Language Immersion

I knew when I wanted to learn another language that immersion was the only way to go, which is one of the reasons I found myself planning the lengthy trip to Latin America (along with the fact that I was completely exhausted from teaching for 10 years and didn't know what else on earth I wanted to do). And immersion is exactly what I´ve done.

The memory of my first night in Costa Rica is still vivid: sitting at a computer chatting online with a dozen friends of so, panicking. Literally. What the hell was I thinking? I couldn´t even communicate much with the taxi driver, and my first real pat on the back that I gave myself was when I was able that afternoon to ask for and buy a phone card in Spanish. Fluency seemed a distant, distant goal that I might never achieve, particularly if I didn´t muster up the courage to stay put long-term.

Thirteen months later I marvel at my ability to have a conversation in Spanish, at times with apparent ease. Someone asked me a couple of days ago here at the hotel if I´m fluent. And I had to say, what is fluency? Does anyone ever reach fluency who isn't a native speaker? Perhaps, but not within 13 months. Am I satisfied with my ability to converse after this period of time? Absolutely.

Several times a week at least, I end a conversation and walk away thinking, Did I really just have a conversation in Spanish that easily? At times the words flow easily, at times I stumble, at times I self-correct, and of course at times I make mistakes that I don´t know I´m making. And ¨como?¨ as in, ¨What did you say?¨ is still one of the most-oft used words in my vocabulary, but I make progress every day.

Back in December I was studying in Ecuador and living with a family. My second week another student, Suse, joined me, who spoke much less Spanish than I, and our ¨mother¨ would often ask me to translate. I was flattered and shocked. It happened again last night, when I was asked to translate for my boss. One would think I´d be used to it by now, but I still found myself wondering, Really, is this me translating? Have I really come that far? (Of course, switching between two languages is an art, as I´m learning. When I finish one conversation in Spanish with another staff member and then turn to guests and continue speaking in Spanish, it´s not surprising that they´ll sometimes say, ¨In English, please.¨ I simply forget with whom I´m talking!)

The truth is I´ve worked hard to get to this point. Those weeks when I was studying I put every ounce of energy I had into studying and learning new words. Now it´s more about living it every day and trying to remember the new words I hear or new phrases. Or those dang direct and indirect objects--I know how to use them, but putting them in before the verb . . . well, the verb just pops out of my mouth before I can remember to stick in the lo, le, la, etc. And I´ve worked very hard, too, to not sound American when I speak Spanish. There´s no way to distinguish this in the blog, but it´s very obvious when an American is either a) not trying to speak Spanish well, or b) just doesn´t have a knack for languages.

Someone recently told me that they thought I was from the States but weren´t completely sure because I didn´t sound like an American speaking Spanish. Thank you, I try very hard. And another woman, clearly an American, popped in the other night from her apartment upstairs to let me know there was no water, could I please tell the boss. She tried, with much difficulty, to speak Spanish to me until she finally heard me speaking English with someone else. ¨You speak English?¨ I had fooled her. She didn´t know I wasn´t a native. For me, it was the ultimate compliment.

The language journey hasn´t ended. It most certainly never will. As my dad always told me, you can´t fool all of the people all of the time, but you can fool some of the people some of the time. Dad, I´m doing it--fooling some of the people some of the time. After 13 months, I´m pretty happy with that.

Jobs, Jobs, Jobs

When I returned from Nicaragua in May, I went job hunting in Manuel Antonio. I started with a stop at my old school El Paraiso to ask the manager to review my resume since the formats they use here are different. He gave me a thumbs up but told me I might be better off watching the cable television channel for job announcements. I called my brother-in-law (no, I’m not married, but if you live with someone, you are considered married, therefore I have in-laws and cousins and aunts, etc., etc. here) to see if he would be home later so that I could stop by for a few to watch the announcements. Sure, he said.

I made 12 copies of my resume, with picture, which, of course, you’d never do in the states, and headed up the road to Manuel Antonio. My goal was to hit up the big hotels, something Randall at El Paraiso had also suggested. Along the way, Jairo, my brother-in-law called to tell me there were two announcements of interest: one at La Selvita Canopy Tours for a receptionist who spoke English, and one at Gaia Hotel for the same. I made immediate stops there, as well as at a number of other locations, though definitely not all. At the end of the road, I stopped for some much needed refreshments in the form of pineapple juice and a bag of Lays barbeque potato chips which I hadn’t seen for some time. I intended to head home, but along the way I saw Backpackers Manuel Antonio, and I thought, what the hell, I’ll stop. Turns out they needed a receptionist who spoke English so I left my resume as well as a reference Randall had written for me.

The following week I made numerous calls to Backpackers as a follow-up, but I could never manage to catch the boss at work. When I secured a job in Silencio, I quit trying, thinking I had what I needed . . .

Job #1: Tree Planting
My sister-in-law Tere had told me that it was possible I could work in Silencio planting trees like my cousin Jazmin. I went to speak to Juan, the director of Coopesilencio, who told me it was possible and that I needed to talk to Arnulfo and told me where he lived. Five days later I was finally able to catch Arnulfo at home, who told me sure, I could start Monday and proceeded to describe where I needed to go. ¨Is there someone I could meet and go together with?¨ So Monday found me sitting in the park at 5:20 a.m. awaiting him. When he showed up, he told me to wait longer, he’d be back with the tractor. After I boarded the tractor with four or five other people, which was pulling a wagon loaded with tiny trees, no taller than four to five inches, we headed to the work site. We drove past my house, made a turn off and headed up, up, and further up. When we reached the top, I was amazed at the view. I could see the ocean. Wow, this was my ¨office¨? We unloaded the trees and sat down to wait some more, for what I had no clue. The tractor returned with more trees, which we then unloaded. We had breakfast on the mountaintop before we began to plant.

What I hadn’t realized was that we would be planting on hillsides, sometimes with a steep incline, that had fallen trees and burnt logs from where they had ¨cleared¨ the site for planting. I was exhausted within an hour, and it was impossible to carry water with me at all times, so I was often dying of thirst. At 11:00 I asked what time we quit for the day and I was told 11:30, but of course on this particular day it was 11:45 before Arnulfo declared us done for the day and I made the 10-minute trek back home completely and utterly exhausted. The ensuing conversation with Diego went something like this:

Me: Did you not know it would be this hard or did you lie to me when you told me it wouldn’t be this bad?
Diego: I told you it was hard.
Me: No, you told me it wouldn’t be that bad. This is awful. How am I supposed to do this six days a week?
Diego: It’s just your first day. You’ll get used to it.
Me: I’m the only woman there, and I have to do almost the exact same things the men do. (I wasn’t a big fan of equal rights at this particular moment.)
Diego: Really? There aren’t other women.
Me: No, and I know why. Because it’s too hard!

The second day turned out not to be a little easier, or maybe I just knew what to expect, and I thought yeah, I can do this. It wasn’t ideal, particularly when I only make 6900 colones per day, which comes out to about $14, but I could make a living on it here. Until I learned at the end of day two that there wouldn’t be any planting the next day because we had planted all of the cleared hillsides and they needed to clear more. Jorge, my neighbor, with whom I worked, would let me know when there was more to do.

And so I waited, and waited, and waited. And realized that I couldn’t make a living doing this if I could only work two days a week. So I spent one day that week working with my neighbor Tere in the palms, picking up the coyoles. If I had thought planting was bad, this was infinitely worse. With the lack of rain, the fruits weren’t prevalent, which meant we had to walk more than usual and spend longer than usual working. You have to fill five sacks (think big burlap bags) with coyoles (the size of grapes) to earn 8 hours of pay. We started at 5:45 and at 10:30 I thought I would collapse after we had only 6.5 sacks. With two motives in mind, I decided to leave. I was completely and utterly exhausted, my neck and my back were screaming, and the thought of squatting down to pick up even one more coyol was enough to make me want to cry. And I also felt guilty that because I was working with her, she was having to do a lot more walking than usual to do her job. It didn’t seem right. And it didn’t seem right when she paid me 3000 colones ($6) a few days later. But . . . I had received my first paycheck.

I continued waiting into the next week to plant, and the work started again on Wednesday. I became accustomed to the work, and I felt good that I was able to do it and that I was making money. Dollar signs in front of my eyes is what kept me motivated, even if I was still the only woman and still doing practically the same work as the men. Saturday came and we were working on the steepest hillside yet, and I didn’t think I could. I considered telling Arnulfo that I just couldn’t do it because I was scared I would fall, and because I was working so slowly that it hardly seemed fair to even accept pay. But I was determined to do it. I needed to know that I could do it. And so I stayed and finished. And then Saturday wasn’t so hard. Since we hadn’t been paid on Friday, we had the option of leaving at 10:00 on Saturday with 5 hours of pay so that we could get to the office before it closed. I knew that I could make it until the following week without the paycheck, and a fellow worker told me that if we stayed until 11:00 we would get 8 hours of pay. Work only 1 more hour but receive 3 additional hours of pay? The thought of another hour wasn’t pleasant, but the dollar signs made me stay. And then at 11:00 I found out it was 11:30, the same time as usual . . . and I had already drank all of my water! But I finished and again learned that the following week they would need to clear more hillsides, and that yet again, Jorge would let me know when there was more to do.

The last time they had spent 6 days clearing, so I was convinced I would have absolutely no work for at least a week, so I talked to my uncle about ¨coyoleando,¨ yep, picking up those fruits. He gave me my own number (41) and sacks but told me I needed to go with someone because otherwise I would get lost. Of that I was already certain. When I had left Tere early that one day and tried to make my way home, I had had no idea where I was and had simply walked until I reached a road I recognized. So I spoke with Diego’s brother Andres, and we decided to meet the next morning and go together.

Job #2: Coyoleando

Working together, we would need to fill 10 sacks in order to each earn 8 hours worth of pay. On a good day, you can be done by 10:30 or 11:00. We began at 5:45 and I quickly remembered how much I hated it. I was maybe a little more accustomed to the work, and I tried to work as fast as possible, but it was obvious that it was going to be a long morning. We finished our first section and stopped for breakfast before walking to the next section, which took us at 10-15 minutes. And so we started again, filling buckets and sacks, filling buckets and sacks. Finally at 12:45 we finished 10 sacks. Seven hours working for eight hours pay, all for a measly $14. But I received good news that afternoon when I received a message that I needed to call Jairo, something about a job. I tried all evening, but Jairo never answered.

At least I started day number 2 coyoleando with hope in my heart, but the work itself wasn’t much better. His younger brother Oscar went with us, so we finished an hour earlier, but then I had to pay him 2000 colones of my pay for helping us, so you could call the two days equal really. Other than that I started day 2 already tired from day 1.

Finally that afternoon I was able to reach Jairo, who told me to call Backpackers. I already had the number in my phone and gave them a quick call. The boss wasn’t in. And so it went for two days trying to get in touch with him. Two days that I didn’t spend working because I had no desire to work and because I knew that something good was happening. Finally on Friday I reached the boss Carlos on his cell phone, only to receive bad news. Because he couldn’t get in touch with me, he had found someone else. However, she was only testing out the job and if it didn’t work out, he would give me a call.

To say I was devastated is putting it mildly. By this point, I had learned that Silencio had no more money to buy trees for planting, so my only job would be coyoleando, a job I knew I couldn’t do six days a week. I had told Andres that I could do the job, but only because I had the hope of something better. I couldn’t imagine being my neighbor, who does that job six days a week, every week of the year, with no hope of ever doing anything different. Call me a selfish, spoiled American, but I felt like I’d die if I was in that position. (Yet, I can’t help recalling that Yahoo article last year that said Costa Ricans are the happiest people in the world! I guess they’re just of a different character.) I’ve never thought of myself as a weak person, but I guess in comparison to some of the women, like my neighbor, I am. She gets on her bike at 5 a.m. every morning and drops her 3-year-old son off at her mother’s house, heads to the palms to fill as many sacks as she can (she’s the fastest person here, sometimes filling as many as 12 sacks in a morning), picks up her son, and still passes my house at lunchtime with a smile on her face.

Fortunately, within 24 hours things had turned around. Saturday morning at 9:30 my uncle stopped at the house telling me I had a message to call the guy in Manuel Antonio. I hopped out of bed (yeah, I was so distraught I hadn’t gotten up) and practically ran to the albergue where I have a telephone signal. He wanted to know if I could come in. Of course, I said, what time? Four o’clock. I said I’d be there. I knew this was my job.

Job #3: Hotel Receptionist

That Saturday was just a test to see if a) I could do the job, and b) if I wanted the job. As if! If you can multi-task, you can work hotel reception, and having spent 10 years as a high school teacher, I felt pretty confident in my multi-tasking abilities. We started out with a chat in the office, Carlos and me, as he explained the salary and schedule to me (2p-10p Tuesday through Sunday) and said also that after I was comfortable in reception, he would like to have me spend some days working in the office to improve marketing, particularly with groups in the US. No problem, I said.

Albeniz showed me the ropes, and within 2 hours I was using the computer to enter information, helping to check in guests, etc. I had a feeling I was going to like the job. I remembered one thing I had forgotten to tell Carlos, so when he showed back up, I explained that I have to leave the country every 90 days to renew my visa. Ohhhh, he said. He told me not to come the next day, that he needed to think, that he would give me a call. At first I was worried, but later I realized that he would speak with Albeniz, who would tell him I had done a good job, and I knew the phone call was forthcoming.

So I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally on Friday I called him, and he told me he really needed someone who didn’t have to miss 3 days of work every 3 months. I told him I understood, asked him to keep my resume and phone number, and let me know if he changed his mind. And so I spent that Friday evening feeling much the same way, devastated. Lying in my bed that night, I thought, I gave him my resume two months ago when he needed help. He still needs help. Why can’t I work until he finds someone? Even if it’s only two weeks, it’s two weeks more pay than I would get otherwise. And I made up my mind to call him Saturday.

I called Saturday morning and said exactly what I had been thinking and without hesitation he asked if I could work alone. I told him I thought so. He asked if I could come in that day and Sunday to try out the job and then start Tuesday. I asked what time.

And thus began my job with Backpackers Manuel Antonio. In short, I love it. I had thought many years ago I could never work tourism because I would always be jealous of the travelers. But I’m not jealous in the slightest. I’m perfectly happy checking people in, helping them book tours, making reservations in other cities for them, and even making calls to find lodging for non-guests who show up when we’re booked. I’m completely suited to the job, and I’ve already been making improvements in the documents they’re using to make them simpler or to correct the English. And Carlos has already been giving me other responsibilities, such as making signs for the rooms.

As soon as we can find another girl who speaks both Spanish and English to work reception, my schedule will change. I’ll spend Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday working in the office, being his right hand as well as his eyes, and Friday, Saturday, and Sunday working reception. Both will suit me just fine.

I truly feel like a local now. I spend the mornings trying to take care of the house, the laundry, and errands, and the evenings working. It’s a lot of hours, and sometimes I don’t leave until well after 10 p.m., but I’m making money to support myself and in a way that doesn’t leave me with blisters on my hands from the ant bites or cuts on my arms from the thorns, and I don’t have to worry that I’ll fall, stab myself in the eye with a stick, and spend more money on the hospital visit than I even made in a week. And now we have the hope that soon we might be able to afford a new washer/dryer (since the dryer just died, and one has to buy the combo since it’s only one machine) and later a refrigerator.

August 4 is my one year anniversary in Costa Rica. I never dreamed that a year later I would still be here, living like a local. I had planned to be starting university this fall for a doctorate, but that idea has become something that was going to be, not that is going to be. It doesn’t disappoint me in the least. I’m completely happy with the decision I made to stay here. I still miss my family and friends as well as a few other things that just make life a lot easier to live, but Costa Rica is home now.

The Letter of the Law

Immigration laws tell me that I can only stay in Costa Rica for 90 days before I have to leave the country for at least 72 hours. (Just a little note to the immigration law--you can suck it!) Having arrived back in CR February, my time is up tomorrow, which is why I find myself sitting in an Internet cafe in Rivas, Nicaragua, which I feel compelled to not recommend for your next trip to Nicaragua.

I had heard lots of things of Nicaragua. Back in October, I heard the diving is beautiful, actually better than Costa Rica. OK, good thing to know IF I HAD THE MONEY TO DIVE!

Everything else I heard about the place was negative (though I have to say the woman who told me didn't have a positive word about anything in the universe, so I took her info with a grain of salt)--as in it's dangerous and more expensive than Panama. OK, whatever, thanks, I'm going to Nicaragua.

I set out from Barranca, Costa Rica at 2:00 Monday after waiting for 3 hours for the bus. I had been told different departure times and felt like it was best to get there early. Boarded the bus, handed over my ticket, and searched for seat 22, on a bus with no marked seats. Finally, an employee came to help and as it turns out someone else had seat 22 as well and since she was there first (everybody else but me boarded in San Jose), so he led me back up front, removed some coolers of food from seat 2 and I sat down for the 3.5 hour ride to the border.

We arrived right on time, and there are definite advantages to being in the front of the bus, as in I didn't have to wait in line to get my passport stamped to exit the country. I got to wait in the cool air conditioning of the bus with my Sprite and 3 Musketeers while talking to a couple of guys from the States. The process was really simple and took only about 30 seconds per person.

As we were driving across the border, a guy began collecting our passports and $8 per person. Didn't matter if you didn't have change, hand over your money, you'll get change later. OOOOKKKK. Little strange. Upon arriving at the Nicaraguan immigration office, we were advised to disembark, with all of our luggage. Fortunately for me, I only had a small backpack. Others had to wait for their luggage to be taken out of the storage below the bus. And then we realized we needed to wait in the line for bag inspection. Really? They're going to inspect every bag? I had heard it wasn't an open border. I was in no rush, so no complaints really.

While I waited, some guy came around selling movies, just like they often do in Costa Rica, so I began to flip through them. At $2 a movie, you have to look right? Arrived at the immigration desk rather rapidly, having not paid attention to the process, was asked for my declarations page (as in, am I bringing anything of great value into the country, live animals, food, etc.), and that was all. No bag inspection. So I turned my attention to figuring out which movies I wanted and decided on 4 for the grand total of $6, with the whole 4 for 3 discount. And then we began the process of reembarking by having the names called out of the passport. Really? There has to be an easier way. I had to laugh when the guy calling out names only called out one name for an Asian guy. I'm guessing there was no attempting the rest of that name. And I immediately, I'd love to see an entire busload of Asians with someone attempting to call out names. The whole immigration process on both sides for a tour bus full of people took about 90 minutes. Not too bad actually.

Thirty minutes later we arrived in Rivas, the first stop along the route, and my stop. Didn't really want to go any further than necessary. Inquired at a 24-hour Texaco where to find lodging and it was only a half block. Seemed safe enough to walk at 7:30 at night. And it was. I arrived, was shown a room, seemed fine, $10 a night. OK, here's $10. I was going to look around the next morning to see what else I could fine, but paid for another night the next morning before looking. STUPID. Immediately found another place for only $5 a night. Granted it doesn't have a TV with cable in the room, but it does have a fan that I can point directly on me all night rather than one that rotates in circles and only hits me about 20% of the time. Of course, the other place had a really comfortable bed. This one, not so much. There are two single beds in the room, so I will be, behind closed doors, putting one mattress on top of the other to make myself infinitely more comfortable for the two nights I have to stay here.

I spent part of today making inquiries about crossing the border on Friday. I believe I may have to have a ticket out of Costa Rica when I actually go back in. They want to know I'm not going to stick around, though one look at my passport will tell them I'm gonna stick around for 3 months, leave for 3 days, and then come back again. Not that they care about that. Inquired in two bus offices and in a hostel and finally decided I'll take my chances. I have the receipt from the roundtrip ticket I bought this time that I plan to falsify. Shouldn't be hard to turn that 5 of May into an 8 for August. And IF they ask for it, I'll show it. They don't look closely when they're dealing with 100 people on a bus. I just refuse to spend any more money on bus tickets at this particular moment in time.

Tomorrow I'm debating heading to San Juan del Sur where there's a beach. It involves an hour ride on a Nicaraguan bus, which are less than half as good as Costa Rican buses. Not sure if it's worth it. If I don't go, I'll spend another day writing and reading and eating my two meals a day.

As for that advice I received . . . well, I've not been able to tell it's dangerous here, other than that I was told there are no public telephones here because people destroy them. From where I'm sitting I can see my hotel across the street, so walking home tonight won't be an issue. There are hundreds of people out and about during the day and I've never felt unsafe, even when I've been receiving catcalls and whistles as is typical in this part of the world. And as for prices, well, perhaps stuff is cheaper in Panama, goods wise, but the food is cheap enough. I had lunch with a Coke, more food than I could possibly eat, and paid 65 cordobas, which is the equivalent of about $3.10. Dinner was 80 cordobas, only slightly more. (21 cordobas equals $1 if anyone is trying to do the math.)

I can think of other places I'd rather be in this particular moment, but I'm comforting myself with the fact that in about 37 hours, I'll be back on Costa Rican soil with a cell phone that has service.

Eating Habits

Eating here is as much a part of life, and social life, as it is in the States, though with significant differences. In the States, it is customary to call before showing up at someone’s house, particularly if you’re going to be there at meal time. Here—not so much. One never knows who will show up on the doorstep unannounced, sometimes at mealtime, sometimes before, and you simply prepare one more plate.

Another major difference is that in the States you don’t just walk off into the forest and return with food. It’s a weekly occurrence here. Two weeks ago we were just sitting around the house with the neighbor and Diego’s brother-in-law when they decided they wanted picadillo made with hearts of palm, so we grabbed machetes and started walking. We detoured off into the palms and then they began hacking away at one of the palm trees. Twenty or thirty minutes later they had reached the “heart” of the tree, which we left hidden by the side of the road as we went off to search for granadillas. (My dictionary tells me granadillas are pomegranates, but my guidebook tells me they’re passion fruit. Having seen neither of these, I’m not sure which is correct, but I’m inclined to believe the guidebook.) Diego climbed a tree to get to them and we returned with 10 or so after having eaten a few before departing. The neighbor took half and we used the rest to make juice.

Other days Diego, and sometimes friends or brothers, head off into the trees and return with fruits. A few weeks back he and his brothers went across the road, climbed a tree, and came back with 52 avocados. He and his brother-in-law disappeared a few days ago and returned with another huge bag of them since the 52 were gone. Yes, eaten. We had split the original 52 with his brothers, and our portion didn’t last long since Diego can eat as many as 5 avocados in a day. There are actually three types of avocadoes here: the traditional dark green avocadoes like we have in the States, a lighter green one that is similarly shaped but has a huge white seed instead of the dark one (these are the ones they picked in the trees), and a light green one that is shaped slightly different that we bought one day in the supermarket in Quepos. The local ones taste a little different, being a little more watery.

There are lots of other foods that we take from the land. We have plantain trees growing next to the house that have kept us almost in constant supply. I’ve learned to cook them 5 different ways. Sunday, Diego went outside and I saw him digging beside the house. He returned with yuca, which is a lot like a potato when boiled. This made for a very cheap lunch—rice, beans, plantains, yuca, and boiled eggs with a refresco made from oranges. I’d say we didn’t spend more than $1 for that meal, possibly less.

This is our diet. As I’ve said before, rice and beans are a staple and appear at every meal, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. With that we usually have a vegetable, sometimes two (cauliflower and broccoli are two of our favorites). Eggs are very common, particularly if we don’t feel like cooking or we don’t have much else. (If I make enough rice at lunch, I only have to make it once a day. And the beans we just reheat. ) We occasionally buy meat, but it’s a rarity given that we lack a fridge. We sometimes will ask a neighbor to keep something for us, but we eat well enough without it and I can’t say that my body misses it much. I try to keep fruit in the house—bananas, oranges, apples, and then we have the occasional watermelon, pineapple, mangoes, or strawberries. And then we’ve got papaya trees in the backyard that we eat when they’re ripe.

Ticos (Costa Ricans) have some traditional dishes, one of which is picadillo. It can be made in any number of ways. I’ve had it with unripened papayas and ground beef, only with unripened papayas, and then the one time with hearts of palm. The papayas or hearts of palm are cooked until soft and then cut into smaller pieces. The meat is cooked with consommé and onions and added to the papaya. And they use something called achiote, which is some kind of red paste. It has very little flavoring and is used mainly for coloring; for some reason, they don’t like to consume food that’s white, preferring to add achiote to pasta, potatoes, etc. The one day I cooked mashed potatoes, Diego told me the next time I should add achiote. “Potatoes are white,” I said. I don’t really understand why they see the need for this, and I can’t say that I want to eat red mashed potatoes. Maybe for Christmas.

Another traditional dish that is popular with his family his “atol de pina.” I’m not really sure how this translates into English. You start with a pineapple and remove the outer layer. You boil this in water until the water is yellow. Drain the water into a bowl through a strainer and then put back into the pot with the pineapple, which is cut into small pieces. You then add “Vitamaiz,” which looks like corn starch and is used as a thickener, but is sweet. Not sure what this is in the States. And you add sugar (a lot) to taste. This is boiled until it thickens and then eaten like a soup. Though Diego can eat five avocadoes in one day, he said if he had to choose, atol de pina is his favorite.

Now for the cost. I’ve estimated we spend about $40 a week on food (plus soap, dishwashing soap, and detergent). Every Thursday I walk to town because they have a market with fruits and vegetables, and I consistently spend 4500-5000 colones ($8.33-$9.25), usually buying two onions, a red pepper, 6-8 oranges, 6-10 bananas, apples, some avocadoes, cauliflower or broccoli (not both because we can’t eat it before it goes bad), potatoes if we need them, and occasionally strawberries or pineapple. Last week I also bought ayote, but we haven’t cooked it yet because I have to ask how. And then I lug this the ¾ a mile back to the house in my backpack. Every Saturday around noon, a truck comes by the house selling fruits and vegetables as well, and I usually buy oranges since they’re heavy and it makes more sense to buy them close to home. And then I buy broccoli when I’m not able to buy it in town. And other days, too, a truck comes by. Yesterday the truck came and we spent 5000 colones ($9.25) and bought exactly the following (and don’t ask me to compare this cost to the States because I have no idea): 20 oranges, 12 bananas, a small head of broccoli, a red pepper, and 6 potatoes.

Life continues mostly as before, though I did spend two days at work with Diego last week and once this week. On Tuesday he asked me if I wanted to come to work with him. Having wanted to go before in order to take pictures and see exactly what he does, I said I would. And then halfway there Wednesday morning at 5:30, I realized the camera was in the house! We walked about 20 minutes to work with breakfast in the backpack and machetes in hand. He works in the African palm trees and harvests the fruits that grow in them. This involves the use of a barilla, which I’ve described before as a long metal pole with a scythe on the end, and cutting down usually several branches as well as 1-4 bunches of fruits that grow in each tree. My job was to dispose of the branches he cut down. The large part that is closest to the tree has spines sticking out of it and is very hard, making it dangerous for both people and the horses and cattle that, so this part much be cut off and placed into a pile. And then I had to make sure that the area directly around the tree is clear of any branches so that it’s ready for the next harvest. (It takes about 8 days before the tree is ready again.) At times I was able to cut the branches with one hack of the machete; other times I needed a lot more. After five hours, with one break for breakfast and another quick break for coffee, I was in need of a shower and a bed. I was exhausted and it was all I could do to walk back home. He does this every day, six days a week, I thought. But with my help, he made more than double. He is paid by the number of fruits he cuts, not by the hours he works. He has a quota to meet every day, and the quote depends on the height of the trees. In the tallest sections of the palms he has to cut 85 to receive pay for 8 hours of work (even if this only takes 3 hours); in the smallest sections of the palms he has to cut 240 to receive the same pay. If he cuts more than the quota, then the quota for the second set is smaller. For example, Wednesday, he needed to cut 95 for 8 hours of work. He needed to cut another 75 for an additional 8 hours of work. We cut 170 that day.

Since I had left my camera, I decided I would go another day, but Thursday is market day, so I couldn’t go that day. And Friday I couldn’t drag my butt out of bed. So it was Saturday. And once again, I realized halfway there that the camera was still in the house. This day seemed much harder, maybe because I was still sore, or maybe because a branch fell on my arm and gave me 11 huge scratches. Or maybe because we had to walk more. Not sure, but again, I was dead on my feet, though we earned 16 hours of pay again. I couldn’t go today because I needed to wash clothes and go to the store. I told him I couldn’t work with him and do these things because I’d be too exhausted. He arrived home at 10:15 after having earned 16 hours of pay in less than 4 hours. (And then proceeded to go to the store for me because we knew that the weight of the items we needed would be easier for him to carry.) I’m sure the method of payment sounds pretty good—a few hours of work and being paid for a lot more. But then I ask you to consider if you’d want to do this work for $1.60 an hour. Yeah, didn’t think so. And consider that some parts of the palms aren’t as easy as others, and he may have to cut down five branches just to get to one fruit.

Last weekend we wanted to get away. I offered two locales with which I was familiar: Monteverde (to do a canopy tour) and La Fortuna (to go to the hot springs). He asked me which was less dangerous, and so it was to La Fortuna we went. We left Saturday around 11:00 in a rented car and headed first to Puntarenas where he has family. We stopped in at the house of his aunt and uncle where, of course, we ate. Remember, it doesn’t matter if you show up unannounced. Oh, and did I mention he also took a shower? Hey, it’s family. We stayed there for about an hour making conversation before heading out to La Fortuna, arriving at about 7:00. We quickly checked into a hotel, grabbed our swimsuits, and made the short drive to Baldi Hot Springs. Dinner first and then about 90 minutes of hanging out in the thermal waters was just what we needed. I was completely and utterly relaxed afterward, and my fingers and toes were prunes.

We intended to get up early to make the hike to Arenal Volcano, but were unable. When we did get up around 9 it was raining, so we grabbed breakfast. It had cleared a bit by then, so we went to the La Fortuna waterfall and had a quick dip in freezing waters. We made what we thought was going to be a quick trip to an Internet café, but it ended up being longer since it was pouring rain. The rain eventually subsided a bit, and we decided to drive up to the trailhead to see what the weather was like. We were told it was completely cloud-covered and we wouldn’t see a thing, so instead we diverted to a small town close by, ate lunch, played some hands of Uno in the car, and then when we saw the slightest bit of sun, headed back to the trailhead. What the hell, we thought. So we set out on a muddy trail, and I immediately regretted not having taken my Teva sandals. He refused to let me go in flip flops, so he gave me his shoes, and he went barefoot the whole way—incredibly typical. (In fact, when we had checked into the hotel the day before he had started to put on his shoes first, but I told him to go barefoot because then they’d known he was a true Tico and he’d probably get a better rate. We had already decided he would be the one to ask about the room because we knew the rate would be cheaper for him.) After an hour or so of hiking, mostly uphill, we arrived at the viewpoint and saw . . . clouds. And more clouds. And more clouds. We sat for a bit, listening, and we could hear the eruptions, but we saw nothing. Another day, I suppose. By the time we started back it was late, and the drive seemed to take a lot longer in the dark. We arrived back home close to 11:00 that night after about 6 hours of driving. But it was a trip well worth taking. And it was definitely nice to show a Tico more of his own country.

Life as a Tica

It’s hard to believe that more than a month has passed since I arrived back in Silencio to live. In that time, we’ve had a considerable number of diversions/activities. As soon as I arrived, Diego let me know that some of the guys wanted to rent a car for the weekend and go to Brujo, a small town located in the mountains inland. They would pay for the car and the gas as well as our food; they simply needed someone who could provide a credit card for the rental (me) and someone to chauffeur (Diego). As a result, one weekend we crammed eight people into a Montero that is really only equipped to hold five. And at times, when we were riding short distances, we had additional people hanging on to the side of the car for a grand total of 10 people. (There were photos as evidence of this, but Diego’s youngest brother inadvertently erased all of my photos on the camera before I had downloaded them. Yeah, he won’t be playing with my camera anymore!) It was a fun weekend, though I was sick the entire time with a cold I had come down with. I was getting only about three hours of sleep a night because I was coughing incessantly. I had gone to the pharmacy that Saturday morning before we left and received an injection, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.

When we arrived back in Silencio on Sunday night and didn’t have to return the car until Monday, Diego and his family decided they were taking me to the hospital. I had been coughing so hard I had thrown up at times and he simply refused to tolerate any more. In the hospital I received an IV with one medicine and then three treatments through an oxygen mask. And they sent me home with more pills. I wasn’t feeling any better, but we were all hungry and there happened to be a fair in Quepos. And once again, when you have a car, you take advantage of the fact that you have one. So Diego, his sister, her boyfriend, and I headed to the fair, which is much like any county fair in the state of Kentucky. Getting to eat cotton candy made me feel the tiniest bit better. It was still a few days more before I felt completely myself and before I could sleep through the night without coughing.

The next weekend we had an impromptu party at the house. We had simply been hanging out one Saturday night, playing pool in town when we were suddenly headed back to the house with several of the guys and bags of meat, yes, bags of meat. The guys set up a fire outside and Ronnie, who was once a cook in a restaurant, began to cook. And I quickly learned that here you don’t need lawn chairs—you simply move the sofa and chairs outside! The food was delicious and I consumed my fair share. It wasn’t until a few days ago that I realized what I ate—it was stuff that Romaldo had hunted in the mountains (an iguana, a bird, some kind of mammal that when described sounded like a big groundhog to me). It’s better I didn’t know what I was eating!

The next weekend we found ourselves doing the mountain trip again, the same number of guys, but with some changes. This time we headed in the same general direction but stopped in Llano, the town just prior to Brujo. We arrived and within minutes were headed to the house of someone they knew so that we could all shower and change. Then it was back to the dance. It couldn’t have been more than 30 minutes later when Diego decided we needed to head to Brujo to arrange our lodging for the night (in the same place as before). That was when we discovered no one had the keys. One of the boys had borrowed them and with the light of a cell phone we could see that they were lying on the backseat. One of the guys who felt responsible (not the one who locked the keys in but the one who gave the keys to the guy who DID lock the keys in) was ready to break one of the small windows and pay for the cost of repairing it, but I was convinced, as was Diego, that someone would be able to open it. To ensure we had a place to sleep for the night, Diego headed off on a motorcycle to Brujo with a friend, and it was my job to ensure that no one broke the window.

We waited for a bit and then some of they guys who lived there decided to try and open it with a piece of wire (um, yeah, I kind of had that idea but lacked the wire . . .) and set about trying to open it. I remarked to more than one person that guys always like challenges and I was convinced they would open the door. Of course, I didn’t expect the electricity to go out shortly after they started either. I had two flashlights—in the car! Luckily someone else who lived there had a flashlight, so the guys continued to work. On more than one occasion I stood between Ronnie and the window he wanted to break insisting that he couldn’t. Diego arrived about an hour later, remarking that they had had a wreck on the motorcycle (unhurt fortunately). Another 30 minutes later we were all on the verge of breaking the window when one of the guys was successful. Nevermind that when the electricity went out the dance was over, and hence the party. Welcome to Central America! Instead, we made what seemed like an intensely long trip on a road that can barely be considered a road to buy beer and then hung out at someone’s house for a while. The next day the guys played a pickup game of soccer before we watched an actual game and headed back to Silencio.

The following Monday I returned the car in Quepos in the morning and caught a few minutes on the Internet while I was there. I was surprised to see Kirsten show up, a friend from Germany who I met in Silencio back in November. And then I was surprised when she showed up in Silencio that night as well. She had managed to get a ride out in order to spend a few hours; it was her that was surprised when her ride left her stranded. She ended up staying with us that night, which was to her benefit since Silencio was having a bull-riding event that afternoon that she wanted to see.

On the road just outside Silencio is a corral, and some of the men had set it up with a loading gate and had rounded up all the bulls. Anyone who wanted to ride did. I was enjoying it immensely and taking lots of photos until a boy of 16 was dragged by the bull because his boot was caught in the rope. I was terrified. No less than 10 men jumped into the corral to try to free him and the boy’s father actually stood in front of the bull and was run over in an attempt to slow it down so that they could free him. He was eventually freed after about 20-30 seconds (that felt like minutes) and was remarkably unhurt. After that, though, the event continued as if nothing had happened, other than that Diego looked at me and said, “I’m not going to ride.” He had wanted to before that incident (though I don’t think he was actually going to anyway).

The following afternoon, Monday, when Diego was in Quepos, a girl came to the house and told me that I needed to call Diego, not an easy feat when he has the cell phone. I was less than enthused about making the walk at 3 in the afternoon (in 100 degree heat, did I mention that?) to town, but I did, only to find that the public telephones weren’t working. I borrowed a phone from my Tica mother and called.

Diego had run into Kirsten who wanted to rent a car for her last couple of nights in Costa Rica, but she couldn’t with her credit card. Enter me, of course. Transportation is always an issue, but I’m learning to navigate. I headed to Diego’s parents’ house to see if I could get a ride with his father on the motorcycle (Mom, you didn’t read that!). I had to wait for about 15 minutes before he arrived and when he did, he said, “Let’s go. The bus passes the bridge at 4:00.” It was 3:36 and I still had to go to the house because I didn’t have my passport, credit cards, etc. When we reached the center of town, we saw a friend of Diego’s who was headed back to Quepos in his car and I begged a ride. So little more than an hour after Diego sent word for me, I was in Quepos and we were renting the car for Kirsten.

Tuesday night she stayed with us and I hitched a ride to Quepos with her that morning because I had discovered that my income tax return had been rejected. Not a big deal if I had an infinite amount of money. Since I don’t, I needed to take care of this as soon as possible. Two phone calls to the IRS, four phone calls to my mother, and a refile hopefully fixed the problem and within two weeks I should be feeling a little more financially secure. Of late, we’ve been keeping track of our spending because it seems like the money is disappearing faster than it should. A few thousand colones here, a few thousand colones there. Most everything that we buy is inexpensive, but keeping food in the house is difficult. I buy a package of crackers and they last two days if we’re lucky. Diego said, but they’re inexpensive (yes, less than $1US), but not if you’re buying 4-5 packages a week.

I’ve been learning to cook, a little at a time. I’m now proficient at cooking plantains five different ways. I’ve learned to cook cauliflower with eggs two different ways. I learned to cook atol de pina, which is a sweet, thick liquid with pineapple—a dessert of sorts. I’m learning picadillo, which is made with green papayas. Diego’s mom taught me to make tortillas. I’m learning to cook rice without burning it, which has proven to be the most difficult for me. I bought a pressure cooker in order to cook beans. And with rice and beans I can make the traditional gallo pinto for breakfast. Of late, I’ve been getting up at 5:00 to make coffee and pack breakfast for Diego, and then I go back to bed. I figure it’s a sacrifice I can make since he has to work all morning in 100 degree heat (did I mention that already?).

This week his kids are staying with us. It’s the week of Easter, which is a big holiday here, resulting in no school for one week. Sunday we returned from the river where we spent time with his family and were simply hanging out, playing games on the computer when we heard voices outside. He said, “My kids.” It was a surprise for him that they showed up on Sunday (he expected them on Monday). It was a surprise for me that they showed up at all since I didn’t realize they were coming. Another one of those things he apparently told me that I didn’t hear or didn’t understand. Or maybe he thinks he told me but didn’t. At any rate, this week I’m not only a housewife but a surrogate mother as well. My life just keeps getting stranger.

Life as a Tica

It’s hard to believe that more than a month has passed since I arrived back in Silencio to live. In that time, we’ve had a considerable number of diversions/activities. As soon as I arrived, Diego let me know that some of the guys wanted to rent a car for the weekend and go to Brujo, a small town located in the mountains inland. They would pay for the car and the gas as well as our food; they simply needed someone who could provide a credit card for the rental (me) and someone to chauffeur (Diego). As a result, one weekend we crammed eight people into a Montero that is really only equipped to hold five. And at times, when we were riding short distances, we had additional people hanging on to the side of the car for a grand total of 10 people. (There were photos as evidence of this, but Diego’s youngest brother inadvertently erased all of my photos on the camera before I had downloaded them. Yeah, he won’t be playing with my camera anymore!) It was a fun weekend, though I was sick the entire time with a cold I had come down with. I was getting only about three hours of sleep a night because I was coughing incessantly. I had gone to the pharmacy that Saturday morning before we left and received an injection, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.

When we arrived back in Silencio on Sunday night and didn’t have to return the car until Monday, Diego and his family decided they were taking me to the hospital. I had been coughing so hard I had thrown up at times and he simply refused to tolerate any more. In the hospital I received an IV with one medicine and then three treatments through an oxygen mask. And they sent me home with more pills. I wasn’t feeling any better, but we were all hungry and there happened to be a fair in Quepos. And once again, when you have a car, you take advantage of the fact that you have one. So Diego, his sister, her boyfriend, and I headed to the fair, which is much like any county fair in the state of Kentucky. Getting to eat cotton candy made me feel the tiniest bit better. It was still a few days more before I felt completely myself and before I could sleep through the night without coughing.

The next weekend we had an impromptu party at the house. We had simply been hanging out one Saturday night, playing pool in town when we were suddenly headed back to the house with several of the guys and bags of meat, yes, bags of meat. The guys set up a fire outside and Ronnie, who was once a cook in a restaurant, began to cook. And I quickly learned that here you don’t need lawn chairs—you simply move the sofa and chairs outside! The food was delicious and I consumed my fair share. It wasn’t until a few days ago that I realized what I ate—it was stuff that Romaldo had hunted in the mountains (an iguana, a bird, some kind of mammal that when described sounded like a big groundhog to me). It’s better I didn’t know what I was eating!

The next weekend we found ourselves doing the mountain trip again, the same number of guys, but with some changes. This time we headed in the same general direction but stopped in Llano, the town just prior to Brujo. We arrived and within minutes were headed to the house of someone they knew so that we could all shower and change. Then it was back to the dance. It couldn’t have been more than 30 minutes later when Diego decided we needed to head to Brujo to arrange our lodging for the night (in the same place as before). That was when we discovered no one had the keys. One of the boys had borrowed them and with the light of a cell phone we could see that they were lying on the backseat. One of the guys who felt responsible (not the one who locked the keys in but the one who gave the keys to the guy who DID lock the keys in) was ready to break one of the small windows and pay for the cost of repairing it, but I was convinced, as was Diego, that someone would be able to open it. To ensure we had a place to sleep for the night, Diego headed off on a motorcycle to Brujo with a friend, and it was my job to ensure that no one broke the window.

We waited for a bit and then some of they guys who lived there decided to try and open it with a piece of wire (um, yeah, I kind of had that idea but lacked the wire . . .) and set about trying to open it. I remarked to more than one person that guys always like challenges and I was convinced they would open the door. Of course, I didn’t expect the electricity to go out shortly after they started either. I had two flashlights—in the car! Luckily someone else who lived there had a flashlight, so the guys continued to work. On more than one occasion I stood between Ronnie and the window he wanted to break insisting that he couldn’t. Diego arrived about an hour later, remarking that they had had a wreck on the motorcycle (unhurt fortunately). Another 30 minutes later we were all on the verge of breaking the window when one of the guys was successful. Nevermind that when the electricity went out the dance was over, and hence the party. Welcome to Central America! Instead, we made what seemed like an intensely long trip on a road that can barely be considered a road to buy beer and then hung out at someone’s house for a while. The next day the guys played a pickup game of soccer before we watched an actual game and headed back to Silencio.

The following Monday I returned the car in Quepos in the morning and caught a few minutes on the Internet while I was there. I was surprised to see Kirsten show up, a friend from Germany who I met in Silencio back in November. And then I was surprised when she showed up in Silencio that night as well. She had managed to get a ride out in order to spend a few hours; it was her that was surprised when her ride left her stranded. She ended up staying with us that night, which was to her benefit since Silencio was having a bull-riding event that afternoon that she wanted to see.

On the road just outside Silencio is a corral, and some of the men had set it up with a loading gate and had rounded up all the bulls. Anyone who wanted to ride did. I was enjoying it immensely and taking lots of photos until a boy of 16 was dragged by the bull because his boot was caught in the rope. I was terrified. No less than 10 men jumped into the corral to try to free him and the boy’s father actually stood in front of the bull and was run over in an attempt to slow it down so that they could free him. He was eventually freed after about 20-30 seconds (that felt like minutes) and was remarkably unhurt. After that, though, the event continued as if nothing had happened, other than that Diego looked at me and said, “I’m not going to ride.” He had wanted to before that incident (though I don’t think he was actually going to anyway).

The following afternoon, Monday, when Diego was in Quepos, a girl came to the house and told me that I needed to call Diego, not an easy feat when he has the cell phone. I was less than enthused about making the walk at 3 in the afternoon (in 100 degree heat, did I mention that?) to town, but I did, only to find that the public telephones weren’t working. I borrowed a phone from my Tica mother and called.

Diego had run into Kirsten who wanted to rent a car for her last couple of nights in Costa Rica, but she couldn’t with her credit card. Enter me, of course. Transportation is always an issue, but I’m learning to navigate. I headed to Diego’s parents’ house to see if I could get a ride with his father on the motorcycle (Mom, you didn’t read that!). I had to wait for about 15 minutes before he arrived and when he did, he said, “Let’s go. The bus passes the bridge at 4:00.” It was 3:36 and I still had to go to the house because I didn’t have my passport, credit cards, etc. When we reached the center of town, we saw a friend of Diego’s who was headed back to Quepos in his car and I begged a ride. So little more than an hour after Diego sent word for me, I was in Quepos and we were renting the car for Kirsten.

Tuesday night she stayed with us and I hitched a ride to Quepos with her that morning because I had discovered that my income tax return had been rejected. Not a big deal if I had an infinite amount of money. Since I don’t, I needed to take care of this as soon as possible. Two phone calls to the IRS, four phone calls to my mother, and a refile hopefully fixed the problem and within two weeks I should be feeling a little more financially secure. Of late, we’ve been keeping track of our spending because it seems like the money is disappearing faster than it should. A few thousand colones here, a few thousand colones there. Most everything that we buy is inexpensive, but keeping food in the house is difficult. I buy a package of crackers and they last two days if we’re lucky. Diego said, but they’re inexpensive (yes, less than $1US), but not if you’re buying 4-5 packages a week.

I’ve been learning to cook, a little at a time. I’m now proficient at cooking plantains five different ways. I’ve learned to cook cauliflower with eggs two different ways. I learned to cook atol de pina, which is a sweet, thick liquid with pineapple—a dessert of sorts. I’m learning picadillo, which is made with green papayas. Diego’s mom taught me to make tortillas. I’m learning to cook rice without burning it, which has proven to be the most difficult for me. I bought a pressure cooker in order to cook beans. And with rice and beans I can make the traditional gallo pinto for breakfast. Of late, I’ve been getting up at 5:00 to make coffee and pack breakfast for Diego, and then I go back to bed. I figure it’s a sacrifice I can make since he has to work all morning in 100 degree heat (did I mention that already?).

This week his kids are staying with us. It’s the week of Easter, which is a big holiday here, resulting in no school for one week. Sunday we returned from the river where we spent time with his family and were simply hanging out, playing games on the computer when we heard voices outside. He said, “My kids.” It was a surprise for him that they showed up on Sunday (he expected them on Monday). It was a surprise for me that they showed up at all since I didn’t realize they were coming. Another one of those things he apparently told me that I didn’t hear or didn’t understand. Or maybe he thinks he told me but didn’t. At any rate, this week I’m not only a housewife but a surrogate mother as well. My life just keeps getting stranger.

Local Life in Costa Rica

After what felt like a whirlwind visit to the States, I arrived back in Costa Rica on Saturday, 30 minutes early. You go, pilot! Diego picked me up in what he called a turtle--a really slow pickup truck. Slow enough that we didn't arrive back in Silencio until 9:30 that night. I had gotten up that morning at 2 a.m. (Costa Rica time), so the day was a long one, but I was glad to be back. Since then I've been living the life of a local, well, minus the actual job.

All is pretty routine. Diego works in the morning, so I sleep in until about 9 when I'm able, meaning when the dogs and the roosters and the neighbor's music don't force me up earlier than that. We cook (yes, I'm learning to cook), we clean, we do laundry, we go to the store, we watch movies, play pool, video games, read, etc. It's a pretty lazy life for me, and I'm enjoying it immensely. I would enjoy it more if I weren't sick with a cold and coughing half the day and all of the night. The over the counter drugs are helping, though, so I should be well by the weekend.

I have two teaching projects currently: teaching Diego English (he's quite a lazy student!) and training Mechas (our puppy). She's doing better than he is, I believe, probably because she enjoys it. She has learned to sit on command and has almost learned to lay down on command. If I train her before I feed her, she doesn't like to eat from the bowl, preferring to continue learning and being handfed. Diego, on the other hand, says English is too hard and doesn't like to practice. Ever the teacher, I'm starting where my student is--in this case, the first sentences he's learning involve smoking! "I want a cigarette." "I need a lighter." etc.

There are others who want to learn English as well. I helped Mango yesterday with his English homework. He had to write about a famous athlete in Costa Rica, so I helped him write a page in English about a goalkeeper for one of the Costa Rican professional soccer teams. It involved his telling me in Spanish what he wanted to say and my translating into English, oh and my prompting him with what he could say. Hmmm, I'm not sure how much he got out of that assignment. Then Ronnie asked me yesterday if I would help him learn. He speaks Spanglish and wants to learn more. We'll see. A lot of them want to learn but don't want to devote the time to it--just like most people with many things, I suppose.

What can I say except Life is Good?!