Thinking I´d Been Cured of My Arachnophobia

Day 48 and I didn´t think spiders this enormous lived in houses. Not without paying rent. I was standing before the toilet, watching a suspiciously large centipede on the far wall, and I just had a hunch. Sure enough, I saw a fierce looking leg, then another, extend from just below my showerhead. When the 8 (or perhaps it was 16?) legger and I made eye contact, my reaction was first one of interest. That interest was soon followed by bloodthirst. I grabbed a mop from the bordering hallway, approached, but my enemy in his gargantuousness must also have had an abnormally acute sense of foreknowledge. He fled! Quickly, through a whole in the wall impossibly smaller than he. Just as he approached the entrance to what must have been his inconceivably intricate layer, I was sure I had a clean shot at his hind legs. My mop was thick and I lunged. Crack! I pulled the mop back, hurriedly flipped it over to view the results, and stared disbelieving at the clean red cloth. When I looked up, I guess I shouldn´t have been surprisded I broke a soccer ball sized hole in the double sided wall.

I returned to my room, annoyed and feeling the initial self doubts that accompany defeat. I decided that I would seek to enhance my one sure human advantage in preparation for an almost certain second encounter: My ability to acquire knowledge. A brief skim through Lonely Planet´s Staying Healthy in Central America, a small book which would be more aptly titled The Hypochondriac´s Guide to Central America, revealed that my new roommate demonstrated more or less every physical criteria of a black widow. Although I was rather confident that I hadn´t spotted the trademark red scar across the belly, my imagination assured me that of course, I had not seen the belly side of the beast. A black widow.

Thus, he was a she. The females of the species get their name from consuming the much smaller males immediately after mating. Upon branding, she had now acquired a previously unasummed potential, namely, her ability to kill me.

I slept for the next 3 days in a state of unusual paranoia, covered from forehead to toenail in a sweater, pants, and only one blanket. I had removed all other layers of bed cloth in the off chance that they could serve as a hideout for the Widow and her supporting army. I showered every morning with my eyes open, enduring the pain of of a steady and cold Head and Shoulders stream across my retinas. Having not encountered her again for four days, at dusk, around the 96th hour, I found her dead and partially consumed by little black ants, her massive and crippled black corpse lying pathetically still on the red floor below my toilet. A sad, and mysterious ending indeed, she appeared to have fallen victim of some sort of shoe swatting or perhaps a stomping. Later that night, I inquired with the host mom, and sure enough, the bruha had come through, showing once again that she stomps the life out from any creature that crosses her path.

And for one shining moment in my stay at a house where, to my relief, now lived only one widow, I loved her.

Teaching.

It´s so easy to get frustrated with my students when they show no interest in learning. But to do so offers a path with no solutions. To solve their problem of apathy, I first have to identify that the that the only person I can change is me. I´ve learned not to blame them, but rather, to ask what I can do to prepare differently, and to subsequently engage them. They can learn anything. There is always a way. My job as a teacher is to find it.

On the brevity of time remaining.

In 15 days I´ll be sleeping in my own bed, this one of my various lives in different places having gently put to an end. Sometimes it seems like the minutes crawl by, but before I know it, I´m going to be at home with a cell phone and internet and comfort and nothingness, no surprises, no unexpected challenges, no predators lurking between the doubled sided walls in my shower, feeling slightly displaced but stronger for knowing what I now know. How crazy are those slightly awkward moments when I just pop over to Lourdes´, Maximillion (yes), and Nicole´s house, hoping for companionship and maybe even food, like a Gringo dog who has walked through the rain to scratch gingerly at the front door. Isn´t the awful fear of getting into the shower with a black widow or maybe one day a tarantula (saw a dead one in the street the other day) better than the warm shower and sportscenter I know at home? Aren´t the smiles on the faces of my two little apprentices, Nicole and Paola, EXACTLY the reason I came to Costa Rica. I´m not in the least romanticizing it when I say that those girls and little Favri who you´ll have to see pictures of to believe really only have 2 or 3 outfits, are thrilled by learning simply new tricks like sticking a finger into your mouth, making a fishhook, and pulling outward to make a popping sound, and are A-tentive when I sit on the couch, NIcole on my left, angled toward me, pensive, Paola on the right with her left arm resting on my right leg and learning decidedly slower than Nicole, teaching them a word or a phrase at a time in English, smiling as they mispronounce everyword in an increasingly predictable way. Ai, Teecher/ Jess (yes)/ Geeb mee ai... kees /Eet ees...Tursdai. All pronounced by slightly altering your speech as to pronounce everything like you are simultaneously trying to say it and swallow it.

Others.

That little four year old girl with a curly black ponytail stood there in the basement singing ´tiene gripe´(in the classic playground taunting tone) and pointing at me for more than 30 seconds.

I judged a Costa Rican science fair last week. I judged a Costa Rican science fair last week, in Spanish. I didn´t know I would be judging a science fair last week, though I knew if I were to ever judge a science fair in Costa Rica, it would be in Spanish. Knowing of the possibility of judging a science fair in Spanish, but not knowing I would be judging a science fair last week, I was asked to judge a science fair last week. I did so in Spanish.

I´ve developed a subtle pride for the American Soccer team. I mean, C´mon! Did anyone else watch the Gold Cup Championships last weekend!?

I´m mid-stride in front of the churchyard, white t-shirt and jeans, chasing Costa Rican children in a game of tag.

I´m riding upright, standing in a truckbed of a vehicle that is bumping downhill, a dirtroad with switchbacks, through coffee fields and past the occasional banana tree.

I´m wondering if this úncover what culture you can´adventure of mine, this life in this town, feels full to those who live here daily? TO me it´s a passing stage whit a definite end. If permanency were to set in here, I´m sure I´d run away. I drank a turtle egg in a bar today, assuming Huevos de Tortuga was just a cute name for the spicy shooter. And why do they put ice in their beer, and moreso, mustn´t it taste awful? It´s one thing I haven´t tried and maybe I should. U.S.A culture is adapted here, but here´s how. Music loses all its conetextual and cultural significance, gone with the language barrier. Girls wear t-shirts with bratty one-liners in English, apparently only concerned about the appearance, obviously unaware of the significance of those cute and glittery letters.

Emily made another great observation, this time about the influx of Gringos to the pacific beaches in this country, and the impending American Colonization of Costa Rica (just wait), and the displacement of locals in Marbella, a town that has been purchased in its entirety by one Gringo entrepreneur. He has hired the locals to ´clear the land´for one dollar an hour. They take the jobs, and sell the land, because the price in the short run is (for them) impossible to resist. This land comes to this entrepreneur with no capital gains tax. He will one day soon sell this land to Giant American hotels, restaurants, Condo Builders, the like. The jobs that will be available in that town will be at the future Ritz Carlton, and the like. Americans will come to live and to work. Don´t think that youll find too many of Marbella´s life long citizens working in high class service jobs that require fluid english, when they´ve worked the land their whole lives. If you think this is not a probelm for Costa Rica, tell me where all the displaced citizens like those of Marbella are going to go to live and to work.

Nicaragua seems like a fair guess. Maybe theyll find some good sweatshop labor, now that CAFTA has passed. Jeffrey Sachs points out that sweatshop labor is a step in the right direction for extremely impoverished developing countries. But what for those who will (potentially, I´m speculating here), find that work to be a step down, after a comfortable but modest life in the fields?

.


To end, a quick experiment in writing.

Adam Yukelson is a volunteer English teacher standing at a crowded Catholic Mass in Central Costa Rica. He is Jewish, but at the moment, is keeping that to himself. His friend Alex stands to his left, speaking to him in broken English. Eet ees hOngree. No No No, listen Alex: I AM hungry. The 400 or so people await instruction, staring forward. One woman´s breast has flopped out into the mouth of her chubby son. Public breast feeding hardly catches his attention anymore, he sees it everywhere. He watches as the girl in the mint green pants walks with her child towards an open pew in front of the mint green walls. He wonders whether the legs or the wall or hidden by a thicker material. The Church band knows only one song, and amusingly, it is cumbia, played in the same key repeatedly during the service, except at the end when it is not played in the same key. Fascinated for 30 minutes, his mind wanders soon thereafter, and is far away, apartment shopping in Brooklyn.

Revisiting

Day 46.

So I´m in Orosi and mildly lonely. I saw Natalia sitting in a hammock out front of Montana Linda. Natalia was my spanish teacher during orientation, shy but very bright (she spoke to me about CAFTA that first week). She smiled to me from her hammock atop the small but steep hill, smiling for a long ten seconds before I recognized who she was. Her smile was really what I needed, a small reassurance that I make an impact. Up I went, kissed her on her right cheek as is custom here and ought to be everywhere, and began to excidedly tell her how I´d ran into another N. American in Puerto Viejo who had been to Montana Linda for Spanish classes and had been a student of hers for the week. Having no memory of him, she shrugged her shoulders, which indirectly made me feel better than maybe it should have. We talked about my town, my spanish, and I asked her about her daughter, reassuring her that I will vote for her when she runs for President in 40 years, if I so happen to be an expat by then. What a quiet but bad ass smile she has. Its a smile that forces you to ask. I love Orosi but it´s full of ghosts today, like going back to Bath would be for me, I can no longer view it simply as it is. Memories walk the streets with me, like I´m living in a double exposed photo. I have expectations and emotions attached to people and to OTIAC from Orientation and so on. I feel too quiet here, and even if all the volunteers were here I´d feel the same but suddenly right this instant I´m having rushes and flashes, snapshots shooting across my mind of the open OTIAC windows and the fog laced mountains and Emily and all of us just trying to hold each other up and that crutch we mutually supported and shared that was utopian and is now gone. Its gone for me and I wonder if it was by my own choosing. This experience these 10 weeks, all of it, emphasized by my current location and unwillingness to sleep again in the bottom bunk where I slept the first week seems anything but fluid or linear. I remember vivid images but where has the specific day to day gone? Have I gone too Macro, looking for moral lessons in all? Maybe now, in Orosi, I´ll have my reorientation, meaning that I must simply keep a keener portion of my eye focused on details.

This time, the plywood in this room seems shiny and I´ve only really noticed spaces in the house. I wondered for a minute about the sky blue ceiling and why they pointed it out to me the first time and if I´d failed to understand just how remarkable it may be to them to have a celing in place of vaulted ruffled tin. I feel numb in my return to Orosi, severely more numb than I would like, but I´ve also been tired all day and was out till 3am with Mikey and Cindy and Karol. There is a level of certainty that was not here before, which has rendered me more businesslike in my visit.

...that was my journal entry last night, laying on my side and writing on a bunk bed made of wooden planks.

I´ve written so little about teaching in the Telesecundarias that rereading some of my entries, it actually seems more like I´m here on an anthropology fellowship than a volunteer teaching program officially aligned with the Costa Rican Ministry of Education.

Thus. Revisiting.

My class rules, introduced on my first day:
1. In class, we only speak English.
2. ¡Errores so tranquiles! (mistakes are OK!)

I´ve since severely broken one of those rules, but I absolutely embrace and encourage mistakes as THE most effective form of learning.

7th Grade.
Huge class! Upwards of 40 kids. It´s been a tough class to work with because of the dual nature of the relationship I´ve developed with them. Out of class I´m their friend, and almost always and anywhere a walking audience for their travelling talent shows. The difficulty has been reconciling this necessary part of my knowing them with the need to be a stronger disciplinarian in class. I have 10 or so students that pay absolute attention at all times during that class and I want to always teleport them to a place far off in the woods where we can sit around a small campfire and they can take perfect notes while I teach with the heightened focus they deserve. Class moves slowly out of necessity, and I never stand still. I once brought pictures from magazines to teach possession, and handed them out for keeps and for in class use to my quietest students. I skip and roll around the room, crouching down in front of desks and tables, allowing the shy ones to whisper in my ear, ´this is a watch´, or ´that is a shoe´, then springing up and amplifying the answer, shouting and when I´m feeling funky, singing! We occasionally use the telesecundaria videos that are mandated for use by the governemnt, but the sound is muffled and the general experience is much like I imagine it would be were I to hold class for 40 children in a stretch of grass, 10 feet from the main runway at an international airport. I write a lot on the white board, pick kids up and use them as living props, and we always always play games such as memory (using root forms of verbs and progressives as matches), telephone (which I hold to be the single most effective TEFL game of all time, encouraging teamwork and cooperation, self initiated learning, student to student instruction, patience and persistance, and would you know it a few minutes of tranquility!). I do not yell in class. It is a reactionary and powerless form of discipline. OK, I yelled once, but I might as well have been yelling in English to Costa Rican children. Instead I stand in silence. Quickly, the students who want to learn are up and out of their seats, yelling at their peers to ¡callense! I love leaving problem solving up to the kids. 7th grade I would say has the highest relative level of English of all my grades.

8th grade.
The hallmark of this class is boys who make absolutely no effort to even try to understand what I say in English, and thus do anything they can to create diversions, and girls who sit in groups and paint their nails. There are a few who sit their looking somewhere between interested and completely lost, and then there is Ana, who sits directly in the back of the horizontally rectangular room, wears a dark blue sweater over her light blue uniform with her hair in a perfectly attended ponytail, leans forward ever so slightly and hangs on every single word I say, absorbing everything. I get into zones sometimes where for a minute or two, I only teach to her. She´s the model of attentiveness, and I want to give her a pedastal to sit on and force everyone to watch her methods. Not to be outdone, theres also a group of really energetic and intelligent girls that sit next to her and thrive on competition, always trying trying guessing and sometimes knowing the answers to my sometimes difficult grammar questions. Through the use of excessive competition and Total Physical Response (body language, acting) I´ve been able to capture and engage this diverse group. We recently covered comparatives, a week in which I had different embarassed students join me in front of the class of 35 to compare and contrast who has the biggest legs, fattest neck, and longest tongue. Leo´s tongue is abnormally long, and in what is perhaps the upset of the year, proved to have a tongue ridiculously longer than my own. It was a bit of a set back, emotionally, to be honest. I just didn´t see it coming. I mean, I can stick my tongue in my nostril! Who in North, South, or Central America would have thought that could be beat?

9th Grade.

Started out so so good, and are currently testing my patience with their inexplicable level of apathy. I say inexplicable, because they have English tests in October which they must pass, or else they repeat 9th grade. The tests are not easy to say the least, and test reading comprehension, knowledge of past, present, and future tenses, synonyms, antonyms, and thats only the start of it. There´s a broom that sits near the door, and I want to occasionally smack about half of them with it. You have a native English speaker in your classroom! Use me! I will buy you an extra year of your life if you only let me! That being said, I´m simpathetic to their circumstances...actually, no I´m not. Not when Ivan gets and up walks to the back of the room to lie on his back mid class, eyes open staring at the ceiling. My cure for that fun little game is to let him doze off a little, then put my finger to my lips while the good students in the class watch, tip toe to the back of the class, and curl up next to him on the same desk for a cute little siesta.

Subject wise, we were supposed to be covering actions that began in the past and have continued to the present, using ´have been...´ I found this to be more than a little difficult, as most of the kids, except Jean, Andrea, Susanna, Jason, occasionally Pamela (accent on e), and when she wants to, Daniela, who seem to understand everything and are truly bright kids, can´t even verbalize a sentence in past, present, or future. I was able to get a few of them talking one day, by drawing a picture consisting of Costa Rica, the US, and an airplane in the middle. I told them that if they ever visit, some good looking guy or girl is going to want to talk to them, and the first thing he or she is going to ask is ´so for how long have you been here?´ That sparked a little interest, especially in my two girls Arrelis and Yarrelis, who now can repeat the sentence, ´I have been here for 10 days´, upon being prompted, 3 weeks later.

I have 10th and 11th graders as well, but they´ll have to await description for another day.

Things in Costa Rica that Make the Heart Race

Two entries in one day! With this kind of craziness, I may soon be telling you that it hasnt rained here in the last 45 minutes.

The List (incomplete)

1. Two 8 year old girls sharing an umbrella, white uniforms, walking gingerly up a road on the way to school
2. The nationwide habit to shake your hands near the sides of your head in a way that looks like youre trying to detach them during a situation involving inappropriate humor or tension.
3. Eating mangos, nisperos, sugar cane, huacates, and more fruit straight from the tree.
4. Kids with dirty clothes and spotless eyes.
5. Chunky cotton pillows
6. Invites galore to pass the day talking, eating, and drinking pure coffee with a family.
7. Children who clean without being asked.
8. Chickens walking through kitchens, which, it should be noted, may be the only sentence that translates perfectly, and rhymes, in both English and Spanish. Check it out. Chicken in the Kitchen. Gallina en la cocina. That rocks.
9. Everytime I cough, someone telling me I have Gripe (the flu)
10. Playing cards in candlelight.
11. Smaller fruits than we have at home.
12. Where are you going: arriba
When are you going: ahorita
13. Hitting my head in doorways and on low wooden beams.
14. Being fed everywhere, always, and sometimes twice.

Ok. A couple other things I need to either get out, or reiterate. Sorry for perhaps being repetitive, but I cant remember what I wrote 2 weeks ago. First thing. Im training myself to drop this hostility Ive developed towards backpackers and fat white tourists in pastel polos. I will never see the point of their traveling many miles to arrive in a similar place with similar comforts, however, see, the issue for me seems to be my unwillingness to be lumped into the same category as those who prefer that sort of travel. Its especially poignant when we are all in the same place, such as hostels, or San Jose. I want to wear a sign or a bright t shirt denoting my intention in living here, my intention to know them and to understand how they live (knowing that to observe is to kill, or at least to alter). But enough. Rather than fight that impossible fight, punching air, Id like to simply remember that Ive had personal and meaningful contact wtih the kids here, who are the lifeblood of Costa Rica, and even if I see and talk to a thousand tourists, that experience can never be diminished.

Sorry.

You should know about the orphanange. For one day in Moin, 100 meters from the Dole shipping port where barcos (holy hell, I cant remember the english word!) huge aircraft carrier looking ocean liners sit waiting to transport bananas abroad...at this location, the kids came forth from their temporary houses just to be with us. Mikey, Emily, Myself. Food was made, mangos were sliced, shy smiles were exchanged, and spanish was spoken by the mouthful. You should have seen us, jumping into ocean waves, holding these costa rican children tight to our chest, knowing that they mostly couldnt swim and were we to let go or turn an eye just for a moment...You should have seen us, oceanliners resting towards the near horizon. I held hands with Erika, then Maria, then Carlos, Marcos, Johnanna, and Erika once again. I held their waists as waves beat them backwards, pushing with the consistency of nature. They never stopped surging forward into the waves these kids, in our arms, doggy paddling into the waves, waves which seemed to grow larger and larger the longer we waded through the water. These kids never complained or experssed fear. The only emotion experssed was desire, and that desire was only fo a hand, my hand, to help them catch their breath and dig a foot into the sand when the successive pounding of the waves became a little too intense for their little bodies to handle.

Just the other day, back in Llano Bonito, I spoke with a farmer named Carlos who wore his button down dirty and open. He showed me his calloused hands and explained to me how, when you start working in coffee fields (he had been to school up to 3rd grade, started workinging with coffee at age 11) that your hands bleed and blister, but after 30 days, God gives you the gift of stronger hands. Oh, the miracle of callouses. He told me how said callouses come from using the machete and explained to me the great demand for adult English classes in Llano Bonito. In 2 years, Llano Bonito will change forever as tourists flood in to view the new man made lake. Carlos says this will be good for him because he can sell his fruit directly, but band for the general ambiance and environment. As such, he explained the need for adult English classes, and told me what a help it would be if he knew how to describe his fruits in English. The woman across the dirt road sitting on her front porch had apparently been listening in. She brought us 8 beautiful and fresh small bananas that melted in my mouth like ice cream.

Placing Trash Cans in Their Place. Just a few days ago.

Curiousity abounded. People watched, stared, and inquired. Townspeople literally asked if they could have one! One woman who we ended up giving one to said What Discrimination! when we nearly passed by her store. Zeneida, my devil of a host mom, actually tied hers to the front gates! Rosa, the pulperia owner, mimicked her! In case I hadnt mentioned it, I designed a community project in LLano Bonito, Dubbed Ya Mo Bonito, to clean the trash ridden streets and buy trash cans for the fronts of stores and certain houses. Thank you especially to John Hunter, who Ive been told helped contribute financially to making this project possible. Amazingly, before Thursday, there had not been a single trash can along my densely populated main street. I was truly surprised by the community response. Deni plans to use hers as a laundry basket inside her home, classic costa rican for you, a dream I am quickly trying to stomp out for her. I told her Id buy her a laundry basket if she just leaves the damn thing in the front yard. What I wonder is whether these people want these bright baskets because they want to responsibly help, because they want it for personal use, or if they simply want any thing thats freee. It was actually very rewarding to walk down the streets and see these bright hallmakrsk physically articulating my own project idea. A step beyond, it was awesome to see people actually make use of them, knowing that otherwise the garbage would have landed in the streets.

Mikey had a bright idea. Maybe I should spend the rest of my life travelling the world, going to poor countries, and swinging children. By their arms and legs. It draws unparalleled laughter and jubilant screams. You know. One person holds one leg and one arm, the other grabs hold of the opposite side, then back, and forth, back and forth.

Showertime

I didnt realize how severely my online journal is lagging behind my actual journal, which is now upwards of 80 pages long. Lost in all the mix, I havent even written about my shower routine! This needs to be noted.

First, imagine the most paralyzingly cold water youve ever known. Think water, with just a few ice crystals left in the glass. Youre watching those ice crystals melt. Theyve melted. Good. Now dump the water down the back of your neck. Thats right. Now take that sensation, and imagine that youre no longer standing in the comfort of your home, but in a large waterfall. A waterfall in Greenland.

So heres what I do.

Face first to wake up. I first wet my hair but refuse to let that dryicechilled water drip down my back. Then my right hand goes in. Then left. Next, right arm up to the shoulder. Then left. Then I cup then hands and rub dryicechilled water down my chest. Then the legs, letting water hit mid thigh, but only on the sides. The outsides. Finally, the worst part (use your imagination) and then I jump back, yelp, and apply soap. Soap is on, and im IN! Wheeewwwww!!! My breath implodes and a paralyzing stiffness takes hold of my neck. Then warmth. From my head on down. A little. Then Im done. With the body that is. I have no sink, so as Im naked and shaking, I hurriedly brush my teeth. You should try it some time. I guarantee youll never feel more awake.

I teach here as well

Back from tourist land! Back to the place that wants me for what I can share, not for what I can pay.

Last week, the director of my school left to take a job closer to San Jose. This is interesting but more or less wont affect my teaching since she was only really around for a week and a half to begin with. Nonetheless, my 7th graders said goodbye to her, to Roxy, two Fridays ago with a party that was more excuisitely planned than any lesson plan Ive been able to throw together. I had no idea they had been planning anything, but mid morning, they began preparing drinks, ice cream, and crackers. Emily, who had arrived like the messiah the day before, bringing a mountain of vegetables and brown rice to cook for my family along with garlic and other things with flavor which I had began to think I would never eat again...sorry, at school that Friday, Emily and I received a formal invite mid day to the Goodbye party that was being organized for Roxy. School ended, or rather, sort of lost its seriousness and became disorganized as it does, and two 7th graders were shuffling their feet excitedly by the door, jittery and eager, hands grasping wads of shredded paper that they had torn to create confetti. They hurried Emily and I into the classroom and seated us at an elegantly set school bench that the kids had fashioned into a head table, complete with a white table cloth which I think was just a long sheet of white paper. The desks and the kids who belong to them were seated in a flawless half moon, facing us. My setting was neatly arranged with cookies, juice, and an ice cream slash Jello combo that is gross but inexplicably popular. Roxy entered, her smile showing off her braces and pin point sharp dimples, and was instantly showered in the makeshift confetti. If you had tried to teach these 40 kids in class and if you knew as I do that nothing in the world can get them to simultaneously say GREEN PANTS you would begin to understand how floored I was when this party began to evolve. There was an opening speech set to sad graduation music. There was a banana eating contest. No I am not joking. There was musical chairs, a thank you Roxy two page letter read aloud, a bobbing for hard candy in a cereal bowl of water contest, and then the kids threw egges and flour at each others faces.

At 5pm that same day, day 29 or my trip (today is day 39) Emily and I went to dinner at the house of Nicole who is 8 and precious, like all 8 year olds in this country. Her Mom had invited us for dinner, and when we arrived, I sat on the edge of the street and joke with Nicoles cousin Paulo, also 8, and Nicole for 30 minutes. They wore dirt stained clothes and dog slippers. They laughed at everything and always meant it. No people have eyes like the children here. My excitement at dinner was comparable to my excitement on Yom Kippur when we break the fast. We ate rice with cilantro, peppers, and garlic, beans and cilantro, cauliflower cooked in eggs, salad, brocolli, potatoes and cheese, and sugarcane for dessert. I loooved the food and felt wanted by the family, I want to spend most of my days here in other homes.

Im wearing a new bracelet these days, given to me by Erika, an 8 year old dark skinned Orphan in Moin whose hand I held tight in the Ocean for hours on Saturday. She gave me her necklace, which is now my bracelet, wrapped twice around my wrist, and locked into place and it is not coming off, ever.

More soon...

Emily, Mikey, and I took a bus from San Jose to Limon, out here on the Caribbean coast. Ever since the drive Ive been feeling funny, excited, lost, alone, confused, comforted. 10 minutes out of San Jose I saw a crowd of people huddled around the side of the road, most holding one arm across their chest with their left hand supported by the other arm´s inside elbow, right hand covering their mouths. I saw the red cross huddled around a broken man, who lay in a ditch, head bleeding. From that moment I´ve felt weak and vulnerable, and haven´t been able to completely shake it. The ride continued and the terrain changed to Rain Forrest and the roadside homes changed to Adventorous Rainforest ranches with groups of tourists standing waiting for direction. Then came banana farms, for miles and miles. Humidity. Then Limon.

The random and decrepid architecture of the city is saddening, but simultanesouly you can´t help but think that the city was built with one purpose in mind, abandoned, then reinhabited using the previous life´s buildings for completely foreign purposes. Emily had volunteered three years ago at an Orphanage 10 minutes North of town, so we set our bags in something that was currently serving as a hotel, 3 dollars a night for each of us, and hopped in a cab up north. I´d never been too an orphanage, and the kids who snuck out from behind trees and hills and small buildings to meet us were humble and very shy. There is nothing where they are, they live in groups of 8 with one of a rotating set of house-aunts. Many kids remembered Emily and I was happy for that. We stayed for an hour, planning to return this Friday to share a meal and take the kids to the beach. That night, I was even more upset, wondering why in the hell anyone would build an orphanage on a hill with a glimpse of the Ocean, in something of a town that is not even a rest stop, on a stupid hill that no kid could play on, with only a basketball court, ugly, and way out of the center of town where there would perhaps be entertainment. Its fucking boring and it hurts my head and why would you put Orphans in isolation? Their type of hope is the wrong kind, and then you tranquilize them with boredom. Really, that´s what I see in this country. It´s not that people can´t eat and are struggling. For the most part, the biggest challenge for the majority of those who "need help" is boredom.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, we´re spending the week in Puerto Viejo. The life here is a far cry from what I´ve seen in my first four weeks. It´s a carribean beach town, with a hippie bamboo strong flavor food relaxing surf vibe, where the locals surf impressive breaks and play soccer, and the tourists relax in authentic cofee jives and awesome restaurants. There is no boredom, but theres a strange sort of dissonance for the hippie backbacker tourists that this place attracts. The locals smile because they´re taking your money, and that´s that. We are, however, staying at something I never though truly existed in the world, and that is a hostel with exclusively hammocks and tents and mosaics made by those who stay there not to mention the most original and weed inspired chairs you could think of and a tree house. You can stay, for 60 dollars a night in a tree house. We did tents last night, and I think hammocks tonight, for 5 bucks a night. The place needs to be seen in photographs to be believed, with palm and coconut trees shading the beach, and in this the greatest hangout you could ever day dream, the gold and blue colors are strong and refreshing but totally appropriate. The owner has built a studio apartment in the back of an 18 wheeler, that opens up on the side right into the blue front desk, right below the giant map of the earth. And seriously more hammocks than youve ever seen.

I dont particularly feel at home here in hippie land, but its better than greasy gringos. Besides, the body surfing is out of this world.

In Puerto Viejo, nobody seems to think its at all special that Im teaching English down here. At least its not perceived as difficult and certainly not noble. Of course not. Costa Rica is fantasy land when seen through the security of food friends pot beer and waves. The locals have absolutley no interest in speaking to us in Spanish. They think we are silly. Theres an unacknowledged selfishness in hippieland, and ill be happy to leave. I dont feel any challenge here, and for the time being, it leaves me feeling suspended.

There is no pool

Back again for round two.

Today was our midservice conference here in San Jose. All our volunteers are here, and mainly we shared our trials frustrations and accomplishments at our 23 starkly different locations around the country. Some of us are living in touristy beachside havens, others in dense rainforest, others with subsistence farmers, and one on and island. My initial response to hearing everyones experiences with families, schools, and culture was surprise. There is no one general experience being had here in Costa Rica. Families have different customs. Students have varying levels of interest, study habits, and levels of respect for us. Particularly strong was Karas account of the unrelenting sexual harassment she endures on a daily basis from her 10th graders. Her four years of teaching preparation at Ohio State would never be enough to prepare her for the crude brutality of her students. Her director, honest to God makes out with 7th grade students in his office and obviously is only fuel to the fire, and Kara, stong as she is, came to Costa Rica having never studied spanish and thus is left with little to no self defense.

Others live in bug infested quarters. One volunteer, Matt, was given a machete by his host dad, taught how to cut coconuts, and was given a painting of a costa rican landscape by a neighbor who had once been to the United States and was feeling wholly generous. Still others have been forced to follow the impossible and unrealistic curriculum set forth by the ministry of education. They somehow expect that these kids can learn about microorganisms in English, while in reality, most of them cant conjugate the verb To Be.

We also were fortunate to have to representatives from the Rainforest Alliance give a presentation this afternoon. Turns out that ALL of this country, except for the coastlines, was once covered in dense rainforest. Coffee, bananas, pineapples, grass, and everything else I see on a relatively daily basis was not native to this region. The mountains where I live are mostly barren or covered in coffee. Landslides occur frequently, especially after earthquakes, of which weve now had 4. A 5.5 the other day! The land is fragile because it is being ill used. Deforrrestation is a huge issue here, and thanks to these folks at RA, I have a much better understanding of the unnatural history that has shaped this country as I have come to know it. I left the presentation inspired. Many of our volunteers, myself included, have met families who make a living from coffee and cow farms. According to RA, these activities are relatively unsustainable in their present form. My question to them was this. These families make so little on a daily basis, how can they be expected to take the time and make the investment in a more sustaibable form of farming? How and who adivses them on this? Why would they have the motive to make such a move, when it would surely temporarily paralyze their income and devastate their ability to feed themselves and their families?

Anyway, the experiences in LLano Bonito mount at a rate that makes it impossible to transcribe, though I want deeply to share all of it. I love the story I started yesterday. That family took me in and seriously turned the experience in my town on its head. I played guitar for them. Without pressuring me, they somehow expected that I knew and could sing any song so long as it is or was written in the English language. Thus, after dinner that Friday night I found myself strumming the guitar and belting out all I knew or could improvise... (I could and can always in any situation say whatever I want in English, nobody ever knows. I vent in class sometimes by cursing, but not too often) ...the lyrics to Nirvanas Smells Like Teen Spirit. Why they think I can sing, Im not sure, but I always do and am rarely embarassed. Leonela, my 11th grader who is 18 and attractive and no way am I going there but god do I get pressure from the guys in her class and thank the lord they didnt find out that her parents invited me to stay the night at her house and that I did and that that is all that I did because they are a loving family and they have interest in me and my life and they ask me why and theyre curious and the family I live with is only in it for the money (For Heavens sake WorldTeach gives them a check for my food and no no no way are they spending more than a quarter of it on feeding me) and Leonela, she wants to learn guitar. She also doesnt know how to swim. I wonder if this is true for most of my town? Why would they? Theres no pool. I taught her 3 chords, A, Em, and G. Man did she smile when, for the first time since she had owned this guitar (it was a gift) she was able to make a recognizable sound flow from it.

Other events from the house that I wish were my home: I washed my hair in some leaf, egg, honey compbination that the 20 year old sister Alejandra had made. It looked like snaught, and I thought a few laughs might come out of it (you look for laughs in alternative ways when you cant elicit them through words) and sure enough, in the spirit of obligating myself to say yes to any choice so long as nobody stands to be hurt, I soaked my scalp in this disgusting looking goo, alongside a giggling Alejandra. Despite the language gaps, it seems that rubbing mucus looking gunk in someone elses hair serves as a universal sign for friendship.

I have a lot of thoughts when Im alone in my room and I havent spoke English in days on the phone and weeks to a warm body. Here are some of those thoughts. How different of a person am I to those who only know me through my Spanish? Am I Jeckyll and Hyde to Leonela and my other students who see me in their homes and in class, where I can be more thoroughly expressive and am comfortable in my language? Am I a celebrity in my town? How do kids Ive never met know to call me Teascher? Is there a secret gossip network (likely) in town, or do they just hear other people say it and assume thats my name? The little ones know so much more English than the big ones. I want everything for the kids. They are sooo excited to tell me all they know in English. I get days, colors, parts of the alphabet, animals, greetings, and sometimes food from everyone of them I meet. Why do some people lose that smile that so many of these kids have? Why do we keep things to ourselves? Why doesnt everyone in my town approach each other with beaming teeth and shiny eyes wanting only to share their knowledge of something difficult? Nela has family whom I met last Sunday down by the river at a family gathering. Nicole and Paulo are 8 years old and wear dirty clothes and have those shiny eyes... I rode with them on the front of my bike handles down a rocky dirt road, in front of the hollow riverside home where I was invited to a picnic with 20 some Costa Ricans whom Id never met and who served me unrecognizable vegetable and pig fat. Nicole and Paulo want to know so many words in English, and when I speak to them, they watch me as if there really wasnt anything else in the world they could possibly choose to look at, and even if there were, they wouldnt dare. I taught them how to make a popping sound by puffing out your cheeks, inserting their pointer finger, and making a quick scooping motion. PWOP!

Here, there is also the unquestioning use-what-we-have resourcefulness of the moderately poor. Old mattresses in truck beds, thrown on a dirt road for padding during a picnic. Kids drink from sprouts in water pipes, and wash their hands aftereards. On day 25 of my trip, I did not communicate with my host family. I slept somewhere else, ate well, accepted invite upon invite to be part of another familys life, rode stand up in the back of a pickup truck and pulled leaves from tree and watched as mango and avocado trees drifted by, watched until one of the two Costa Rican girls who are now my friends and who stood on either side of me in the back of their fathers pickup truck laughing yanked a leaf from a passing tree and stuffed it down the back of my shirt or until the pure joy of being here would demand that I lean forward onto the cab of the truck as we rolled down a bumpy hill and let my feet fly up in the air superman style until the girls yanked me back and shook their right hands at their shoulders and smiled. Thats what they do, ALL costa ricans, when they are nervously excited. Its hilarious. Imagine a person trying to shake a prosthetic hand free of their arm.

Mikey K is coming tonight to join my adventure. It feels so good to have company from home.

Hello Hello! Wow! I have a short time with a computer, so I'm going to spit out just one or two parts of one or two trains of thought.

It wouldn't be entirely true to say that everytime I'm feeling down, something comes along to change my mood. No, it's got a lot more to do with personal initiative. Rarely can I call it a great day when it is spent alone. Leonela is one of my 11th graders, and her house is charming, with a remarkably clean and perfectly appropriate black tile floor. Her dad is very quiet, small with strong features and well defined forearms. He's got eyes that have never passed judgement. I wanted to express more to him than my Spanish would allow. I wanted to know about his life and his work in the coffee fields. He makes 4000 colones a day. That's 8 dollars. Nobody else in the family works, but their house is warm and comfortable. I wanted a conversation with twists and turn, but he wouldn't do it on his own and I just couldn't pull the words out quick enough to keep it flowing. He chopped down a sugar cane for me, and we ate slices as he gently chisled away at the dense arm of the plant. Curiously both he and his wife told me that the sugar cane is good for your teeth. One of us has been getting bad information. They prepared a grand meal, both for lunck and dinner, as I ended up staying at this afternoon "cafecito" for 9 hours. Mom puts cilantro in her rice, and it makes all the difference in the world. I ate eggs from their personal chickens. Leonela made me a glass of milk with salt. As milk, it was awful, but as with all foods here, I found that byt dropping my expectations of what it should taste like and simply accepting whatever flavor enters my mouth as either tasty of despicable, I can find pleasure in almost anything...(more to come in the next few days)...

My biggest lesson in the first half of this trip is to seriously drop all expectations at all times. I need to lose my expectations of how my spanish should be in 5 weeks. It will be better. It already is, if sometimes I would just relax and not feel I should have mastered it already. There have been days when my students have been absolutely uncontrollable, and days when I haven't been able to do anything in the way of discipline to counteract it. As far as discipline goes, the problem is I have a short time here and I want to know my students, not to be their dictator. Is there a balance? Can there be, in this situation? I'm SO underqualified to do every aspect of what I'm doing , yet the amazing thing is I'm doing it and for all intents and purposes, I'm kicking ass at it. I'm occasionally tired of speaking and receiving blank stares back. Some days are better than others. Know that when I'm sad, it's the happiest sadness imaginable. Turns out, I can either pout and listen to the snickering (people don't usually help, they snicker at the Gringo) ( Why do people snicker? Why don't they help?) or I can laugh along with them, because frnakly the fact that I'm here at all is hilarious and wonderful. Pura Vida. Pura Vida. I think it just means calm the **** down.

So sorry, but I've got to run. More soon, I promise!