As I explained in an earlier blog, I run a girls’ empowerment group in my school called “Chicas Super Poderosas.” We have successfully completed workshops on leadership, communication, decision making, career/future planning, self-esteem, sexuality and relationships. All of these classes have gone well, and I have had the privilege of seeing the girls grow and bond as a group. The aim of the program is to put the girls on a career track, rather than the common fate for women in my barrio: have kids, shack up with a guy, and spend the rest of one’s life in the house.
The culminating event of the program is the gira (field trip). After several weeks of planning and stressing, I finally nailed down the destination of our gira: the pacific campus of Universidad de Costa Rica. I met with the university’s orientadora, Marta, and she suggested that I bring the girls to the university’s health fair. I thought it a good idea, and agreed.
While the plan seemed simple enough, the trip took a lot of planning and preparation. The hardest part was getting my school’s new director on board. She is the third director that we have had this year. This has made my life harder, because all of the plans that I made with the past two directors have to be re-approved by her. When I went over the gira with her, she seemed a bit wishy-washy. I firmly explained to her that the plans had already been approved by her predecessor, and that the plans are set in stone. “You don’t have to plan anything,” I said to her. “And to mettle with the gira would damage relations that you are developing with the girls, and any relationship we have with the university.” She seemed to respond positively to my firm stance, and gave the gira her blessing. All I needed from her, I told her, was permission slips to distribute before the next “Chicas” session.
This proved more difficult than one would think. I asked her for the permission slips nine days before the gira. The Monday before the gira, I asked if she had made the permission slips. She said no, but she would have them for me the next day. The next day, I went to her office and got the same response. That night, I typed up a permission slip to give to her. The next day, I told her that I had made one, and that all she had to do was paste the school’s letterhead to the top and sign it. “No, no,” she responded. “I have to do it.”
“My ‘Chicas’ session starts in two hours.” I said to her with a skeptical look.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make it, find all of the girls in class this afternoon, and have them bring it in tomorrow.”
“Ummm, okay.” I started to walk out of her office, but stopped and looked back at her. “Do you even know which girls are in the group?” She grimaced. I slid the list of names under her nose and walked out fuming.
I woke up the next day, Thursday, knowing that the director had not done what she promised. I had heard too many horror stories from friends about months of planning projects for naught because counterparts did not do their job. I was not about to let this happen. I walked into the director’s office to find that she had, in fact, printed out and signed the permission slips. However, none of the girls had them. The trip was the next day. I decided to take things into my own hands.
I buttered her up with all kinds of compliments. “You are doing such a good job here…the transition is going so well…I don’t know how you juggle so much at one time, you are always so busy!” She smiled and thanked me. “So listen, since you are so busy, let me handle the permission slips. She agreed, and I went to find the teacher who is my “partner” for the “Chicas” program. I asked her if she knew where any of the girls are, and she told me that most of them didn’t even have class that day.
“It looks like you and I are going to be the only ones on this gira!” She laughed, thinking she was being clever. I looked at her straight faced and asked her for the addresses of all the girls in the class. This was not funny. I had planned this trip for weeks. She told me that she didn’t know the girls’ addresses. I explained to her that they are on all class lists, not believing that she did not know this information. So she stopped chuckling and helped me gather the information. I spent the rest of the day going to each girl’s house, and having their mothers sign permission slips. Once I got them all, I brought them to the director, who looked at them with genuine shock.
“You are welcome to join us if you like,” I said before turning and leaving.
The gira was everything I hoped it would be. Eleven of the twelve girls showed up for the trip, along with the partner teacher, a parent chaperone, and my incredible friend and PTA president: Yessenia. Early in the morning, a fancy minibus pulled up to the school. The words “Universidad de Costa Rica” were painted on the side. Marta emerged and introduced herself to the girls. They immediately had a good rapport, and got on the bus together. There was something majestic about having the girls in the university bus, driving through the barrio. It was like a performance for the whole project: we are going to the university, how cool are we? Kids ran alongside the bus, tapping its side as if to ask “can we come too?” Looking at the girls smiles, I could tell that the trip was going to be a success.
We pulled up to the campus, and I heard several “oooh” and “ahhhs.” It is a beautiful site: on the water with grass courtyards and several picnic tables filled with conversing students. The girls were filed into chairs in the university’s open-air auditorium where they participated in a yoga demonstration and dance performance. Once this opening ceremony was completed, the girls were introduced to their guides for the day: several spunky and affable college students. There was an immediate connection between them; the kids fired off questions as they led us to our first classroom.
I was thrilled to see that the girls were engaging with the students. They, being college students, were obviously the coolest people on the planet to the girls. My hope is that they remember how cool they are when they think about attending university in seven or eight years. I wanted the girls to think: “maybe one day I can be that cool.” I’m pretty sure that that was the case for every single one of them.
The first classroom was split into three sections regarding personal hygiene. The girls watched hygiene themed puppet show in the first section. In the second, they learned the proper way to wash their hands and feet. In the final section (I don’t know how this relates to hygiene), the girls had a lesson on children’s rights. All of these lessons was planned and run by college students.
The next classroom involved a health themed English lesson. Again, there was a puppet show, a short skit, and a sing-along session. The girls seemed a bit lost when the university students started speaking in English about stomach aches and nutrition, but I think that they got the point. Again, the girls were thoroughly engaged with the students, and had to be torn from the classroom.
Our third room was one of the most enjoyable for the girls: a lesson in karate. A karate instructor taught the girls several self defense methods. The girls loved this, and got a kick out of fake-punching their friends in the throat. I made sure to emphasize what the instructor said: “only do this if you are being attacked by someone. Do not perform this attack on any of your friends or me.” Of course, I found myself being karate-chopped by the girls for the rest of the day.
Next, we had an aerobics class. The girls got a chance to do some spinning on stationary bikes, exercises on yoga balls, and a bit of weight lifting. This activity was cut short by our call to eat lunch at the university soda.
After lunch, the girls were led to the computer lab where they were taught how to use the internet. By the time our session was done, we literally had to pry them out of the chairs to get to our next session. This prompted Yessenia to mention to me that we really need to get our computer lab together. We have the computers and air conditioning; all we need are computer tables. “We’ve got to get on that” she said. I agreed and made a personal note to follow up on that.
We were led to the penultimate classroom where paramedics were waiting. No, nobody was hurt; they were there to teach the girls first aid and emergency response. The brave Ashley volunteered to play the victim in our little demonstration. Giggling the whole time, she was stabilized as a spinal injury victim. Ending up strapped to a board with a neck brace, she and the class thoroughly enjoyed the presentation and the friendly paramedics.
The last class was a workshop on how to make arts and crafts out of products that we usually consider to be trash. The concept is called art recycling. Out of plastic bottles, the girls made chalices. Out of milk cartons, they made vases. Several bags of “trash” were turned into beautiful works of art, which the girls happily took home.
We had to pry the girls out of the university building. “Can we stay until five? Six?” they asked over and over again. “Can we come back?” they asked Marta.
“Of course you can come back” she replied as she put us on the bus. The chaperones and I grinned at each other. The girls had never seen a university before. The concept had been obscure and intangible to them. But now, they were familiar with the university, and had very positive memories associated with it.
I remember that my high school grades jumped significantly after my first college visit. I knew that there was a reason to study hard: college. My hope is that the girls remember their visit throughout elementary and high school. Perhaps our one visit will prompt at least one of those girls to apply to the university, and si dios quiere, enroll.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Saturday, May 2, 2009
The Ridiculous/Terrible Things That Are Happening To Me
The Animals Have Taken Over…Again
It was midday, hot as hell. I sat at my kitchen table with a fan an inch from my face. I was working on a lesson plan, sipping iced coffee, when I heard footsteps in the shed area on the side of my house. Keeping in mind that I have been mugged twice so far, I grabbed a kitchen knife from a drawer. Moving as swiftly and silently as possible, I made my way out the front door toward the side of the house. I scaled the wall like James Bond, thoroughly entertaining all watching neighbors. I turned the corner and saw something truly puzzling.
I put down the knife and stared for a while. Sitting in a circle, facing each other, was a group of six cats. I had intruded upon a kitty party. They may as well have been holding cocktails and wearing nice shoes. Among them was my cat, Negro, who looked at me like an embarrassed teenager. “Dave! Get out of here; you’re embarrassing me in front of my friends!” his eyes communicated. I took a few steps back and left them.
These were clearly the cats that had been stealing Necio’s food and pissing all over my house. And since Negro didn’t even ask me if he could have company over, I went into my room and grabbed my soccer ball. Running at them full force, I heaved the ball at the group, completely missing them all. They scattered, fitting themselves through thin cracks in the roof. Feeling vindicated, I grabbed my ball and turned around to head back into the house. I blushed when I found that I had an audience of about five neighborhood kids. They were dying on the floor, laughing. I threw my ball into my room and looked at Negro, who was thoroughly disappointed.
I hate these cats.
The Second Plague
In an earlier blog, I explained how a frog couple decided to move into my shower drain. I must admit, it was cute at first. They would hop around my kitchen, my shower, my feet while I was in my shower, etc. I like frogs. They are cute. At least that is what I felt before the shit came.
For such small animals, frogs have the biggest shit. They must shit about a third of their body weight. And it is not like scentless rabbit poop; it stinks up the entire room. One of the reasons why I agreed to take Necio (I had no choice regarding Negro), was that there would be no touching of poop of any kind. The cats are good; they trek out to the bushes to make their deposits. But I have become fed up with cleaning up these frog messes. Therefore, I have declared war on the frogs.
It has been going like Vietnam. Every time, I catch a frog, I throw it out of my back door. Every time I kick one, it just sits there as if to invite more kicks. They are so stupid, that after I launch one into a bush, it hops right back to where I’m standing. They are like the Jesus Christ of amphibians, always turning the other cheek. While I have made significant captures, the loads of shit keep coming. And I keep cleaning it up.
I once held a can of raid to a frog, but found that I could not pull the trigger. I was not ready to use chemical weapons. I could not cross that line. I was hoping that Necio could help me get rid of these frogs. Turns out, he’s got bigger problems to manage.
Necio’s Got An Eating Disorder
Living up to his name, Necio is the most annoying cat ever. He doesn’t cuddle; he doesn’t like to be around people and is generally worthless. All he ever approaches me for is food. Food, food, food. Let me take you through a typical day with Necio as a roommate.
I am dreaming. Scarlett Johanson is making out with me on a mansion in the clouds. She stops kissing me for a second and gestures toward the bedroom. She leads me by the hand, and we start walking. Just as we are about to pass through the doors, the dream slowly melts away and I open my eyes.
Necio is sitting on my face. He is meowing at full volume, and scratching my chest. When he sees that I am awake, he stands on my chest, looks me in my eyes and starts yelling at me. He scratches my arms and shoulders. If he could ball his puny little paws into a fist, he would punch me in the face. He does not stop this until I get out of bed.
Before I can feed Necio, I must do what all men do when they wake up: go to the bathroom. Since I have the house to myself now, I leave the door open, as all bachelors are obligated to do by law. Necio does not respect the concept of bathroom privacy and jumps at my legs while I relieve myself. Necio does not know how very dangerous this is for him, and that one day, I may accidentally lose my aim.
Finally, the moment he has been waiting for: I pour his food into his bowl. He attacks it like a linebacker attacking a QB. Negro watches this with disgust. He is lounging on the floor with his cocktail, waiting for his date to arrive. After clearing out an entire bowl, Necio begs for more. I give him more. He vomits on the floor. I hate this cat.
No matter how long I’ve been out, he always begs for food when I return. His bowl may be completely full, but no matter to Necio. He wants to be fed. My psychiatrist friends have diagnosed him with Reactive Attachment Disorder, because he has moved homes so many times. I just think that he’s an asshole.
The Admirer
For some strange reason, the women in this country find me attractive. It may be the light hair and blue eyes, it may be the enormous biceps; I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. So a very strange thing happens when I walk down my street in gym attire: I get cat calls. Lots of them. At first, I was very flattered. As time passed, I became used to it. Most of the ladies are just joking around, having fun with me. I’m pretty good humored about it. I tell them how beautiful they look, and ask when they are going to turn twenty so that we can finally run away together. These women are fat, unattractive and old. We have a good time with it.
There is one woman who is not kidding around. She has always been a bit more serious with her cat calls than the other women. One day, she called me over and I abided. Very casually, as if she was offering me a cookie, she said that since I am alone, and she is alone that we should get married. Now, in Tico culture, I am sure that this is how many relationships start. I laughed and told her I couldn’t. Serious now, she demanded to know why not. Did I have a girlfriend? No. Was I gay? No. Than why not? I just told her that I didn’t really want a relationship and got out of there as quickly as I could.
A few weeks later, her friends called me over to their porch where my admirer was sitting. Again, I humored them and sat down with them. “Listen,” said my admirer’s neighbor, “why don’t you want to be with her?”
“I don’t want a serious relationship right now!” I responded.
“Well how about this,” she said, looking devilishly around to her friends and my admirer, “just one night together. No strings attached.” My face flushed, and I immediately became super uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t” I said, starting to get up. “I’m too romantic.”
My neighbor sat me down with her hand, and smiled. “Well then, she can cook you a romantic dinner, then you can have one night together.” I laughed. She was totally serious. I looked at my admirer. She was nodding her head vigorously.
I thanked the ladies for their offer, and escaped to my house. I concluded that the only way to fend the women off was to tell my admirer that I thought she was a total dog. Not wanting to do this, I decided that I would have to simply tolerate the hilarious harassment.
Now, every time I pass her house, my admirer offers me coffee. I have come up with every excuse in the book as to why I can’t drink coffee. It keeps me up all night. It gives me diarrhea. I am allergic and it will kill me. Still, she offers a cup daily.
Last week, she waved me over, and said that there is something that she needed help with in her house. This is actually not unusual for my neighbors to do; they often need things translated. I walked into her house, and her friends on the porch immediately closed the door and locked it. I was trapped inside with this lunatic. I looked her in the face and said “you have a beautiful house. It is very clean. Now please let me out.” She did. I laughed it up with the ladies, and told them that it was a hilarious joke, but not to ever do it again. They all roared with laughter. I walked away. I’m having trouble deciding in my head whether or not this is something I will miss when I return to the United States.
It was midday, hot as hell. I sat at my kitchen table with a fan an inch from my face. I was working on a lesson plan, sipping iced coffee, when I heard footsteps in the shed area on the side of my house. Keeping in mind that I have been mugged twice so far, I grabbed a kitchen knife from a drawer. Moving as swiftly and silently as possible, I made my way out the front door toward the side of the house. I scaled the wall like James Bond, thoroughly entertaining all watching neighbors. I turned the corner and saw something truly puzzling.
I put down the knife and stared for a while. Sitting in a circle, facing each other, was a group of six cats. I had intruded upon a kitty party. They may as well have been holding cocktails and wearing nice shoes. Among them was my cat, Negro, who looked at me like an embarrassed teenager. “Dave! Get out of here; you’re embarrassing me in front of my friends!” his eyes communicated. I took a few steps back and left them.
These were clearly the cats that had been stealing Necio’s food and pissing all over my house. And since Negro didn’t even ask me if he could have company over, I went into my room and grabbed my soccer ball. Running at them full force, I heaved the ball at the group, completely missing them all. They scattered, fitting themselves through thin cracks in the roof. Feeling vindicated, I grabbed my ball and turned around to head back into the house. I blushed when I found that I had an audience of about five neighborhood kids. They were dying on the floor, laughing. I threw my ball into my room and looked at Negro, who was thoroughly disappointed.
I hate these cats.
The Second Plague
In an earlier blog, I explained how a frog couple decided to move into my shower drain. I must admit, it was cute at first. They would hop around my kitchen, my shower, my feet while I was in my shower, etc. I like frogs. They are cute. At least that is what I felt before the shit came.
For such small animals, frogs have the biggest shit. They must shit about a third of their body weight. And it is not like scentless rabbit poop; it stinks up the entire room. One of the reasons why I agreed to take Necio (I had no choice regarding Negro), was that there would be no touching of poop of any kind. The cats are good; they trek out to the bushes to make their deposits. But I have become fed up with cleaning up these frog messes. Therefore, I have declared war on the frogs.
It has been going like Vietnam. Every time, I catch a frog, I throw it out of my back door. Every time I kick one, it just sits there as if to invite more kicks. They are so stupid, that after I launch one into a bush, it hops right back to where I’m standing. They are like the Jesus Christ of amphibians, always turning the other cheek. While I have made significant captures, the loads of shit keep coming. And I keep cleaning it up.
I once held a can of raid to a frog, but found that I could not pull the trigger. I was not ready to use chemical weapons. I could not cross that line. I was hoping that Necio could help me get rid of these frogs. Turns out, he’s got bigger problems to manage.
Necio’s Got An Eating Disorder
Living up to his name, Necio is the most annoying cat ever. He doesn’t cuddle; he doesn’t like to be around people and is generally worthless. All he ever approaches me for is food. Food, food, food. Let me take you through a typical day with Necio as a roommate.
I am dreaming. Scarlett Johanson is making out with me on a mansion in the clouds. She stops kissing me for a second and gestures toward the bedroom. She leads me by the hand, and we start walking. Just as we are about to pass through the doors, the dream slowly melts away and I open my eyes.
Necio is sitting on my face. He is meowing at full volume, and scratching my chest. When he sees that I am awake, he stands on my chest, looks me in my eyes and starts yelling at me. He scratches my arms and shoulders. If he could ball his puny little paws into a fist, he would punch me in the face. He does not stop this until I get out of bed.
Before I can feed Necio, I must do what all men do when they wake up: go to the bathroom. Since I have the house to myself now, I leave the door open, as all bachelors are obligated to do by law. Necio does not respect the concept of bathroom privacy and jumps at my legs while I relieve myself. Necio does not know how very dangerous this is for him, and that one day, I may accidentally lose my aim.
Finally, the moment he has been waiting for: I pour his food into his bowl. He attacks it like a linebacker attacking a QB. Negro watches this with disgust. He is lounging on the floor with his cocktail, waiting for his date to arrive. After clearing out an entire bowl, Necio begs for more. I give him more. He vomits on the floor. I hate this cat.
No matter how long I’ve been out, he always begs for food when I return. His bowl may be completely full, but no matter to Necio. He wants to be fed. My psychiatrist friends have diagnosed him with Reactive Attachment Disorder, because he has moved homes so many times. I just think that he’s an asshole.
The Admirer
For some strange reason, the women in this country find me attractive. It may be the light hair and blue eyes, it may be the enormous biceps; I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. So a very strange thing happens when I walk down my street in gym attire: I get cat calls. Lots of them. At first, I was very flattered. As time passed, I became used to it. Most of the ladies are just joking around, having fun with me. I’m pretty good humored about it. I tell them how beautiful they look, and ask when they are going to turn twenty so that we can finally run away together. These women are fat, unattractive and old. We have a good time with it.
There is one woman who is not kidding around. She has always been a bit more serious with her cat calls than the other women. One day, she called me over and I abided. Very casually, as if she was offering me a cookie, she said that since I am alone, and she is alone that we should get married. Now, in Tico culture, I am sure that this is how many relationships start. I laughed and told her I couldn’t. Serious now, she demanded to know why not. Did I have a girlfriend? No. Was I gay? No. Than why not? I just told her that I didn’t really want a relationship and got out of there as quickly as I could.
A few weeks later, her friends called me over to their porch where my admirer was sitting. Again, I humored them and sat down with them. “Listen,” said my admirer’s neighbor, “why don’t you want to be with her?”
“I don’t want a serious relationship right now!” I responded.
“Well how about this,” she said, looking devilishly around to her friends and my admirer, “just one night together. No strings attached.” My face flushed, and I immediately became super uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t” I said, starting to get up. “I’m too romantic.”
My neighbor sat me down with her hand, and smiled. “Well then, she can cook you a romantic dinner, then you can have one night together.” I laughed. She was totally serious. I looked at my admirer. She was nodding her head vigorously.
I thanked the ladies for their offer, and escaped to my house. I concluded that the only way to fend the women off was to tell my admirer that I thought she was a total dog. Not wanting to do this, I decided that I would have to simply tolerate the hilarious harassment.
Now, every time I pass her house, my admirer offers me coffee. I have come up with every excuse in the book as to why I can’t drink coffee. It keeps me up all night. It gives me diarrhea. I am allergic and it will kill me. Still, she offers a cup daily.
Last week, she waved me over, and said that there is something that she needed help with in her house. This is actually not unusual for my neighbors to do; they often need things translated. I walked into her house, and her friends on the porch immediately closed the door and locked it. I was trapped inside with this lunatic. I looked her in the face and said “you have a beautiful house. It is very clean. Now please let me out.” She did. I laughed it up with the ladies, and told them that it was a hilarious joke, but not to ever do it again. They all roared with laughter. I walked away. I’m having trouble deciding in my head whether or not this is something I will miss when I return to the United States.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Success Stories
When asked about how one adjusts to life as a volunteer, my predecessor plainly said: “life here just becomes normal.” No conscious coping mechanisms, no cultural battles; Peace Corps life simply becomes life. As I enter my fifteenth month here, I see exactly what Marianne meant. I’ve found it to be fantastic.
One of the challenges of Peace Corps is adjusting to the overwhelming differences between American and Tico life. I have become so busy lately that I do not even notice the differences anymore. In the beginning, the job was so difficult because one has to make his own work and projects here; the task can be daunting for someone who does not have a professional network or strong language skills to work with. Now, I have become so integrated into both my professional and residential communities that I have more work than I know what to do with. During the month of April, I worked nine to five days.
So why is this fantastic? One of the most difficult adjustments to make in the beginning is how to manage your free time. In Peace Corps, free time can often be a killer. Free time often harbors feelings of worthlessness, loneliness and homesickness. Since I have been so busy with work, I feel super productive; I feel like I am a good volunteer. With such a packed schedule, I enable myself to truly enjoy my free time. Because I’ve earned it, it is something to relish rather than dread. This balance that I have found has made me truly happy as a Peace Corps Volunteer here in Costa Rica.
My happiness has a lot to do with seeing the fruits of my labor. So often in Peace Corps, one invests his time and effort into projects that will never reveal tangible results. Hours invested in starting a computer class may be for naught when your counterpart suddenly changes his mind about the value of the class. But this has not been the case with me in April. I’ve experienced some major victories.
I experienced my most happy and proud moment of Peace Corps a few days ago when my albergue kids and I finally completed our collection of poetry created in our weekly poetry workshop. It is bright and colorful and something for the kids to be proud of. For them to see their names in print makes them feel important and purposeful. In the collection, each child’s page includes a giant color portrait and their poetry. Each photo in the collection is a product of our photo workshop. It is fun to read and the pictures are cute as hell. We are going to have an economics lesson in a few days in which we price the collection to sell at our culminating poetry slam. Regardless, please email me if you would like to purchase a copy (dhlarkin@gmail.com).
As you may have read in a previous blog, I have been working for months to get my “Chicas Super Poderosas” group off the ground. Thankfully, it got going three weeks ago and has been rolling along perfectly. The girls love the group (partly because of my fantastic jokes, partly because of the activities). Over the past three sessions, we have discussed and worked on children’s rights, communication skills, leadership skills and self-esteem. This is done via fun games (e.g. blindfolded obstacle course to work on communication), and bonding activities. The last few sessions include a field trip, a mural painting and a party, all of which I am busy planning.
I am also continuing with the old faithful: my English classes with Aula Abierta. The students have continued to impress and surprise me. When we started the school year in February, I did not expect them to remember much from the previous year’s classes. I expected to have to start all over again. Wrong! They remembered everything, and were enthusiastic about it. Every month or so, I give a Jeopardy-type evaluation to the class. Each time we start, I worry that I made the questions too difficult. However, I am consistently surprised and delighted when the students not only answer the questions correctly, but get enthusiastic about it. I can see it in their attitude that they are even prouder than I am. They are learning a new language; I know from experience, that it is quite the thrill.
Sometimes I wonder why I joined the Peace Corps. I could still be at my legal assistant job, pulling in a nice salary. I could still have my harbor view apartment with granite tabletops. However, there are poignant moments that quickly and suddenly define one’s Peace Corps experience. Such moments shock me, and quickly validate my decision. One such experience took place last week:
I passed through the doors of the adolescent girls’ albergue for a session of our poetry workshop. I asked the girls to go get their writer’s notebooks so that we could begin. Most of the girls’ books are empty, save the work we create in class. However, Paola, one of the girls I have known for the longest, pulled me aside. She asked if we could sit away from the other girls for a minute, and I told her we could. Sitting on the couch, I was overwhelmed with pride and excitement as she revealed to me page after page of poetry that she had written on her own. She caught the poetry bug and it doesn’t look like she plans to lose it anytime soon. I looked at her and told her how proud I was of her, and to keep writing. And she has.
One of the challenges of Peace Corps is adjusting to the overwhelming differences between American and Tico life. I have become so busy lately that I do not even notice the differences anymore. In the beginning, the job was so difficult because one has to make his own work and projects here; the task can be daunting for someone who does not have a professional network or strong language skills to work with. Now, I have become so integrated into both my professional and residential communities that I have more work than I know what to do with. During the month of April, I worked nine to five days.
So why is this fantastic? One of the most difficult adjustments to make in the beginning is how to manage your free time. In Peace Corps, free time can often be a killer. Free time often harbors feelings of worthlessness, loneliness and homesickness. Since I have been so busy with work, I feel super productive; I feel like I am a good volunteer. With such a packed schedule, I enable myself to truly enjoy my free time. Because I’ve earned it, it is something to relish rather than dread. This balance that I have found has made me truly happy as a Peace Corps Volunteer here in Costa Rica.
My happiness has a lot to do with seeing the fruits of my labor. So often in Peace Corps, one invests his time and effort into projects that will never reveal tangible results. Hours invested in starting a computer class may be for naught when your counterpart suddenly changes his mind about the value of the class. But this has not been the case with me in April. I’ve experienced some major victories.
I experienced my most happy and proud moment of Peace Corps a few days ago when my albergue kids and I finally completed our collection of poetry created in our weekly poetry workshop. It is bright and colorful and something for the kids to be proud of. For them to see their names in print makes them feel important and purposeful. In the collection, each child’s page includes a giant color portrait and their poetry. Each photo in the collection is a product of our photo workshop. It is fun to read and the pictures are cute as hell. We are going to have an economics lesson in a few days in which we price the collection to sell at our culminating poetry slam. Regardless, please email me if you would like to purchase a copy (dhlarkin@gmail.com).
As you may have read in a previous blog, I have been working for months to get my “Chicas Super Poderosas” group off the ground. Thankfully, it got going three weeks ago and has been rolling along perfectly. The girls love the group (partly because of my fantastic jokes, partly because of the activities). Over the past three sessions, we have discussed and worked on children’s rights, communication skills, leadership skills and self-esteem. This is done via fun games (e.g. blindfolded obstacle course to work on communication), and bonding activities. The last few sessions include a field trip, a mural painting and a party, all of which I am busy planning.
I am also continuing with the old faithful: my English classes with Aula Abierta. The students have continued to impress and surprise me. When we started the school year in February, I did not expect them to remember much from the previous year’s classes. I expected to have to start all over again. Wrong! They remembered everything, and were enthusiastic about it. Every month or so, I give a Jeopardy-type evaluation to the class. Each time we start, I worry that I made the questions too difficult. However, I am consistently surprised and delighted when the students not only answer the questions correctly, but get enthusiastic about it. I can see it in their attitude that they are even prouder than I am. They are learning a new language; I know from experience, that it is quite the thrill.
Sometimes I wonder why I joined the Peace Corps. I could still be at my legal assistant job, pulling in a nice salary. I could still have my harbor view apartment with granite tabletops. However, there are poignant moments that quickly and suddenly define one’s Peace Corps experience. Such moments shock me, and quickly validate my decision. One such experience took place last week:
I passed through the doors of the adolescent girls’ albergue for a session of our poetry workshop. I asked the girls to go get their writer’s notebooks so that we could begin. Most of the girls’ books are empty, save the work we create in class. However, Paola, one of the girls I have known for the longest, pulled me aside. She asked if we could sit away from the other girls for a minute, and I told her we could. Sitting on the couch, I was overwhelmed with pride and excitement as she revealed to me page after page of poetry that she had written on her own. She caught the poetry bug and it doesn’t look like she plans to lose it anytime soon. I looked at her and told her how proud I was of her, and to keep writing. And she has.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Earthquake
It is so damn hot.
I took a shot of Listerine this morning; it was the temperature of hot tea. I leaned against my bedroom wall as I put on my shoes; it was as if I had put my hand to a heater. After washing my clothes, I hung them out to dry in the sun; it took less than an hour. Necio has spent the entire day laying on his back under my kitchen table. It is thirty-six degrees Celsius here. You do the math.
When it is this hot in my town, things start to slow down, like a walkman running out of batteries. Things get cancelled. Entire families lay on their tiled floors and sleep the day away. Stray dogs cower from the sun in patches of shade. Everyone acts as if they are stoned: their stride is a bit wobbly, thoughts don’t come out as clearly as they should, and all anybody wants to do is eat and watch TV.
It was in this sun-stroke state of mind that I found myself sitting on the corner of my bed this morning, a half-inch from my fan. I was hazily working on a lesson plan, while consistently drinking cool water. Then I felt something.
At first I thought that it was something as tame as Necio jumping onto the bed that made it move. I looked up from my work and found that I was alone in the room. My floor fan was wobbling, but aside from that, nothing was out of the ordinary. I felt dizzy, and I began to think that I was going crazy from heat-stroke or dehydration. But when it ended, I realized. I had just felt my first earthquake.
It was as if somebody had placed the foundation of my house on wheels, and let it drift around. My house was suddenly floating in the Pacific, and I felt sea-sick. Like my house, I had lost my mooring.
I went to the school to teach my English class a short while later. It was immediately clear to me that I wasn’t the only one who had lost my mooring; the students could not focus. Everyone sort of floated around the classroom, the way my house had floated around my property. We were there, but we weren’t. After class, I got home and fell into bed. I fell asleep in the middle of the day for the first time since college.
I was fascinated by my first earthquake experience. It was almost mystical the way a short vibration can affect one’s state of being. Like the quake shakes you into an orbit different than that of the earth. Maybe it shakes the reality from you.
Or maybe it is just too damn hot.
I took a shot of Listerine this morning; it was the temperature of hot tea. I leaned against my bedroom wall as I put on my shoes; it was as if I had put my hand to a heater. After washing my clothes, I hung them out to dry in the sun; it took less than an hour. Necio has spent the entire day laying on his back under my kitchen table. It is thirty-six degrees Celsius here. You do the math.
When it is this hot in my town, things start to slow down, like a walkman running out of batteries. Things get cancelled. Entire families lay on their tiled floors and sleep the day away. Stray dogs cower from the sun in patches of shade. Everyone acts as if they are stoned: their stride is a bit wobbly, thoughts don’t come out as clearly as they should, and all anybody wants to do is eat and watch TV.
It was in this sun-stroke state of mind that I found myself sitting on the corner of my bed this morning, a half-inch from my fan. I was hazily working on a lesson plan, while consistently drinking cool water. Then I felt something.
At first I thought that it was something as tame as Necio jumping onto the bed that made it move. I looked up from my work and found that I was alone in the room. My floor fan was wobbling, but aside from that, nothing was out of the ordinary. I felt dizzy, and I began to think that I was going crazy from heat-stroke or dehydration. But when it ended, I realized. I had just felt my first earthquake.
It was as if somebody had placed the foundation of my house on wheels, and let it drift around. My house was suddenly floating in the Pacific, and I felt sea-sick. Like my house, I had lost my mooring.
I went to the school to teach my English class a short while later. It was immediately clear to me that I wasn’t the only one who had lost my mooring; the students could not focus. Everyone sort of floated around the classroom, the way my house had floated around my property. We were there, but we weren’t. After class, I got home and fell into bed. I fell asleep in the middle of the day for the first time since college.
I was fascinated by my first earthquake experience. It was almost mystical the way a short vibration can affect one’s state of being. Like the quake shakes you into an orbit different than that of the earth. Maybe it shakes the reality from you.
Or maybe it is just too damn hot.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Ladies and Gentlemen, We Have Lift-Off!
For a Children, Youth and Families volunteer here in Costa Rica, January is a pretty worthless month. It is in the middle of the schools’ summer vacation, and we volunteers are often left without a whole lot to inscribe on our work reports. February, on the other hand, is very busy. As a response to the lethargy of January, the average volunteer attacks the beginning of the school year with ambition and energy. With beginning of the year staff and planning meetings, there are several opportunities to put one’s project ideas on the table and get the ball rolling. By the time March rolls around, the goal is to have some projects in action and gaining steam. I am thrilled to say that this has been the case for this Peace Corps Volunteer.
I have been continuing my work with the “Aula Abierta” program at the elementary school. The program offers drop-outs a fast track to their elementary school diploma. This eclectic group is one of my favorites. Some of the kids are there because they simply didn’t put enough effort into school and ended up repeating the third grade four times. Many of the students are victims of abuse, and were never sent to school by their negligent parents. A few dropped out to have children (one of which made an appearance at my last class). This mix provides us with 16 year old fourth graders and nine year olds who had never even been to school before. To say the least, the group is never boring.
Within the group, there are different “types.” There are the shy, quiet girls. There are the teenage moms. And then there the more colorful kids: the chapolinas. The best way that I could describe them in English is “thugs.” They smoke a lot of pot, hang out on the corners and whistle at girls, and are probably familiar with the people who have mugged me. One time, one of the boys told me that he loved to smoke crack. I told him, half-joking, that if one really gets heavy into crack, he will have quite a future of oral sex for pay in his future. His face dropped, and he told be that he was kidding. I told him the he sure as hell better be, because it sounded like a terrible future. He never made that joke again.
Regardless, I see the most potential in these boys. They are street smart, and are well versed in survival methods of the hood. When I give a lesson on how to perform at a job interview, they pay attention; they know from experience that it is important.
With the Aula Abierta group, I have done life skills training with them where we learned budgeting, job search methods, and healthy living practices. Last year, we also had a weekly English class. This year, I am upping the ante. In addition to HIV/AIDS and sex education, I will be teaching two English classes per week. They seem to really enjoy it, mostly because I use a non-formal approach. This entails games, competitions and hands on type lessons. My logic is that if the copying from the blackboard didn’t work the first three times they took second grade, it won’t work now. You can imagine my satisfaction with my first class of the year when I learned that the group remembered much of the material that we covered during the previous year. We are now moving forward at a good pace, and I am hopeful that by the end of this school year, I will be able to have conversations in English with the group.
My other major anticipated project at the school is called “Chicas Super Ponderosas.” “Chicas” is a three month long girl’s empowerment program. The project’s aim is to build the self-esteem; communication, organizational, leadership, decision making and planning skills; and a sense of membership and citizenship among a group of at-risk girls. I have paired up with a female teacher at the school to plan and carry out the program, which is very important if the program is to be sustainable. We have each of the eleven sessions planned, and are geared to launch the program in mid-April.
The “Chicas Super Ponderosas” program is more important to me than most of my previous work. This is because so many of the girls who attend my school are at risk of falling victim to the rampant sex trade of Costa Rica. Unlike a country like The Netherlands which regulates its sex trade, prostitution in Costa Rica is unregulated. This brings about an onslaught of very serious problems, among which is the spread of HIV/AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases. However, the most grave of problems I find with the unregulated legalization of prostitution in Costa Rica is the facilitation of the commercial sexual exploitation of children. After Thailand, Costa Rica is the second most popular destination for sex tourism. This opens the floodgates for pederasts to come over by the thousands and take advantage of underprivileged girls like those who attend my school. My hope is that the program can get the girls focused on a track that leads them to high school and a career, and out of the brothels.
The positive trend has continued with my work in the albergues. The poetry workshop has been so successful that we now have enough work to publish a collection. I spoke with my counterpart at PANI (the children’s services of Costa Rica that runs the albergues), and he has offered to cover the printing costs, or even print the collection in the PANI office. Once the collection is put together, we will have a big poetry slam where we will sell the published collection.
I have also started a computer class with my albergue kids. It started out one day when I brought my laptop to the albergue for the poetry workshop. The kids were fascinated by the computer, and I showed them how it works. Within a few weeks, I was having formal computer classes with the kids. They have been learning how to use windows and have really enjoyed it. However, I knew that my laptop alone would not suffice if the kids really wanted to know how to work a computer in the twenty-first century; they needed to become familiar with the internet. So one day, I asked the owner of my local internet café if he would donate a few hours of internet access a week to the children. He agreed, and we’ve been surfing the web since. I even set the kids up with gmail accounts so that they can learn how to use email. As long as they steer clear of the worlds of internet porn out there, I only see good things happening with the class.
January for lassitude, February for planning, and March for flight. I am so glad that so many of my programs have gotten off the ground. In the Peace Corps, one’s happiness and emotional stability often correlates with the success of one’s projects. Gracias a Dios, the correlation has been positive in my case. I only hope that my projects continue to thrive and expand.
I have been continuing my work with the “Aula Abierta” program at the elementary school. The program offers drop-outs a fast track to their elementary school diploma. This eclectic group is one of my favorites. Some of the kids are there because they simply didn’t put enough effort into school and ended up repeating the third grade four times. Many of the students are victims of abuse, and were never sent to school by their negligent parents. A few dropped out to have children (one of which made an appearance at my last class). This mix provides us with 16 year old fourth graders and nine year olds who had never even been to school before. To say the least, the group is never boring.
Within the group, there are different “types.” There are the shy, quiet girls. There are the teenage moms. And then there the more colorful kids: the chapolinas. The best way that I could describe them in English is “thugs.” They smoke a lot of pot, hang out on the corners and whistle at girls, and are probably familiar with the people who have mugged me. One time, one of the boys told me that he loved to smoke crack. I told him, half-joking, that if one really gets heavy into crack, he will have quite a future of oral sex for pay in his future. His face dropped, and he told be that he was kidding. I told him the he sure as hell better be, because it sounded like a terrible future. He never made that joke again.
Regardless, I see the most potential in these boys. They are street smart, and are well versed in survival methods of the hood. When I give a lesson on how to perform at a job interview, they pay attention; they know from experience that it is important.
With the Aula Abierta group, I have done life skills training with them where we learned budgeting, job search methods, and healthy living practices. Last year, we also had a weekly English class. This year, I am upping the ante. In addition to HIV/AIDS and sex education, I will be teaching two English classes per week. They seem to really enjoy it, mostly because I use a non-formal approach. This entails games, competitions and hands on type lessons. My logic is that if the copying from the blackboard didn’t work the first three times they took second grade, it won’t work now. You can imagine my satisfaction with my first class of the year when I learned that the group remembered much of the material that we covered during the previous year. We are now moving forward at a good pace, and I am hopeful that by the end of this school year, I will be able to have conversations in English with the group.
My other major anticipated project at the school is called “Chicas Super Ponderosas.” “Chicas” is a three month long girl’s empowerment program. The project’s aim is to build the self-esteem; communication, organizational, leadership, decision making and planning skills; and a sense of membership and citizenship among a group of at-risk girls. I have paired up with a female teacher at the school to plan and carry out the program, which is very important if the program is to be sustainable. We have each of the eleven sessions planned, and are geared to launch the program in mid-April.
The “Chicas Super Ponderosas” program is more important to me than most of my previous work. This is because so many of the girls who attend my school are at risk of falling victim to the rampant sex trade of Costa Rica. Unlike a country like The Netherlands which regulates its sex trade, prostitution in Costa Rica is unregulated. This brings about an onslaught of very serious problems, among which is the spread of HIV/AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases. However, the most grave of problems I find with the unregulated legalization of prostitution in Costa Rica is the facilitation of the commercial sexual exploitation of children. After Thailand, Costa Rica is the second most popular destination for sex tourism. This opens the floodgates for pederasts to come over by the thousands and take advantage of underprivileged girls like those who attend my school. My hope is that the program can get the girls focused on a track that leads them to high school and a career, and out of the brothels.
The positive trend has continued with my work in the albergues. The poetry workshop has been so successful that we now have enough work to publish a collection. I spoke with my counterpart at PANI (the children’s services of Costa Rica that runs the albergues), and he has offered to cover the printing costs, or even print the collection in the PANI office. Once the collection is put together, we will have a big poetry slam where we will sell the published collection.
I have also started a computer class with my albergue kids. It started out one day when I brought my laptop to the albergue for the poetry workshop. The kids were fascinated by the computer, and I showed them how it works. Within a few weeks, I was having formal computer classes with the kids. They have been learning how to use windows and have really enjoyed it. However, I knew that my laptop alone would not suffice if the kids really wanted to know how to work a computer in the twenty-first century; they needed to become familiar with the internet. So one day, I asked the owner of my local internet café if he would donate a few hours of internet access a week to the children. He agreed, and we’ve been surfing the web since. I even set the kids up with gmail accounts so that they can learn how to use email. As long as they steer clear of the worlds of internet porn out there, I only see good things happening with the class.
January for lassitude, February for planning, and March for flight. I am so glad that so many of my programs have gotten off the ground. In the Peace Corps, one’s happiness and emotional stability often correlates with the success of one’s projects. Gracias a Dios, the correlation has been positive in my case. I only hope that my projects continue to thrive and expand.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Zoo
When I first told people that I would be living in Costa Rica, most people assumed that I would be living in the rainforest, swinging from tree to tree like Tarzan. I must confess that when I got my assignment, I pictured the same sort of thing (loincloth and all). However, when I arrived at my site, I couldn’t help but liken it to Detroit with palm trees. In my barrio, there aren’t many trees at all, just concrete-slab government built houses and half paved roads. We don’t have monkeys swinging from trees; we have sneakers hanging from electrical wires.
Regardless of the setting outside of my house, I found it to be a jungle inside. My host family had quite the collection of pets: two dogs, four kittens, four rabbits and a rooster. At first, I found this charming, until the latter of these pets woke me up every morning at dawn. I can’t tell you how terrible it is to wake up every morning with a cock in your ear.
The kittens were gradually taken in by my host sister, Joseline. One day a little orange kitten would be at my feet; the next day I’d find a little black one. Once I woke up to find four of them scratching my legs as I ate breakfast. Ania’s attitude toward the whole thing reminded me of my late Mom-Mom’s approach to pets: “Get away! Get away you annoying cat! GO AWAY!” She would then take a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, and toss a bit of food down to the cat, “here you go, eat sweetie.”
Regardless of whether or not Ania liked the cats, they were quite the financial burden. She could barely feed the mouth of her daughter; to feed four cats was not feasible. So one morning Joseline and I were at the breakfast table, eating our normal breakfast of toast and coffee, when Ania asked us if we noticed anything different about the house. Joseline and I looked around, looked at each other and shrugged. “We are missing a few cats, aren’t we?” Joseline immediately darted her eyes around the room, and then opened them up wide. She looked at Ania who was coyly smiling, then bolted for the bathroom and slammed the door.
Bairón and Memo were laughing hysterically. I could faintly hear Joseline sobbing in the bathroom. I watched the two rolling on the floor laughing, and could picture the scene in my head: the two of them gathering up the kittens in the middle of the night, driving down an empty road, laughing as they tossed them off a bridge. I do not know if this actually happened, but I would not be surprised.
Luckily for Joseline, they let one cat stay. It was the one they called Negra, but had to change to Negro once its balls dropped.
With all of this animal chaos, you can imagine the look on Ania’s face when I told her I was bringing Necio home with me. Luckily she didn’t care. She probably figured that it would be one more mouser in the house. Little did she know that Necio is afraid of mice.
One evening, I was laying in bed with Necio, talking on the phone with a friend back home. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something crawl out from under my dresser. I glanced over and said to my friend “whoa! How could a crab get so far inland—.” The hair on my arms stood on end, and I told my friend that I would call her back. I got out of my bed, grabbed a magazine, and walked over to get a better look. My first instinct was to crush it with my magazine, but I took a few seconds to look. I had never seen a tarantula before.
I stared at it for a while, then took a shot at it with the rolled up magazine. I missed horribly, and it skittered back underneath my dresser. I looked at Necio purring comfortably on my spot in bed. “You are supposed to kill these sorts of things!” I yelled at him. He closed his eyes and kept purring away. That night, I slept like Andy Dufrane during his first night at Shawshank.
The next night, I was laying on my bed reading when it crawled out again. We locked eyes. Neither of us moved for a while. As we stared, I could just hear him speaking to me in the voice of Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. “Dave. Dave. Dave, you shouldn’t have done that, Dave. You shouldn’t have tried to kill me Dave.” He slowly backed into his lair. Again, I slept poorly.
This happened for several nights in a row. I would try to kill the tarantula that I began to call Hal, and he would eventually come out to stare at me and threaten me in that monotone computer voice. Sometimes, Necio would walk over to it, sniff it, and go about his business. Worthless.
After about a week of sleepless nights, I finally wised up and bought a can of raid. I emptied about half of the can into his lair and hoped for the best. The next day, I got home from teaching to find a funeral march of bodybuilder ants carrying away the deceased Hal. While I was glad that I could finally sleep, and wouldn’t wake up one day to find a tarantula on my face, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sad for the guy. I gave him a quick salute before sweeping him and the ants out of my door, into the yard.
Not long after the Hal incident, I awoke in the middle of the night to a rustling sound next to my bed. I was sure that it was a mouse. I jumped up and got my flashlight and a t-shirt to use as a net. The rustling continued. I cleared away a few papers, and shone the light on the culprit. I was relieved and allowed myself a chuckle. For there, hopping around my art supplies bin, was a big fat bullfrog.
I threw my t-shirt at the guy, but he hopped out into the depths of Hal’s lair. I cursed and got back into bed. At least I didn’t have a mouse running around near my bed. A frog I could live with. But after a few minutes, I heard a rustling on my dresser. I arose once again, shirt in hand. I flipped on the light switch to find the big guy hopping around my deodorant and sunscreen. This time, I was able to trap him with my shirt. I released him into my back yard. A friend once told me that if cats bite into frogs, a chemical is released that could kill the cat. I tossed him as far away from the house so that neither of the cats would get to him.
Since we are now in the dry season, I have been coming across frogs in the house every day. I would jump into the shower, only to have a frog crawl out of the drain and start hopping around. I walked into the bathroom the other day to find a big one doing laps in my toilet. Initially, I would catch each one and release it outside. Necio may be a pain in the ass, but I surely don’t want to see him poisoned.
Then one evening, I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I switched on the kitchen light to find Necio and a frog, side by side, eating cat food from Necio’s bowl. The two looked totally at peace. They even seemed friendly with each other, like two friends sitting at a bar. It reminded me of the time I caught a mouse in a bag of bread and gave it to Necio only to have him look at me, puzzled, as if to say “what the hell do you want me to do with him?” I shut the lights and left the two to their late night snack.
Now, I let the frogs hop freely around my house. With my new pets, I have noticed that there are far fewer mosquitoes in my shower, and I am yet to find a cockroach. They are like nature’s exterminators.
I may not be in the jungle. However, I have found myself in my kitchen surrounded by geckoes, spiders and frogs, all doing the job that Necio is supposed to be doing. Sometimes geckoes fall off the ceiling onto my head. The frogs are consistently bumping into me in the shower. At moments like these, I just smile and say “Ahhhhh, Peace Corps.”
Regardless of the setting outside of my house, I found it to be a jungle inside. My host family had quite the collection of pets: two dogs, four kittens, four rabbits and a rooster. At first, I found this charming, until the latter of these pets woke me up every morning at dawn. I can’t tell you how terrible it is to wake up every morning with a cock in your ear.
The kittens were gradually taken in by my host sister, Joseline. One day a little orange kitten would be at my feet; the next day I’d find a little black one. Once I woke up to find four of them scratching my legs as I ate breakfast. Ania’s attitude toward the whole thing reminded me of my late Mom-Mom’s approach to pets: “Get away! Get away you annoying cat! GO AWAY!” She would then take a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, and toss a bit of food down to the cat, “here you go, eat sweetie.”
Regardless of whether or not Ania liked the cats, they were quite the financial burden. She could barely feed the mouth of her daughter; to feed four cats was not feasible. So one morning Joseline and I were at the breakfast table, eating our normal breakfast of toast and coffee, when Ania asked us if we noticed anything different about the house. Joseline and I looked around, looked at each other and shrugged. “We are missing a few cats, aren’t we?” Joseline immediately darted her eyes around the room, and then opened them up wide. She looked at Ania who was coyly smiling, then bolted for the bathroom and slammed the door.
Bairón and Memo were laughing hysterically. I could faintly hear Joseline sobbing in the bathroom. I watched the two rolling on the floor laughing, and could picture the scene in my head: the two of them gathering up the kittens in the middle of the night, driving down an empty road, laughing as they tossed them off a bridge. I do not know if this actually happened, but I would not be surprised.
Luckily for Joseline, they let one cat stay. It was the one they called Negra, but had to change to Negro once its balls dropped.
With all of this animal chaos, you can imagine the look on Ania’s face when I told her I was bringing Necio home with me. Luckily she didn’t care. She probably figured that it would be one more mouser in the house. Little did she know that Necio is afraid of mice.
One evening, I was laying in bed with Necio, talking on the phone with a friend back home. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something crawl out from under my dresser. I glanced over and said to my friend “whoa! How could a crab get so far inland—.” The hair on my arms stood on end, and I told my friend that I would call her back. I got out of my bed, grabbed a magazine, and walked over to get a better look. My first instinct was to crush it with my magazine, but I took a few seconds to look. I had never seen a tarantula before.
I stared at it for a while, then took a shot at it with the rolled up magazine. I missed horribly, and it skittered back underneath my dresser. I looked at Necio purring comfortably on my spot in bed. “You are supposed to kill these sorts of things!” I yelled at him. He closed his eyes and kept purring away. That night, I slept like Andy Dufrane during his first night at Shawshank.
The next night, I was laying on my bed reading when it crawled out again. We locked eyes. Neither of us moved for a while. As we stared, I could just hear him speaking to me in the voice of Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. “Dave. Dave. Dave, you shouldn’t have done that, Dave. You shouldn’t have tried to kill me Dave.” He slowly backed into his lair. Again, I slept poorly.
This happened for several nights in a row. I would try to kill the tarantula that I began to call Hal, and he would eventually come out to stare at me and threaten me in that monotone computer voice. Sometimes, Necio would walk over to it, sniff it, and go about his business. Worthless.
After about a week of sleepless nights, I finally wised up and bought a can of raid. I emptied about half of the can into his lair and hoped for the best. The next day, I got home from teaching to find a funeral march of bodybuilder ants carrying away the deceased Hal. While I was glad that I could finally sleep, and wouldn’t wake up one day to find a tarantula on my face, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sad for the guy. I gave him a quick salute before sweeping him and the ants out of my door, into the yard.
Not long after the Hal incident, I awoke in the middle of the night to a rustling sound next to my bed. I was sure that it was a mouse. I jumped up and got my flashlight and a t-shirt to use as a net. The rustling continued. I cleared away a few papers, and shone the light on the culprit. I was relieved and allowed myself a chuckle. For there, hopping around my art supplies bin, was a big fat bullfrog.
I threw my t-shirt at the guy, but he hopped out into the depths of Hal’s lair. I cursed and got back into bed. At least I didn’t have a mouse running around near my bed. A frog I could live with. But after a few minutes, I heard a rustling on my dresser. I arose once again, shirt in hand. I flipped on the light switch to find the big guy hopping around my deodorant and sunscreen. This time, I was able to trap him with my shirt. I released him into my back yard. A friend once told me that if cats bite into frogs, a chemical is released that could kill the cat. I tossed him as far away from the house so that neither of the cats would get to him.
Since we are now in the dry season, I have been coming across frogs in the house every day. I would jump into the shower, only to have a frog crawl out of the drain and start hopping around. I walked into the bathroom the other day to find a big one doing laps in my toilet. Initially, I would catch each one and release it outside. Necio may be a pain in the ass, but I surely don’t want to see him poisoned.
Then one evening, I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I switched on the kitchen light to find Necio and a frog, side by side, eating cat food from Necio’s bowl. The two looked totally at peace. They even seemed friendly with each other, like two friends sitting at a bar. It reminded me of the time I caught a mouse in a bag of bread and gave it to Necio only to have him look at me, puzzled, as if to say “what the hell do you want me to do with him?” I shut the lights and left the two to their late night snack.
Now, I let the frogs hop freely around my house. With my new pets, I have noticed that there are far fewer mosquitoes in my shower, and I am yet to find a cockroach. They are like nature’s exterminators.
I may not be in the jungle. However, I have found myself in my kitchen surrounded by geckoes, spiders and frogs, all doing the job that Necio is supposed to be doing. Sometimes geckoes fall off the ceiling onto my head. The frogs are consistently bumping into me in the shower. At moments like these, I just smile and say “Ahhhhh, Peace Corps.”
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Roller Coaster
The last few months have been quite the roller coaster ride. In late December and early January, my parents came to visit me. I actually started to write a long post about all the beautiful places we went, the fun things we did. But then I went into a bit of a funk after I got held up at gunpoint for my phone. It being the second time somebody has pointed a gun at me since I got here, I became angry and, to be honest, scared. It has taken me nine months to build a relationship with this community. I have learned to trust it, to call it home. When the mugging took place, it rattled my trust, my sense of belonging. It didn’t matter how integrated I had become. To anyone outside of my barrio, I was still a gringo walking around where I don’t belong.
My parents’ trip was fantastic. We went to every corner of the country, where my parents and I were constantly amazed. We saw active volcanoes erupting, howler monkeys howling, and hotel clerks overcharging. My parents loved every site they saw, but were consistently cheated or overcharged from the car rental counter to the last check out desk. It was an ugly part of Tico culture that I was sorry they had to deal with. It is a good thing that my mom is a New Yorker to the bone, and left each clerk shaking. Luckily, I was able to introduce mom and dad to some of the good guys: the members of my community.
The highlight of the trip was when Deb and Ralph got to meet the children in the albergue. My mom had an immediate rapport with the girls; she spent most of her time cuddling with them on a park bench. My dad had a good time taking goofy pictures with the boys. It was a good experience for all.
Between then and now, a lot has changed. A few days after my parents returned home, I put on a soccer camp and tournament for my community. To help me deal with the crowd of over one hundred, my friends Mario and Meaghan came to chip in. After a successful first day of camp, the three of us sat at a beach café in Puntarenas, watching cruise ships come and go. I felt so good, I just grinned as I drank my beer. After seeing the beauty of Costa Rica with my parents, I had a newfound love for the country. I had completed a camp in which the entire community turned out in support. I felt like a good volunteer. I looked at my friends and said something that I will never forget: “I think that I finally love the Peace Corps.”
The universe has a twisted sense of humor. In a matter of days, a relationship that once was, was no longer. I got mugged. It being the last days of summer vacation, I didn’t have a surplus of work to keep me occupied. I felt shaky. One night, I was so spooked that I opened up the knife on my Leatherman tool, and placed it on the floor next to my bed for protection. The next morning, I looked at the two inch knife and laughed. Not only was it a ridiculous idea in the first place, but the size of the blade made it more absurd. I picked the Leatherman up off the floor and used it for its true purpose: clipping my fingernails.
I’ve eased up now. The school year is beginning, so I have been busy planning projects, and attending staff meetings. The albergue kids have been great. I feel as if I’m getting back into the swing of things. Who knows, maybe in a short while, I’ll be as happy as I was toasting beers on the Puntarenas beach. And now that I am no longer romantically involved, I can look forward to the March arrival of the new Tico 19 group; I am fairly certain that they will be mostly beautiful Jewish girls with proclivities for short balding men.
See, I told you I’ve eased up.
Next week, I turn twenty-five, while simultaneously celebrating my first complete year in country. With such milestones approaching, I’ve been doing quite a bit of reflection. I’ve concluded that I like the path that I’ve taken over the past quarter-century, especially over the past year. Peace Corps is not what I expected, and has been difficult in ways that I did not foresee. However, I’ve done some good work with some good people. I now speak Spanish, something I could not say without rolling my eyes a year ago. I only pray that the next year is as good, if not better and more rewarding than the past one.
A good friend once asked me how I could believe in an imperfect God. I responded by saying that there is perfection in imperfection. You can’t have highs without lows; no good without evil. And it is that balance that keeps me here. There are terrible days and nights; never before has my mettle been tested like this. But there is a beauty in the despair; it makes that one great day possible. The Peace Corps has been a roller coaster ride, and that is what makes it worthwhile.
My parents’ trip was fantastic. We went to every corner of the country, where my parents and I were constantly amazed. We saw active volcanoes erupting, howler monkeys howling, and hotel clerks overcharging. My parents loved every site they saw, but were consistently cheated or overcharged from the car rental counter to the last check out desk. It was an ugly part of Tico culture that I was sorry they had to deal with. It is a good thing that my mom is a New Yorker to the bone, and left each clerk shaking. Luckily, I was able to introduce mom and dad to some of the good guys: the members of my community.
The highlight of the trip was when Deb and Ralph got to meet the children in the albergue. My mom had an immediate rapport with the girls; she spent most of her time cuddling with them on a park bench. My dad had a good time taking goofy pictures with the boys. It was a good experience for all.
Between then and now, a lot has changed. A few days after my parents returned home, I put on a soccer camp and tournament for my community. To help me deal with the crowd of over one hundred, my friends Mario and Meaghan came to chip in. After a successful first day of camp, the three of us sat at a beach café in Puntarenas, watching cruise ships come and go. I felt so good, I just grinned as I drank my beer. After seeing the beauty of Costa Rica with my parents, I had a newfound love for the country. I had completed a camp in which the entire community turned out in support. I felt like a good volunteer. I looked at my friends and said something that I will never forget: “I think that I finally love the Peace Corps.”
The universe has a twisted sense of humor. In a matter of days, a relationship that once was, was no longer. I got mugged. It being the last days of summer vacation, I didn’t have a surplus of work to keep me occupied. I felt shaky. One night, I was so spooked that I opened up the knife on my Leatherman tool, and placed it on the floor next to my bed for protection. The next morning, I looked at the two inch knife and laughed. Not only was it a ridiculous idea in the first place, but the size of the blade made it more absurd. I picked the Leatherman up off the floor and used it for its true purpose: clipping my fingernails.
I’ve eased up now. The school year is beginning, so I have been busy planning projects, and attending staff meetings. The albergue kids have been great. I feel as if I’m getting back into the swing of things. Who knows, maybe in a short while, I’ll be as happy as I was toasting beers on the Puntarenas beach. And now that I am no longer romantically involved, I can look forward to the March arrival of the new Tico 19 group; I am fairly certain that they will be mostly beautiful Jewish girls with proclivities for short balding men.
See, I told you I’ve eased up.
Next week, I turn twenty-five, while simultaneously celebrating my first complete year in country. With such milestones approaching, I’ve been doing quite a bit of reflection. I’ve concluded that I like the path that I’ve taken over the past quarter-century, especially over the past year. Peace Corps is not what I expected, and has been difficult in ways that I did not foresee. However, I’ve done some good work with some good people. I now speak Spanish, something I could not say without rolling my eyes a year ago. I only pray that the next year is as good, if not better and more rewarding than the past one.
A good friend once asked me how I could believe in an imperfect God. I responded by saying that there is perfection in imperfection. You can’t have highs without lows; no good without evil. And it is that balance that keeps me here. There are terrible days and nights; never before has my mettle been tested like this. But there is a beauty in the despair; it makes that one great day possible. The Peace Corps has been a roller coaster ride, and that is what makes it worthwhile.
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