Going “Home”

My year in Costa Rica is drawing to a close.  I’ve been in this country (with the exception of Christmas in the states) since the beginning of July nearly a year ago.  It has worked its way into my heart and I have found myself very much at home here…but it was always to be a temporary one.

In Puntarenas one can find entire city blocks covered in brilliantly colored murals.

It has been more amazing, more freeing, and more painful than I can possibly begin to explain, and I’m still reeling that it’s almost over.  I sit tonight in a hotel room in San Jose, just a stone’s throw from the airport, ready to fly back to the states tomorrow.  But am I really ready?  Will I be able to take the things I’ve begun to learn back with me and keep them?  Will I still hang onto my voice- the one that says ‘no’ when it doesn’t want to do things and asks ‘help’ when it’s struggling, the one that says ‘this is who I am’ without shame- when I am back in a world where people see me as I was and expect me to be who I’ve always been?  Or will I loose ground?

I was always too compliant with people I admired or from whom I wanted a good opinion.  I let myself get involved in things that were too much for me- for my time, my energy, my health- because I wanted to be important.  And I wasn’t honest about things if I thought those people would judge me.  My need to have value was place far too much in the opinions of others and not in my opinion of me.  I’m not that person anymore.  I don’t let myself feel guilty for saying ‘no’ or refusing to waffle or doing what’s right for me rather than what is good for someone else.  And I won’t spend all my time taking care of other people.  I have a life.  I take care of myself and it’s not my responsibility to take care of the ‘stuff’ of other people all the time.  Not anymore.  But any time you go away, grow, and go back there’s a danger.  Those old routines, habits, and mind-sets are so easy to slip back into.

But I am proud of the ground I’ve gained and I know that what I’ve accomplished is more important that the ease of familiarity and the simplicity of making no waves.  So, here I am, 40 pounds and a hell of a lot of baggage lighter than I was 11 months ago, making the decision to stand strong.  The routines I’ve established for myself this year will change as my schedule alters, but the heart of those routines and habits will remain.  I will be my priority; taking care of myself, doing what’s good and healthy for me, chasing after the desires of my own heart will take precedence.  And I will keep the centered spirit I’ve found.  Even if it takes work.  Even if I have to enlist help sometimes.  Even if it’s scary.

It is more than time for me to go home.  I’m ready.  But I know it won’t be easy.  This next step of my journey will be just as hard as the move to Costa Rica was, but the forward momentum will be more than worth it.  I’m on a path that’s nowhere near over yet, and I am excited to see where it will take me.

Like the figures in these murals, I have found an exhuberance and sense of freedom I didn't feel before.

Who IS This Woman…

…and where did the real Evie go?

Some days I don’t recognize myself.  It can be a little disturbing, to be honest.

I had one of those days last weekend.

Carlos and I took a short trip up into the northern mountains.  I had to go because I’m leaving the country soon and Monday needed a new home.  A man in the vicinity of Arenal saw my Craigslist ad and wanted her, so I agreed to take her to him.  In the process, I figured we might as well make a looping mini-trip of it and see both Volcan Arenal and Monteverde.  I hadn’t seen them, I’m leaving soon, I had to go up to that area anyway…it all made sense.   I’ll tell you about the trip itself later.  For now, back to the question at hand.

WTF happens to me some days?

On the second day of our trip, as we were chatting about this and that, Carlos and I ran across a snag.  He said something I didn’t understand.  I’m still learning Spanish, and sometimes I don’t get everything.  This is not helped by the fact that he feels some strange need to try to explain- in detail- relatively complicated grammatical things to me instead of just finding a different way to say whatever it was that I didn’t understand.  But, I digress…

I got confused, and I found myself, 20 minutes into the “I still don’t understand what you were trying to say” discussion, doing something I haven’t done in years.  I literally threw my hands up in the air in the world’s most dramatic gesture, growled, turned around, and stormed off muttering my frustration in every language I could think of.  Then, when he asked, “A donde vas?”  I turned right back around to snap at him about what a frustrating teacher he was.  I was so angry my hands were shaking and it was everything I could do to keep my voice from rising to hearing-damaging decibels.

I’ve never been a yeller.  Not really.  High school hormones and extreme provocation don’t count.  I’ve always prided myself on being a kind, understanding, calm, rational, patient woman.  I had to be to teach.   But the truth is, I’m not as calm, rational, and kind as I’d like to be.

As I stormed away from him, doing my best to not actually yell, I heard my own voice in my head asking, “Who the heck is this woman, and where did I go?”  When I calmed down, of course, I apologized for being irrational.  Because I was being irrational. While the language barrier is frustrating it’s certainly not something to become angry at, and he certainly hadn’t done anything wrong.

Sometimes I simply am not the master of my own emotions.  Sometimes I look up and realize they are far bigger than me, that somewhere inside me lives a dragon, breathing fire.  That’s a bit of a shift for my adult self.  Sure, as a teenager, all it took was a little irritation to set me off, but I grew out of that (right?).  I grew into someone who kept a lid on her emotions, on her anger, her frustration, her sorrow, her fear, her grief, her disappointment, her everything.  I kept it tucked neatly away, telling myself, “I don’t have time for that.  I don’t have time to fall apart…I’ve got to survive.”  As survival techniques go, it was effective; it got me through college, a nightmare marriage and divorce, and the stress of teaching when I didn’t even feel like a real grown-up yet.  I kept a job, made ends meet, got good grades, got complimented on my teaching and my journalism management, and made far more friends than enemies.  But I kept everything to myself as long as there was anyone around to see it.  And it ate at me.

Being angry and unhappy all the time was why I quit my job and came to Costa Rica.  I was overwhelmed and I was pissed.  I hated my life and knew I wouldn’t survive it much longer unless I changed it.  And I knew I had some serious soul searching to do.  I needed to find a way to be a whole person, all the time, and not keep this part compartmentalized to separate it from that part, keep the other thing from all the rest, and then put on just the right facade to cover it all up.  That wasn’t me.  But me isn’t a woman who’s irrationally easy to anger, overly sensitive, or quick to become emotional either.

The me I want to be is the woman who sees every emotion in the range, lets herself experience it as it comes, but also looks beyond the surface to ask, “Why?  Why does this make me feel that way?  Should it, or is there something else going on?”  That’s the me I want to be.

It’s hard though.  It’s hard to let go of the most effective coping trick (cover up and denial) and yet not fall back on the previous one (childish overreaction).  But that’s one of the many purposes to the journey I’ve put myself on.  Learning to accept myself while holding myself to the personal standards my beliefs about kindness, gentleness, and acceptance set for me.  Ahhh, balance.  It all comes back to that word, doesn’t it?!?

From Here to There

Nicaragua Trip: Day 1

Nothingshould be as easy as my trip up to Nicaragua was.  “Smooth” doesn’t begin to describe.

Sunrise over the Gulf of Nicoya. I love getting an early start on a new journey.

As usual, I jumped off from Carlos’ house, catching the 6 a.m. ferry to Puntarenas, where the plan was for he and I to catch a city bus to the first parada where I could later catch a bus to la cruce de Baranca.  We were going to have breakfast, and then I was going on to Nicaragua while he took care of business in Puntarenas and went home.  It didn’t quite go that way, though.

Not 10 stops after we caught the bus at the embarcadero, our bus pulled in behind another one and the driver announced that, if anyone was going to Baranca, the bus in front of us was the one we needed.  It wasn’t where we’d planned to part ways, but it was there, right then, and wouldn’t be back for an hour and a half.  In a hurried rush we said goodbye and I jumped from one bus to the other.

The ride to Baranca was easy, and at the crossroads with the Panamerican Highway I got off, just where I was supposed to.  I jogged across the highway and joined the small crowd waiting for a bus north.  The placard on the bus that was loading when I arrived said Tourismo, which I assumed meant it was a private bus and not for me.  Tourist buses are more expensive and you usually need to get advanced tickets.

I turned and asked a man near me, “Cuando es la proximo autobus a Peñas Blancas?”

The view from the bus as we wait to cross the Nica/Tico border.

He smiled and gestured at the tourism bus, “Este,” he said. “Paso por aqui.”  I couldn’t believe my luck.  The bus in front of me was going my way, and wasn’t full.  I hopped on, happily paying the ¢5,000 fee (about $10).  It was a NicoExpress bus.  Express means fast.  Express means very few stops.  Express means air conditioning.  Express means one of the drivers took our passports into the Nicaraguan immigration office and checked us into the country while we waited.  Sweet!

We stopped once for a bathroom and food.  Stopped a second time in Liberia to pick up a few folks, then went straight to the frontier- a 4-hour run, all together.  After Liberia, the assistant driver turned and, after a few attempts and a sketched drawing, let me know that the bus was going through the border and on to a city somewhere in the northern bit of Nicaragua.  It wasn’t going to pass thorough Granada, but would let me off in Nandaime, where I could catch another bus to get where I was going.  Service from the frontier to Nandaime would be another ¢5,000, which I happily paid…it was worth not having to chicken-bus it all the way from the border to Granada.

The bus unloaded at the frontier so that we could all check out of Costa Rica, and we were swarmed by men, pushily waving cordobas at us and demanding that we exchange our colones for them.  They repeated over and over, “No colones!  No use colones en Nicaragua!  Solo cordobas!” Man, they were irritating!  I already knew that I could use American dollars, and that the exchange rate was roughly ¢20:$1.  I had American dollars, plus ¢40 that Carlos gave me, left over from the last visit he’d made northward.  You’ll get a lower exchange rate from those kinds of street hawkers than you will from a bank, so I stubbornly walked on by.

Fruit: just one of the many things to be purchased from street vendors as we wait.

Out of Costa Rica.  Back on the bus.  Into the Nicaraguan frontier.  The bus unloaded again while the driver checked us into the country.  The passengers pulled their luggage from the compartments under the bus and laid it on long, wooden tables to be checked.  But, in another stroke of luck, I didn’t have to bother.  My bags were small and stored in the overhead compartment inside the bus.  All I had to do was wait for everyone else.  Wow again.  No random stranger digging through my underwear and shampoo.  Woohoo!

It took almost an hour to get checked and back on the bus. If I had been traveling alone, it would have only taken about 15 minutes, since I wouldn’t have had to wait for everyone else, but it was a nice break from sitting.  I grabbed a  snack from one of the street vendors, used the bathroom, drank a bottle of water.  It wasn’t bad.

Back on the bus, we crossed into official Nicaraguan territory.  Within a few minutes I saw the most amazing thing off to my right- Lake Nicaragua.  Huge.  The size of one of the N. American Great Lakes, it’s big enough to have fairly large waves and, for a second, I thought it was the ocean.  It’s dotted with islets and a couple of massive volcanoes that I have been dying to see.

I don't know why, but the sight of these strikes a chord in me every time.

I also saw the first wind-turbines I’ve seen since I came south.  A whole field of them, massive, white, new, the stuff of science fiction as their huge arms turned lazily in the breeze, generating electricity.  I love wind-turbines.  They seem so beautiful and otherworldly, and they’re so good for the environment.

Eventually, in spite of my desire to stay awake to see, I dozed off.  An hour or so later the driver whistled and I jolted awake.  He looked over his shoulder to say, “Casi nos en Nandaime.”  We were almost at my stop.

In Nandaime, he not only stopped to let me off, he got off with me.  He showed me where to wait, asked one of the teenagers standing there how much the bus to Granada cost, and saw to it that the attendant would tell me when the right bus appeared.  It was the sweetest, kindest thing ever.  Surely I could have figured it out myself.  Most buses have placards in the window that declares their route.  But he wanted to make sure. I love that I have stumbled upon so much of that kind of kindness as I travel.  It blesses me.

The bus to Granada appeared within ½ an hour and both the attendant and the teenager told me, “Ya esta Aqui; a Granada.”

The narrow sidestreets of Granada are deciptively calm. On the left of this block, there are 2 hostels, 1 restaurant, a day school, a tour office, and a cosmetics store.

I was in Granada, at Hostel Oasis by 3:30.  Wow.

Gorgeous.

Old.

Full of history.

Terracotta tile roofs, aged and weathered.

Wrought iron gates over massive, heavy, carved wooden doors.

Lushly gardened inner courtyards.

Richly painted walls, inside and out.

And that’s all of old Grananda, not just this hostel.

Yay!

After settling into Oasis, I went just 2 doors down to grab the first real meal of my day. The one waiter stood at the open front, inviting people in.

Bright colors, elaborate entrances, and terracota tile are the signature of Spanish colonial architecture.

Both horse-drawn carriages and carts share the streets of Granada with cars, motorcycles, bikes, pedestrians, 3-wheeled 'taxis', stray dogs, street vendors...it makes for an interesting smell.

My first sunset in Nicaragua. Breathtaking.

Tico vs. Nico

Crossing the border, Nicaragua says, "Beinvenidos" Welcome! We'll just ignore the guy in military gear, armed with an assault rifle, directing traffic.

Last week I took a trip up to Nicaragua.  It was time to take a visa run, and I wanted to see a new country, so north I went.  I stayed the week at a gorgeous hostel in the historic city of Granada, on the shores of Lake Nicaragua.  It was an amazing week.  There were a million things to do, new friends to make,  and I was busy ’til I could hardly keep my days straight.  I loved every minute of it.  I will definitely be back in Nicaragua!  Travel always makes me wake up and feel alive, every single time I go somewhere new.  It inspires me.  And so you may now prepare for a series of blogs about my latest trip.  To get our collective feet wet and introduce you to the country, I’ve put together a little comparison chart, so you can see how Nicaragua matches up with Costa Rica.  Enjoy!

Nicaragua vs. Costa Rica at a Glance (0=not enough to count/didn’t see it, 1=got it, 2=got lots)	Nicaragua	Costa Rica
Gorgeous tropical forests and coastlines	+2	+2
Native wildlife	+1	+1
Birds & Monkeys everywhere	+2	+2
Mosquitoes	-1	0
National parks and preserves	+2	+2
Volcanoes	+2	+1
Invasion of first-world tourists/expats	0	-2
System of roads	+2	+2
Wide, sturdy, smooth, well maintained roads	+2	0
Rutted, pothole filled, crumbly roads	0	-2
Plenty of road signs, well marked streets, etc.	+2	0
Culture	+1	+1
Historical sites, cities, buildings, etc.	+2	0
Old world feel and sense of tradition	+2	0
Mayan ancestors/traditions	+2	0
Great food in a variety of options	+1	+1
Plenty of salads and vegetarian options on the menu	0	+2
Inexpensive tours for cheap-traveling tourists	+2	0
Chocolate & Coffee plantations	+2	+2
People	+1	+1
Friendly, welcoming, helpful locals	+1	+2
English speaking locals	0	+2
Nice tourists and expatriates	+1	+2
Creepy, gross, middle-aged men who make kissy faces and suggestive comments to you on the street.	-4	0
Legal prostitution	-2	0
Evidence of extreme poverty (dirt-floored shacks, begging children, etc.)	-2	0
Public transportation	+2	+2
Chicken buses (crowded, smelly, sweaty school bus turned public transit)	-1	0
Cushy, comfortable, spacious commuter buses	0	+1
Cheap, quick, readily available taxis	+2	+1
Expensive taxis	0	-1
TOTAL	24	22

Tired, but excited to be traveling and in a new city.

Sidewalk Philosophy

Working in paradise is still work...it's just nicer than an office job!

Easter Sunday I spent the day helping Carlos at work.  He is self-employed, and runs a small fruit stand at the ferry station.   Because Semana de Santos is a nationwide holiday here in Costa Rica, and the thing to do is get out of the mountains and head to the beach, the ferry is always slam packed with families heading home again over the weekend.  Carlos runs his stand by himself and knew he’d be crazy busy with all the people waiting on the ferry, so he asked if I would help out.  I agreed, though reluctantly.  I’ve never been a saleswoman.  The only job I was ever fired from was one in a retail store where I was expected to meet a quota; I sucked at it.  I don’t like to push people.  Frankly, sometimes, I don’t like to talk to people.  I can be a little shy, though you may never notice.  Never-the-less, given how often Carlos helps me with things (information, keeping my truck when I’m out of the country, getting me places by bus when I’m clueless, teaching me Spanish, etc.) a day spent behind a table full of fruit was the least I could do.  Plus, I kinda like the guy, so…

In any case, I sold fruit.  All day long.  Over and over I repeated out into the crowd, “Guayavas!  Mangos!  Agua de Pipa!” listing the top sellers in hopes of drawing people over.  Carlos did the same, carrying bags full of fruit around in the crowd and up and down the kilometers-long line of cars parked and waiting.  It was hot and dusty and crowded and often loud, especially as the buses full of travelers pulled up to unload and reload again.  And you know what?  I had fun!  There were plenty of lulls in the coming-and-going of people, and there were other folks working the crowd as well.  Guys with wheeled barbecues, men with ice-cream carts, women selling baked goods and other foods, ferry workers directing traffic, polizia keeping watch, taxi and bus drivers waiting for the next load, etc.  Each time the crowd ebbed they’d all drift back toward the shaded areas, most of which were near our fruit stand.  Thus, there were friendly folks to chat with.  I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the day.  And we were successful, too.  Having me there let Carlos stay out in the crowd, and also provided the whole area with one somewhat knowledgeable  English speaker who could give the tourists directions and advice.

I think many of the polizia and other vendors stopped by to chat as often as they did, in part, because I was a novelty.  They all know Carlos.  He’s worked there for years and so have they.  They all also recognize me.  I’ve drifted through often enough to be familiar.  But I’ve never been around long enough for them to talk with.  I’m a novelty, too, because it’s glaringly obvious that I’m not Costa Rican.  Hello, one tall blonde chick in the crowd anybody?  Plus, while my Spanish is passable, my accent is still American.

Carlos taking a well-deserved break

I’m fairly used to being obvious by now, and I usually don’t think about it until someone points it out, asking where I’m from or how long I’ve been in C.R.   But a group of tweens made me think about it in a whole different way, late in the afternoon. The kids passed by several times, obviously going between car and anything else that there was to do.  After the first time I didn’t bother to make direct eye contact and announce our wares, though I did smile if one of them caught my eye.  They were cute kids, all of them just on the edge of being teenagers and trying to figure things out, maybe one or two even already in high school.  I was a teacher- I know kids.  These were normal ones, from upper class families.  That was made even more obvious when the middle girl of the group stopped and looked at me after their 5th or 6th pass by us.
“Can I ask you a question,” she finally said in nearly-perfect English, leaning in a little so her friends weren’t quite in our conversation.

“Si.  Absolutely,” I told her.

“Why…” and she frowned a minute.  “Why are you selling mangoes here?”  The look on her face, the tone in her voice, the irritated groans of the older boys, and the titter of her younger companions made me pause a second and consider her question.  She definitely wasn’t asking about mangoes.  She was asking about me.  She’d spoken English as a test.  Was I American?  And the question, while polite, was underlined.  Why was I, an American, standing on a sidewalk in the heat and dust, hawking fruit to a crowd of Ticos and tourists?  That isn’t normal.  Americans are rich. They don’t do hot, dirty work outside in the sun, according to the stereotype.  I didn’t make sense to her.

“Well, because people like them,” I told her with a smile.

“Oh, just because of that?” she asked, clearly disappointed that I hadn’t said something else.

I didn’t even want to begin to address the subtler portion of her question.  How could I even try to explain to a kid I don’t know that I just don’t fit the mold, that I don’t think the way the average American thinks, that the stereotype she knows isn’t even really about the majority of Americans?  I can’t even effectively explain that to you, my readers, without either sounding pompous or half-crazy.  But the truth is, I don’t see the world the way most Americans do.

I described my life here, Carlos’ job and his home, and the amenities I can find in town to an old friend not too long ago, and she was flabbergasted.  “I don’t know how you do it,” she finally said.  “I couldn’t live like that.”  Her response flabbergasted me.  Live like what?  I have walls, roof, floor, electricity, phone, internet, roads, transportation, hot water, bed, food, fridge, stove…what more do I really need?  Carlos has most of those things, too. What’s the big deal?

On reflection, I realized the difference.  For me, those things are enough.  Not that I don’t enjoy other, more costly things, I just don’t actually need them and don’t really want them.  Because I’m content with myself and the meeting of my basic needs without struggle, I don’t have any need to live ‘better.’  I don’t, as a lot of modern Americans do, think of a job which may or may not pay $10,000 a year as being ‘low class’ or beneath me (or my boyfriend).  I don’t care if he takes the bus instead of driving a car.  It’s not a deal breaker if, on occasion, a scorpion wanders across my threshold.  It’s fine if I have to dry my clothes on a line.  I’m not ashamed to say, “I can’t afford to do/buy that.”  I’m fine with no TV (as long as I have my computer).  I don’t have any desire for ‘things.’  In my mind, at this juncture in my life, ‘things’ are just ‘crap I’ll have to get rid of the next time I move.’  Why, for the love of little apples, would I want that?

Who needs an overstuffed couch when you've got a hammock on the porch?

Suffice it to say, I think differently.  But how could I explain that to a 12-year-old girl standing on a sidewalk?  I’m not even sure I explained it well here.  I just don’t see how a lot of other people see.  Sure, not all Americans are spoiled, materialistic, selfish, boors…but the stereotype exists for a reason.  A lot of Americans are just that.  And the thing is, most don’t even come close to seeing it: they think they need a car for everyone, two extra bedrooms, a TV in every room, every electronic gewgaw that comes along, stacks of movies, books, dishes, stemware, shoes, toys… an excess of everything, far beyond what they can possibly use alone before they get bored looking at it or forget it’s there.  That almost seems obscene to me, after a year living in a place where folks are content if the whole household has just one motorcycle on which to get everyone to work and school.

It’s not bad to want more, to like things, to surround yourself with ease and beauty.  What saddens me is when people begin to need those things to the point that they believe they can’t be happy without them.  I’m still incredibly materialistic.  There’s no way I’ll survive long without internet access, running water, and easy, reliable transportation.  I’m not about to live with a dirt floor or a thatch roof.  I will have a bed, not a pallet or a hammock.  There is a line, even for me.  I guess maybe it’s just that my line is drawn a little farther down than other people’s are.

Newfangled Bird Alarm

Like jays everywhere, the magpie jays here are bold, loud, and defensive.

Not too long ago now, it seems, I stopped bothering with an alarm clock.  I didn’t bring one to C.R. with me, figuring that I’d have a year (give or take) to wake up whenever I darn-well felt like it.  And I have.  It’s glorious, given my former 5AM alarm-snooze habit and the hate-hate relationship I’ve always had with anything that dared interrupt my sleep (well, most things…).  These days, it’s usually the cat waking me up around 6 to be let out, then the sun waking me up again around 7:30.  I don’t mind the cat- I just reach up, open the window I can touch from the bed, and out he goes.  The sun is okay too.  It’s a slow-and-easy wake up call.

Aracaris letting the whole world know there is a thief in the jungle.

Recently, something rather loud and unusual woke me.  A cacophony of birds. Normally, birds wake up with the sun and get started making noise right away, but it doesn’t phase me.  I sleep like the dead.  One particular morning, though, they were not to be denied.  They screeched.  They cried.  They screamed.  They made noises no bird should ever make, especially not in large numbers at 5 in the morning.  After listening to them grumpily for about 10 minutes, the import of that kind of noise began to sink in.  I could recognize the ridiculously loud call of the blue magpie jays, and the crackly-croak of what I think is a type of grackle, the sweeter trills of some of the local song birds twisted in anger, the piercing cries of parrots and parakeets, and a strange clacking call that I recognized but couldn’t put feathers to.  That’s what really got me moving: the desire to see if I could figure out what bird made that noise.  And figure it out I did.  Sitting directly in front of my porch, in the tree that shades me as I write, was a strange congress of birds, including the elusive and gorgeous collared aracari.  There were three or four of every type of bird I mentioned gathered there.  It was bizarre beyond belief.

And then I saw why.

One BIG snake!

Curled up in the crook of that tree, right at eye level with me and my camera, was the biggest snake I have ever seen in the wild.  He was huge.  As big around as my forearm, and probably 6 feet long.  Maybe more.  It was hard to tell, since he was in ‘hide my head from those damn birds’ mode.  Fortunately, I’m not a wuss when it comes to animals, and I wasn’t scared.  It was a boa.  Until they’re as big around as my thigh and 15 feet long they don’t pose me much threat, and my cat is too smart to go get squeezed by one in broad daylight (or at the crack of dawn).

Even the songbirds were getting in on the action.

I watched and shot photos for at least half an hour as that group of birds, one or two at a time, dive-bombed the snake. They never quite touched him, but they made darn sure he knew they saw him and weren’t about to let him rob their nests without a fight.  And they were letting every other animal in the neighborhood know he was there, too.  Eventually, under extreme duress, the snake unwound itself and slithered back down the tree.  Once he was gone, the birds dispersed, though the jays kept coming back off and on all day to make lots of noise.  I think they were just checking to make sure he’d left the area and wasn’t coming back.

The boa wisely did it's best to hide it's head from the diving birds.

I was excited to see the aracaris.  They aren’t nearly as plentiful or visible as the parrots and parakeets, so that was a treat.  But more, it was truly fascinating to watch all those different species of birds, most of which don’t share the same level of the troposphere, acting together in concert against a shared enemy.  It’s Mama Nature at her finest, proving that we can all work together if we’ve got the right motivation.

Ready. Set. Go!

Semana de Santos

It is Semana de Santos, Holy Week, the week before Easter.  In the states, it’s not usually a big deal for most folks.  A lot of schools were out today (Good Friday) and many families will have picnics and hunt colored eggs on Sunday,  Jews are celebrating Passover and most Christians will head to church dressed nicer than usual this weekend, there will be baskets full of plastic grass, Creeps*, and chocolate bunnies, but otherwise… eh.  It’s Easter.  It’s a little different here.  I haven’t seen a single chocolate bunny, nor the first caramel-filled Cadbury egg.  There are no spring colored marshmallows or pretty white baskets.  But it’s a bigger deal here in other ways.

In Costa Rica, Semana de Santos is a week-long holiday.  All the schools and government offices are closed.  Businesses have foreshortened hours.  The bus schedule has been cut in half.  Crosses draped with purple satin have popped up in every other yard.  And prohibition is in full force.  Yes, you heard me.  Prohibition.  At some point this week- I think Wednesday- every bar and liquor store closed, and every supermarket, convenience store, etc. wrapped their liquor cases and displays with black garbage bags, taping the doors shut and posting official signs that say “Closed by Order of Municipal Government”.  I wish I had my camera so I could take a photo and show you.  No one can buy alcohol again until Sunday.

The strange thing about it is the lack of seriousness I see around me.  It’s a prime example of what has been true world wide through out most of history: The government is FAR more conservative than the populace.  In what is supposed to be a week of prayer and fasting, church services and quiet reflection, most folks in Costa Rica have just packed up and gone to the beach.  Literally.  The coasts are crawling with Costa Rican families, beaches are crowded with tents and vans.  Beach towns experience some of their busiest times during Holy Week every year, so much so that hotels double their rates for Semana de Santos and don’t make any attempt to hide it.  And as for prohibition: no body cares that they can’t buy alcohol for 4 days.  They stocked up Tuesday, and no one is going without.

Sunday, as I understand it, won’t be a big day of family, food, and church like my family has always done.  It’s just going to be the last day of a nation-wide Spring Break.  The day everybody breaks camp and heads back home.

*Peeps are creepy!

$20 A Bottle

No, I did not buy a half-decent wine, or even a new bottle of gin…  Sadly, today I spent $20 on a bottle of liquid gold sunscreen.  Yep.  Sunscreen.

I thought I had plenty, but I spend lots of time in the sun.  Today, as I was getting ready to head to the beach I heard the unmistakable choking hiss of an aerosol going dry as I attempted to protect myself.  I cursed, shook the can, tried again, and after a few minutes admitted defeat.  Then I went digging through the extra supplies I have stored in my suitcase, but no luck!  I was all out of spray-on sunscreen!

Granted, I have other kinds of sunblock, but without the modern gift that is a spray can I can’t get my own back.  When you live alone in the tropics and spend several days a week at the beach, not sunscreening your back is pretty much suicide.  I’d be stuck inside, or wearing a t-shirt at the beach if I couldn’t screen up.  That just won’t work for me.  So, I sucked it up and headed for the market in Montezuma, knowing I was going to hate what I had to pay.

Sure enough, I picked up the only brand they had of what I needed and: 9890 colones.  And it wasn’t even a name brand!  Sigh.  At least I’m not going to be an over-cooked lobster.

Aparently this stuff is worth its weight in gold!

Pictureless Blogging

Readers, forgive me.  It has been two weeks since my last blog.  Sorry folks!  I’m still here, I promise.  I had three really great blogs all lined up, ready to be posted just as soon as I had time to get pictures off my camera.  It seems a silly waste to write and not show you what I’m seeing…right?  I just can’t bring myself to talk about life here, about my adventures and experiences, without sharing with you the images I’ve captured for my own remembrances.  Like a little kid, I want pictures to go with my stories.  But last Wednesday, whilst some of my girls were visiting from the States, a group of thieves hit my neighborhood.  I woke up when one of them rattled at my front door, trying to get it unlocked in the wee hours.  Creepy, to say the least.  Of course, because I’m an idiot, my camera was in my bag  at the dining table on my porch.  Needless to say, it’s gone.  And with it all the pictures I was going to share with you, my dear readers.

Grumble.

But…there’s good news!  I spoke with the OIJ investigators yesterday and my camera (along with my friend’s shoes, my bag, and a car-load of other people’s stuff) have been found and the thieves captured. Woohoo!  It will still be a week or so before I can get my camera back, but it’s coming.  Be warned: there will be blogs aplenty when I’ve got pictures to share!   Until then I’m working on my second draft, planning a Visa-run for Nicaragua at the end of the month, and contemplating ways I can stay in Central America longer than my savings account says I can afford to.  I’m just not done here yet.  I still only understand 50% of the Spanish people speak to me!

Kittyus Interruptus

Let me just start by saying that I love Yoga.  It’s part of my everyday routine.  It’s pretty much the first thing I do when I wake up each morning.  Get dressed, sweep the porch, roll out the mat, and spend an hour or so waking up my whole self, breathing deep, getting a little sweaty, stretching my body and my mind.  It just makes me feel good.  And it’s healthy.  That’s important to me these days.  However, it also comes with a heavy dose of humor.  Firstly, I’m not always well balanced.  Sometimes I wobble and end up on my ass.  That’s okay.  I giggle and move on, try again.

And then there’s Monday.  No, not the day, the cat.  He seems to think that Yoga time is play with mommy time.  So, there I am, Standing Forward Bend into Lunge, breathe deep and hold it a few breaths, then swing my foot back into Downward Dog… or try to.  Because somewhere between Bend and Lunge, a cat appeared in the middle of my mat.  So I push him away with my foot and slide it on back.  Ahhh, Downward Dog… Monday, doesn’t see Dog, though.  He sees Face In Reach, and is immediately back, flopped under my nose, patting me for attention and purring.

Sigh.

Downward dog into Plank, I can ignore him.  He’s under me, but not in the way until it’s time for Cobra.  He usually scooches over once his life is threatened, but he won’t leave.  The rest of my practice is like that.  No matter how many times I shove him over, pick him up and drop him elsewhere, or even try to get him interested in a toy… being in my way is just so much more fun!

My Tree is rooted by Cat on Foot.

My Warrior includes Kitty in the Middle.

My Corpse is weighed down by Purring Feline.

He’s inescapable.  And then, at last, came his pièce de résistance. Today, after I shooed him away for the umpteenth time, he wandered off in a huff, only to return 5 minutes later with a lizard dangling from his mouth.  A prize.  A treasure.  “I love you. Look what I brought you!”  And he promptly dropped it at my toes.  It wasn’t a dead lizard.  In .2 seconds it had scurried in terror first under the arch of my foot and then halfway up my leg in it’s attempt to escape the Furry Monster of Deadly Eating that is my Monday.  Yep, that’s my life.

Anybody want a Yoga Cat? He's free!