planning and preparation. I met with the PANI (Costa Rican children’s services agency) director several times, and it seemed like each time we met, some detail of the trip had changed. However, in the end, she really came through. She managed to find the funds for transportation and lunch. A free-lance volunteer from California helped us get free admission to the museum. With an amazingly smooth planning period behind us, we prepared to leave Puntarenas and head for the big city.
I arrived at the albergue last Saturday at six-thirty in the morning, ready for the trip. The girls were all dressed up and ready to go. The tias donned their Sunday best; I was thrilled that they were so enthusiastic. The funniest part of the girls’ wardrobe was the layering. They wore t-shirts covered by long sleeved shirts covered by sweatshirts covered by jackets. For any gringo, San Jose would be considered a warm, tropical climate with temperatures in the low seventies. For these girls accustomed to the oppressive heat of Puntarenas, San Jose may as well have been the North Pole.
Per usual in Tico time, the bus arrived an hour late. But no matter to the girls; the anticipation of visiting the capital city was boiling in their veins. The hour spent waiting somehow turned into a dance party…as it usually does in Costa Rica. The tias were brimming with excitement and had to dance. So at six-thirty in the morning, nine adolescent girls, two tias, and this maladroit gringo boogied down to the dismay of all of the neighbors.
As we embarked on the two hour ride east to the capital, I received the biggest surprise of the trip: the girls were perfectly behaved. They sat still in their seats and gazed at the beautiful mountains as we passed them. The only trouble with the ride came from the mini-bus driver. Like a child with severe ADD, his eyes would stray from the road in front of him to check out a billboard or a stuffed animal that a child was playing with. I had suddenly become my father teaching me how to drive.
“Keep your eyes on the road.” I would say to him.
“Si, si, si!”
“Center your car in the lane.”
“Si, si, si!”
“Now it is raining, this is when you turn on your wipers.”
“Si, si, si!”
And so it went. Quick note to my father: I apologize for having been a 15 year old learning to drive.
We arrived safely and soundly at the museum, no thanks to our space cadet of a driver. As we approached the museum, the girls gasped with excitement. The structure is an impressive site: it is a looming converted prison on top of a hill at the northern edge of San Jose. While the building has been painted bright, friendly colors, it is clear that it used to house convicts with its panoptical design. Regardless, it was an amazing sight for the girls.
We got off the bus and filed into the museum where we met Ana Lucia, the PANI Director. In the first room, the girls participated in a hands-on lesson on the five senses, and how difficult it is to function without one of them. This was done to teach empathy for disabled people. The following exhibits were on space and space travel, volcanoes and earthquakes, and the history of Costa Rica and the evolution of Tico culture. In each room, guides explained the fun, hands-on exhibits while the girls took it in. Giggling from room to room, the girls were having a blast. They were clearly learning and having fun at the same time, which is the goal of every teacher.
We filed through the exhibits. From the rainforest to the human body to electricity, the girls soaked up the information. As we made our way through the museum, I had time to bond with the girls. They all got a kick out of my performance in the hall of mirrors (lets just say that the fat mirror was a big hit for them). Just as importantly, I had a chance to bond with Ana Lucia. Things are always a bit forced and curt when I see her in the PANI office. However, in the informal atmosphere of the museum, we were able to let our guards down and have fun. By the time we left the museum, I was even making her laugh.
After the morning that they had, you better bet that the girls were starving. So we walked down Avenida Central until we came to the golden arches. Yes, we had arrived at McDonalds. The kids were flipping out. For a group used to eating rice and beans every day, this was the best moment of their lives. After everyone had eaten their Happy Meals and ice cream, soft smiles settled on the girls’ faces.
It was time to go home. It had been quite the day, and the girls’ eyelids were growing heavy. We sat in front of the stately Teatro Nacional as we waited for the bus to pick us up (which it did forty-five minutes late). As the girls got into the bus and waved goodbye to San Jose, I couldn’t help but feel proud. I was proud of the girls for behaving so perfectly, proud of PANI for delivering, and proud of myself for getting the trip going.
Only six months left of my service remain. I know that as May comes closer and closer, I will have fewer of these moments of pride and success. So as I observed the girls learning and interacting, I did not take it for granted. I realized that it was a high point in my service, noted it, and was grateful.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Cats! The Invasion
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.
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.
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.
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