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.