Up the Mountain

Im so excited right now I could burst. I want to tell you all everything. Im still reading short stories by Dave Eggers, and he always has a way of saying more vividly the things Im trying to say. I want there to be one amazing sound I could make, one loud yelp, that could encompass the the last week, my first week in Llano Bonito.

The ride from San Jose to San Pablo is breathtaking, except in a way that once you regain your breath, it is stolen from you once more by vicious mountains, coffee plants and banana trees, and children scraping words in the dirt along the side of the road. Dogs chase buses. Everybody honks at everybody, as if they want to say hello to everyone, and have replaced their voices with horns.

A week ago today, I arrived in San Pablo, which is the stop I must visit before boarding another bus to Llano Bonito. I spoke Spanish with Marcos, the mid 30s bus station attendent, and heard for the first time the puzzling phrase that I have since heard from almost everyone in town: Ya No Bonito. People relentlessly tell me how ugly they think their mountain top collections of homes and small stores is. Let me instead tell you of its remarkable beauty:

The bus ride from San Pablo to Llano Bonito not for the weak of heart or stomach. The switchbacks would be difficult for an alpine skiier, yet are managed 3 times a day in a 30 year old bus, by a 30 year old man, who proudly plays soft 80s hits on the radio, and displays a small poster above his seat saying God Is My Pilot. As we descended the guard rail less mountains, I realized that if the brakes would fail, there would be absolutely nothing to keep us from tumbling off the side of the mountain. I hoped, for the duration of that 45 minute ride, that he would kindly take the reigns of the bus back from God.

Seriously though, its not that bad. I took the 6am bus back here this morning to San Marcos to write this post.

Llano Bonito, pronounced John O Bonito with your Costa Rican accent, is a series of houses, similar in size, and differing vastly in economic quality, scattered down the embankments of various mountains. Nearly everyone in the community farms coffee for a living. Most people live on either side of the main street. Were you to walk into anyones backyards, you would tumble directly down the side of the mountain. The view from almost anywhere in town is marvelous. The mountains are rigid, and in the mornings, the air is usually crystal clear for miles. The actual street is scattered with litter and humble buildings. The center of town consists of two bars that look like warehouses, a small place to eat, and a church. People dont go to church every sunday, because there is only one Father for the 4 or 7 towns around here, so they go to church whenever he comes. I live on the main street in town, directly across from the general store and the soccer field. I live in a comfortable home with a nice tile floor and solid furniture, furniture made by my new 23 year old friend Alex and his brothers company near San Jose. Alex and I have funny conversations. He knows a lot of English words but cant understand a lick when I speak normally. Therefore, when we hang out, I speak my ever improving spanish dialect, and he responds in broken English. What some would call weaknesses, we consider achievements.

I have a room in the basement of the house, with my own door and key, and a small room, a cold shower, and a toilet with a disconnected toilet seat. In Costa Rica, you cant flush toilet paper down the toilet, so all used sheets go in the garbage can. This takes a little getting used to. To get to my room from the main street, you have to walk through the high black gates, turn left past the palm leaves, and then right, with the mountains standing guard in the distance. Then you go right, into my basement hallway via the door. My room is probably 15 by 8, with a ruffled tin roof, two paralllel railroad esque red bars running parallel to my bed along the ceiling, and one running perpendicular and straight up from where my knees lay when Im sleeping. None of these red tracks appear to be suupporting any weight. My floor is made of red clay. My bed is a double, and where the bed in Orosi had no give, this one has no support. It is old, loose, and endlessly comfortable, like a yardsale hammock. Theres a wooden concoction in the left corner that serves as my shelf, a white lawn chair on the right as a medicine cabinet, and a inverted cardboard box next to my bed that houses my books and cds. The walls are nut house white. I hated them, so I became resourcefull. All I had in the way of decoration were a few SI for Kids magazines Id brought for class. Liking Sacramento Kings guard Peja Stojakavic more than white walls, a centerfold of him now hangs next to my pillow, along with various other pictures and pages from my spanish language book. I have a wooden window. It is 7 or 8 feet off the ground. I sleep with it closed to keep the creatures out, but every morning the roosters approach it and sing to me. This happens around 430am. I unlock the window, and pull it open to welcome the morning and the mountains.

The first day was lonely and difficult. Why is every other 22 year old here married with kids? I wanted to hide away for most of my first day. Completely alone. The further up the mountain that bus took me, the further I felt from ever being able to return. I felt cut off from the world. My host mom seemed afraid of me. I thought she didnt want me in her house. She didnt ask me a question for the first 24 hours I was in her house. When I arrived, her two daughters crept out slowly from their rooms. Hellen, 18 and pretty in the way that only Latin American women can be, came out first. She smiled shyly, with little to say. Asley, 12, spelled correctly, came out next, and immediately grabbed Hellens shoulders from behind and hid from my. I felt strange and different, though the feeling did not come as a surprise.

First thing I learned upon arriving in town was that the amazing director of my school, Roxy, fluent in English, former head of the Telesecundaria program at the ministry of education, was incapacitada. Unsure if this meant sick, on vacation, or beheaded, I probed for more information. I learned that she had basically found a man and split for San Jose, not to return. So, no director at school. The second thing I learned, from Hellen, was that there were 130 kids in 5 classes at her school, and I would be teaching all of them. By myself. And so it began. Lost and insecure, unsure of everything, I went to bed early.

First Day of Class.
The school is very new, only two years of so. It might be the coolest school ever, considering it is situated on the very edge of a dramatic mountain slope. In the morning, before the clouds roll in as they do every day after 12, the view is tall, grand, and wide. Coffee plants creep towards the concrete schoolhouse, and there is a small dirt and grass and rock field that surrounds the school, forming a circular plateau before the steep dropoff. This first morning, I had the mental shit kicked out of me. Up at 5am with indigestion, I went to school at 615am, knowingly 45 minutes early, but eager nonethelss. Not a SOUL arrived till 7 on the dot, teachers included, the time the first class was said to start. Once the crowd rolled in, I found the spanish teacher, who talked my ear off. I understood little to nothing. Next, I learned that I dont teach on Mondays, but that I would have 5 to 7 classes all other days. The 4 other teachers who make up the entire faculty hastily introcuded me to their classes. They said a word or two, and then left me hanging, standing with 80 eyes staring, expecting me to speak to the kids. I managed to butcher everything. One teacher even told me I speak very bad Spanish.

I hung my head and sulked home. I called Emily at 740am, again on the verge of helpless tears. How many times in 24 hours can you literally feel like the joke of the entire town, and not crack just a little? Emily is wise and calm. Emily is experienced. She asked what I was going to do for the remainder of the day. I wanted to sit in my room and study Spanish, but she suggested that I go back and hang out at school. How right she always is. It may have turned my entire summer around.

At school the second time, I let loose and talked in Spanish to whoever was around. I drew crowds. Packs. Schools of students, wanting to talk, wanting to listen, simply wanting and competing for my attention. The girls crowded shyly around, full of nervous laughter. The boys play fought with each other, eager to show my their talents and their budding muscles. Kids walked out of the middle of class to talk with me. They ignored their other professors. They really did call me Teacher, though it sounds more like a mix between Ticher and Teasher. Its the most precious, delicate, and fleeting thing imaginable. I was so exzuberant I wanted to run wild and yell from mountain tops. The 7th graders demanded that I talk with them during their free period. They argued over where I should sit. They hurriedly cleared space for me wherever I wanted to go, and hearded me
to a toddler sized chair in the front left corner of the classroom. They crowded around me like cold campers around a fire. They all wanted a turn to try English. They helped each other, yelled at each other. I was loud, then quiet, then gentle, then encouraging. But I was getting hungry, and at lunch, I had no plate. The only requirement to eat a free lunch at school is to bring your own plate. A girl yelled Teascher when she saw me wandering aimlessly, and pulled a pack of plastic plates and fors from her bag. Her generosity in that moment made me feel like I was truly wanted there. As I ate, the kids did tricks, cheeleading style. The danced, fought, anything to make me smile. After lunch, the boys and I played baseball on the edge of the coffee mountain using my now infamous stuffed apple, a wooden plank, and cardboard boxes for bases. The girls filled movie roles and watched contraposts from doorways. I hit homeruns with my apple, far and straight. I rounded the bases to cheers, chants, and eager laughter.

My first real day teaching. You must read this.

I felt like I was floating above my own body, watching this all take place. I was loose, authoratative, but loving all at once. I spoke loud and confidently. I am a fun teacher. Fun fun. My voice resonated perfectly with the acoustics. Teascher Teascher Ticher has become my new name. I pace the classrooms. I crawl on the floors. I get the kids up, I get the kids moving. I crack their shells and yank them out. I hope I hope I hope Im getting through to them.

During this first day of teaching came this. Finishing class with the 7th graders who had been asking all day When Are We Having Class Profe Teascher Profe. I made them tell me their names and favorite animals. I made them act out their favorite animals. We made nametags, bright and colorful. I finished class by bringing them into a huddle, basketball team style, all 40 of them, putting our hands in the middle, and on the count of three, 1, 2, 3 Setimo!! Setimo being spanish for 7th grade. I was packing up, walking toward my backpack, when one of the girls tapped me on the arm and handed me her nametag. I gave her a curious look, and in Spanish, she asked my for firma y fecha: my autograph, and the date. With concealed glee, I signed and dated her nametag. Well, when you have 40 twelve to 14 year olds in a small room, not a lot can go unnoticed. Before I knew it, 2 more, than 2 more, than 15, than every one of the 40 kids were crowded around me, literally jockeying for position, slapping each others hand out of the way, shouting, shoving their nametags directly in my line of sight, asking for my autograph!! It was more or less how I imagine the tunnel to heaven to be. I would sign the name tags, and they would let out this yelp of glee, kind of like yhhaaaaaaaa! At last, when I thought I had signed them all, one girl approached me and handed me a nametage I had already signed. Confused, I pointed to my signature. She took the card from my hand, flipped it over, pressed it against the desk, and asked for one more on the other side. This happened 9 more times. After all the little munchkins had left, I packed up my backpack and floated home.

My hand is seriously cramping right now. Is it possible to develop carpel tunnels in one sitting? Nonetheless, there is one more story that refuses to wait for 2 more weeks.

Yesterday, after school, around 2pm.

Uniforms hide a lot, and most importantly, they hide social status. They hide the background, the wealth, and the history that has brought a student to the present moment. Esteban, 23, former crack addict, charming and outgoing in a former crack addict sort of way, but seriously genuine and friendly, showed up at my house yesterday while I was eating lunch. I had been given his number by a year long volunteer, Emily, who on a side note, had two hilarious slip ups in her spanish so far this year. She has studied spanish for 8 years, but lots of words are of different significance here in costa rica than in other spanish speaking countries. Poor Emily, who tells these stories in a very Shit Happens kind of way, was making rice crispy treats with her family one day, and she tried telling them they needed to put more butter in the pan. Unfortunately, the word that means pan in spain, for some reason, means asshole in Costa Rica. Oops. She also told the same family, one afternoon, that she had fucked a bee on the kitchen floor, again, innocently unaware that the word that means to step on, in other countries, has different connotations here. Anyway, Emily gave me Estebans number, and told me he was starting some sort of organic farm, and that he thinks he speaks English really well, but actually is quite clumsy with his words. Esteban wanted to show me his house and farm, so I agreed to walk with him. Half way down the mountain, two of my students, Hazel and Ronald (pronounced with spanish accents) came dashing out the front hole of one of the poorest looking shacks of a shelter I have ever seen yelling Teasch Teascher! Hazel is 14 and beautiful beautiful beautiful. Id have thought she came from royalty, and as I was saying, when kids wear uniforms to school, any assumption is possibly legit. They nervously asked me to come closer to their house, and with a little hinting by myself, invited me in the front space where Mom and Sister were stitting watching TV. I had to duck to step onto the font porch, avoiding the rusted tin roof that was supported by muscular tree brances. The house was dark, and stuffed animals were pegged to one of the central walls that stopped several feet short of the mysterious tin ceiling. A small blurry TV offered background niose from teh corner of the front section, where we all were. Hazel is very shy, and watches me with the most intent and approving eyes. Alone with Esteban and this family, Hazel, Ronald, Mother, Sister, and youngest little boy Joyner who wore a heartbreakingly dirty blue addidas, but whose wide and curious brown eyes provided a striking juxtaposition to his filthy clothes, I had trouble pronouncing things in a way they could understand. Luckily Esteban could translate a bit. I asked to see their bedrooms, and Hazel and Ronald were tremendously shy and kept shaking their heads and running away. Nonetheless, as I stayed and accepted an offer for a cup of artificial coconut juice, they finally warmed to the idea. Ronalds room has no door, but like all other parts of the house, had a stretched our Tshirt or a dress across the doorway. The house floor was made of wood planks. The kitchen was dark and everything was slated. The house was deceptively big, but looked like it had arrived at its present location via landslide. The boards in Hazels floor had wide spaces between them through which I could see the ground two feet below, and which had the give of a small trampoline. Everything was very dark, midday. I think the most important thing I said to her was how jealous I was of her beautiful possessions, her stuffed animals, the comfort of her room, and the moutnainous view from her window. Ronald showed me how he could dive from the doorway to Hazels bed.

Their Mom was so quiet, but complimentary and trying not to act as shy as it sheemed she naturally way. Esteban and I saw the family again on our way back up the mountain. Ronald showed me how to catch and lift a chicken, as they had many in the front dirt yard. The roosters were pissed. Really really angry. We played for a minute in the street, and I smiled at the beautiful family as we walked on. Having walked 100 meters further up the street, I turned back, and they were all still standing, same positions as a minute before, watching us. Hazel and her Mom and up walking with us to back Llano Bonito. I told her mom how much I wanted to come back and spend more time with them. She still seemed shy about her house. Her parting words, muttered nearly inaudible: Small House, Big Heart.

What stands out to me is their happiness. It seemed to me like the most wonderful house in all the world. I could count on one hand the people I know who would find joy living in this house, but I felt fully content and loved while I was there, sitting on the floor drinking artifical cocnut juice, watching Ronald and little Joyner chase chickens, seeing how little they have and therefore how little they need to be entertained. I think what stood out most is that Hazel comes to school so perfectly dressed and prepared, clean at all times, and that it has never occurred to me how little her family might have. I never would have known had I not seen it first hand. Her Dad, like seemingly all other Dads around here, is working in New Jersey. Has been for 3 months now. He can earn more money for his family there. He is a bus boy at a restaurant. Its terribly sad to me how far away so many husbands and brothers here must go to find good work. The statisctical standard of living in this country is not bad, but that says nothing about the status of these families and the sacrifice required to provide a living for loved ones. The Mom expressed how happy she would be if her kids could learn to speak English. Perhaps she knows that they could all stay close to home, or closer. With knowledge of English, there are more jobs in this country available to the young generation. Of course, this implies that most of the work in this country is coming from abroad. Of course, I am here to teach English because there is a demand. Perhaps English will keep Hazel, who is so full of energy and so ful of life, from settling for an early marriage and a life that seems only to lead to laundry, cleaning, and cooking. Then again, the older women, the moms in this society, all seem to do these things in the rural areas, but seem fully happy knowing that their life to caring for loved ones. In this way, their daily chores may be directly fulfilling that very urge that brings them joy. On the other hand, its still difficult for me to imagine all these young girls that are my students, who danced fervently the other night in our schools talent show, so full of zest, joy, and gusto, ever becoming as quiet and humble as their mothers. Seems John was right. Our generation truly is facing an absolutely different set of circumstances than any generation in the past. This is obvious by the fact that cultures in places such as Costa Rica are changing, and suddenly, unlike their parents, this generation absolutely must learn a second language in order to retain a good quality of life. You could say, how sad. But on one hand, how absolutely thrilling that there are programs like WorldTeach that allow people that have the knowledge and ability to help to do so. Yes, the introduction of English in to this custom rich culture inevitably changes way of living, and the customs that have lived for generations, but without acces to English, many of these kids and their future generations may not be able to reach that first rung on the ladder to increased wealth. Im seeing first hand theat these truly are critical days for many people in lesser developed countries. We who can help must help, are obligated to help other people, people who, had we been born elsewhere, could have been our neighbors. We need to help them achieve the skills and tools necessary to live a life of comfort.

Notes

First I must say I´m very proud of Drew for the poem he wrote. It´s seriously a legit poem, and shows far more sensibility and awareness than I ever had at that age. One day I´ll post it on here, because if you read it, you´d think he´d walked the streets of Orosi too.

Day 6
Amazingly gratifing experience teaching English to Pablo and Randy. I´ve never seen kids so eager to learn. Even Luz cracked and let me know she wishes she sould have learned English.

When my host family smiles, they always mean it. They get immesurable excitement just from expressing their curiousities to me.

Day 7
San Jose. Poverty without charm. As Dave Eggers described it, Office buildings of the sitxties steel and glass ercetor set sort, flimsy and forgettable. The road was 5 lanes wide and was jammed but moving. San Jose looked like LA circa 1973...(from The Only Meaning of Oil Wet Water)

Highlight. 20 minutes alone with a cabby in San Jose. We had a full, dynamic, responsive dialogue. He told me in Spanish that I speak very well. I would never have dreamed that 6 days after stepping foot in this country I would hear that. He seemed to like that I was here to teach English. Any thoughts or doubts about our purpose here, any worries about imperialism, were softened today.

The beautiful beautiful unattractive woman at the Ministry of Education.
This government building would hardly draw attention amoungst trailer homes. Simple, ugly, unkempt. But within, we heard a speech that nearly brought me to tears. In 100% Spanish, a large woman stood in front of our group, and unapologetically began to speak. She said how wonderful it is to have us here, how she hopes we love her beautiful country, its people, and its cuisine. She said the heat is good, cause we will sweat out our hamburger grease. She said the rain is good cause it allows the fruit to grow. She said the people we will be teaching are poor, very poor, but beautiful, strong of heart, honest, interminable of spirit, hard working, and that we will see how grand they smile, and we will wonder how they can smile when they have so little, but we will quickly learn that what they have through family is really all they, or anyone, needs to laugh and to smile. My heart, like those in the volunteer group around me, was beaming.

House notes.
My family plays the radio, loud, every morning around 5am. I know the time only by watching the light creep slowly down the wall of my room. I haven´t used a clock all week.

Also, I learned my first real Ticoism yesterday. Turns out, it´s ok to eat fried food such as fried chicken or french fries, on a consistent basis...so long as you eat salad, rice, and beans. They cancel each other out. Thank you, Doña Luz.

Day 8.
Hilarious, beautiful afternoon with the families at our thank you party. I don´t understand why the families don´t eat the food we provide, but instead hoard it and take it home. They don´t seem to be that much in need, and this little act is apparently a social taboo as well. There´s definitely more going on behind the secnes with these families than I´m able to observe.

Finally. Dave Eggers, in the short story mentioned above, uses Costa Rica as the plot local for a story about pretending to be that which you are not. Many tourists come to Costa Rica, daily, in real life, and continue their lives in comfort, never seeing the true heart of this country. What this place is in tourist brouchures says nothing about its true character and real problems. Kids here have such innocent and genuine, but shy smiles. Moms are quiet, proud, oak like, and humble. This is not what the tourists see in Costa Rica.

San Jose tonight, Llano Bonito tomorrow. I could do without ever seeing San Jose again.

...then she brought up CAFTA

Here in Orosi, we´re taking Spanish lessons from natives of this small village in the Central Valley. We have 3 classes in total, 3 hours per class. I´m improving for sure with each day, but my level of speaking seems to fluctuate like a bull market. It´s constantly going up, but a closer look would reveal pretty random fluctuations, and certain inconsistency. Nonetheless, I´m in a class with 2 volunteers, and Natalia, age 23, native of Orosi, darling eyes, and a 3 year old daughter who is not in the class. I was expressing to her this morning how I think its so important for N. Americans to be down here, or in other developing countries, to truly understand the human impact of the laws we blindly pass. In Spanish, she replied, ¨Kind of like CAFTA...¨

I knew this would come up. It had to. If it didn´t, at some point, with someone, it may have been my biggest dissapointment. For the past 3 months, I´d read about, talked about, argued about the fact that Central Americans understand very well the potential impact of this treaty. After 5 minutes speaking with Natalia, I can take a small amount of comfort in knowing we, students for fair trade, were right...with a somber look, and i say this not for poetic affect, but to paint a picture of reality, she told me how 3 buses leave Orosi every morning at 530am for the city of Cartago, half an hour away. The people who fill these buses have jobs in small factories, working with textiles, agriculture, the like. She knew very well, and she didn´t hesitate in telling 3 citizens of the united states directly to our faces, that these people would all be out of work if CAFTA were to go through. She reinforced that this is not what the PEOPLE want. This is what the government wants. The people certainly can express their opinions, but ultimately their voice is not the final voice. All this started because I asked if its difficult to make a living as a farmer. To hear these things from a 23 year old girl in a tiny farming village was very moving.

Other things...still playing Uno with the fam. Pablo made a scorecard for us the other day. After I saw the name he printed for me, I realized that they´d been calling my Ant for the past 4 days. It seems that Adam is a little tough for Ticos to pronounce. They´re doing better though, and now they mouth my name while we´re at the dinner table...

I find it really funny when Ticos know American idioms. For example, one of our hiking guide the other day loved duct tape. At the end of the hike, he proudly told us his motto. Ïf you can´t duct it, fuck it.¨

Last night we took salsa lessons. Costa Rican women are very proud, and very powerful when they dance. The ones that dance, that is. It would have been a pretty funny situation, had you walked in on it. The Gringos were more or less the only ones dancing, in the middle of this hostel floor, while most of our host families sat in chairs in along the walls and sort of watched us while chatting with friends. Actually, they didn´t chat much, they just sort of sat and watched. I danced once with my host mom, who pretty much showed me up, and when it became pretty obvious that I have no rythm, she gave me some command in Spanish that didn´t sound too complimentary...¨muchacho this or muchacho that.¨ Ticos are very shy, usually. They do love to gossip though. I´m eagerly awaiting the day when I get to my host town, and the rumors that will inevitable spread about who I´m dating, which will usually be the last person I was seen talking with, catch up to me...

Other funny moment, I woke up in the middle of the night the other night coughing my brains out. All it was was a post nasal drip, but since the walls in my house are basically plywood, I woke up the whole family. I knew this, and also knew that it wouldnt be mentioned the next morning. As I expected, it wasn´t mentioned, but to my surprise, my host mother called in to our orientation site and expressed concern to our director that I´d become very sick. Although I feel fine, that´s a pretty good example of the type of culture I´m living in here in Costa Rica. Very very curious, aware, sensitive to what´s going on with those around them. On the other hand, the do have some strange beliefs and customs. Though it is thought that you can´t cook barefoot, less you want to get electrocuted, they use electricity to heat their showers, and there are wires that hang above the showerhead. Not to worry, it´s safe, but it´s certainly bizarre.

Costa Rica. Day 3. Journal 1.

Hello hello. I haven´t the vaguest idea how to start this entry, other than to say, the last three days (my first 3 days in Costa Rica) have been some of the most wonderful, fulfilling, genuinely happy days I can ever remember. I can´t summarize, so instead I´m going to write about a few specific moments out of the ever increasing number that particularly stand out. Maybe. I might get carried away.

After a relatively easy plane ride, in which I got to know some of the wonderful and inspiring people who have also come here to volunteer in Costa Rica, my ears began to pop and I saw lights from my window. I remember saying to Asya, a new friend from Harvard, that these lights looked just like any other lights that you would see from the window of a plane, and that for some reason, until that moment, Central America only existed in books, and I couldn´t possibly be moments from stepping foot on Costa Rican soil.

The airport was clean, comfortable, and when I stepped out the door into the thick humidity, it was crowded with literally hoardes of young men offering taxi rides. Overwhelming, but exhilirating.

At the end of a 1.5 hour bus ride from San Jose, southeast to Orosi, we began to slow down as we came into this small central village. I told Asya (girl´s name, if you were wondering, originally from Belarus, goes to Harvard...which reminds me, most people on my program are incoming sophomores in college...that means nothing down here, we´re all likeminded...) that I loved the mysteriousness of arriving in a foreign place in the dark, especially this one, which I knew would be nestled against the base of a mountain, in a valley if you will, knowing that in the morning this place would reveal itself to be something spectacular. When the bus crawled to a stop outside the ÓTAIC here in Orosi, all the host families, their children, and their dogs, perhaps 40 Ticos (costa ricans) and 4 dogs, were standing with eager eyes, backlit by the hostel type building that we would soon enter, patiently awaiting our arrival. When I walked off that bus, through that crowd, past those unbelievably soft and curious eyes, it was infinitely more gratifying, comforting, and exhilirating than walking to the podium 13 days ago to recieve my diploma.

My host family here in Orosi consists of a mother in her late 50´s, and three boys, Luis age 20 who works 6 days a week at a local grocery store and is hardly ever home, Randy age 17 but looks 12, and Pablo age 15 but looks 10. I don´t know why that is, but trust me when I say, it is. They live in a very modest house (many houses consist of tin roofs, and stucco esque walls, while some are more impoverished and are fashioned from tin, wood, and other scraps), while mine is comfortable, with a green exterior and caballos in the window curtains, red tile floor on the inside that reminds me of a souther california mexican restaurant, 3 bedrooms with thin plywood walls, a small living room with a tv, radio, so forth...we spend a lot of time talking at the living room table, my portions at meals are always 2 or 3 times larger than theirs, not because I ask for it, but Ticos are non confrontational, and tend to make assumptions...if i were to tell her that she gives me too much, i may end up with too little...I laugh to myself everytime i look at my portions compared to theirs...one meal a few of my plates ( yes i get more than 1) were actually on the other side of randy´s plate...i had to ask ¿para mi?...

I have had conversations with my family that have lasted up to 3 hours. In spanish. They know no English. Except Pablo. He knows some colors, some days of the week, some fruits, and Thank You. Doña Luz, my host mom, knows none, but I think she may have said Tuesday this morning. There have actually been two nights where we´ve talked for that long. Both nights began by all of us playing Uno. I guess it was a commonality. It helps though, I learn some new words, commands, joking phrases...we get to poke fun at each other, and last night, after dropping 4 draw 4´s on my host mom, she jokingly said No puede cenar con nosotros...something like that...whatever it actually was, it meant no dinner for you....of course, I did eventually get dinner, and once again my portion was enormous. Last night though, we watched the US beat Costa Rica in soccer...for some reason I kept saying sorry, probably cause I could care less, and all the ticos were hanging on the edge of their seats as we won 3 to 0. Nonetheless, after the game we got to talking about Costa Ricas economic situation...Luz´s husband died 10 years ago (a picture of him looking 16 or 17 hangs above the kitchen table), and the only one who works is Luis. It seems that Luz spends her days cleaning an already immaculately clean home, and preparing food. I asked her about this last night, and she said that without a college education, women over 40 can´t work...she can´t afford to send her 2 youngest kids to school, cause uniforms and books cost too much, and food apparently costs her 170 dollars per week ( I have my doubts about that, rice and beans can´t cost that much). Nonetheless, I was very touched when she expressed, and I understood in Spanish, that although she doesn´t have much, and the family doesn´t have much, the only thing in her life is the happiness of her family...and after 3 days, I have no doubts about this.

By the way, these kids...the first morning I asked Pablo, Tiene discos? y...puedo buscar sus discos? He brought out his CD and popped in Pink Floyd, another brick in the wall...I was, how do you say...shocked? I asked him if he knew what the words meant, and he said no, so I went off to my first day of orientation, and with the help of our field director Emily (who is wonderful...one of the most self aware people I´ve met, she started Dance Marathon at UCLA and is going back to school soon, with the goal of devoting her life to international development and specifically, with a medical background, fighting AIDS)...as I was saying, Emily helped me transcribe the song into spanish. Pablo loved it when I brought it back, though I don´t think he picked up on the metaphor.

I love our orientation town, orosi. People walk everywhere, houses are next to restaurants which are next to pulperias which are next to supermarkets which are next to hostels, all of which is built around the center of town...a plaza, which is...you guessed it, a soccer field. There are towering mountains that surround the town and a winding river that runs through it. The hills are COVERED in coffee plants. This is what a community should be. Kids play in streets, throw rocks at bottles, run around...you know, things kids in the US used to do... People stop and talk with each other, nobody ever seems to be in a hurry.

The town is full of stray dogs. I was shy at first, but now I pet most all of them. 4 joined us on a hike today in the hills above orosi, past banana trees, coffee plants, cilantro bushes, over rivers, up hills, to a waterfall where I stripped down and jumped in with my fellow volunteers, water cascading over my head. I have pictures to prove it. We had a guide, Nano, who took us to his house. The walls are tin, the beds are wood bungalows, there are cows, coffee plants, horses, dogs, everything...grandparents, kids, all in this little fort where he lives. I swung from vines, ate coffee berries (they´re sweet on the inside...two white coffee beans are surrounded by a thin skin...green if they´re not ripe, red if they are...and it does taste a bit like coffee, though it doesn´t compare at all to the final product, which, here in orosi, comes right from the hills, and is smoother than any I´ve ever had).

I hope this gives you a feel for things as they´ve been so far. I feel safe, energetic, thrilled. It all feels so right. THIS is the real world. THIS is how most people in the world live, like the people in this town. Thanks for reading, I miss you all.

I've been saying it was Felt for years!

Leaving home in 7 hours...

First order of business, read this: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/books/peopleofpaper.excerpt.html
I think I had an existential experience while doing so last night. Also, if you have yet to hear of McSweeney's, or its creator, Dave Eggers, I strongly urge you to make it a priority.

Secondly: Thank you to Evelyn, who has more common sense than I, for suggesting that I post my Costa Rica address/ phone number here:

Adam Yukelson
c/o WorldTeach
Apdo. 8-5020
Correo Central, San Jose, Costa Rica

Host Family Phone: 011- 506 - 546 - 2641

...Mail will take about 2 weeks to reach me (as implied by the address, all mail goes through the WT offices)...Phone calls, hopefully not as long...

As for me, slouched in the corner of my white-walled room, completely comfortable on my full size mattress, I'm staring at my ceiling fan, admiring its silence, and sort of indifferently wondering whether this will be the last time for 10 weeks that my bedroom light won't be attracting flocks of winged creatures. I don't understand travel. There's some degree of meaning, or reality, lost in jet travel. Tomorrow night I'll be sleeping in Costa Rica. How? Shouldn't there be a challenging right of passage, a trial, a discomfort involved in this type of trip? I'm not talking Lost; not even Oregon Trail; I just want that long period of reflection that comes between preparation and action - like the time you'd spend with your Dad in the car, driving cross country.

I can't stop thinking about fatalism. I don't think this experience is pre-determined - not by any means - but isn't it crazy that there are 24 other people, at various locations around this country, anywhere, right now, waiting just as I am, to converge on "room E" in the Miami International Hotel at 4pm tomorrow, to meet, to interact, to begin frienships and establish collaborative crutches, to begin, and all this will happen, must happen, has perhaps happened a few times in my mind already, but has yet to occur. I will share experiences, pehaps intense, emotional ones, with persons I don't yet know. I guess that's life though. But wait. Add onto that the host family in Llano Bonito who is expecting a native English speaker from the United States (not America) to live in their house for 10 weeks. What are they thinking right now? Who do they expect? Has their daily routine changed yet? Have they waited years for this opportunity? Do they even see it as an opportunity? Do they even give a shit who I am or why I'm coming or how their lives will be different once I'm there and after I leave? And then there are the 60+ kids who are going to wake up tomorrow morning, as they've done a number of times in their 14-24 years on Earth, and are going to walk to school or take the bus or do whatever it is that Costa Rican kids do to transport themselves to school, and they're going to sit in class, or maybe they're going to stand, or maybe they're going to pace the room, and school will go on, tomorrow, June 2nd, as it always has, but as I'm making my way closer to them, are they looking forward to my arrival? Is this a big deal for them? Is this an intrusion? An Interruption? A blessing? Do they, outside of class, discuss the pending arrival of a North American? Does their current teacher talk to them about this native English speaker? Do they work towards my arrival every day? Has their been disproportionate preparation, I more than they, they more than I? Or maybe the teacher has yet to inform them...the fusing of our worlds will happen - this I know, and can accept - what boggles my mind is the structure, the overall structure that is already in place, with me, some sort of catalyst, and the people I will meet, whose diversity humbles me already, collectively waiting to be released upon the labrynth so we may etch in the spectacular details.