Friday, June 26, 2009
Move over Picasso!
These drawings, gifted to me by various children, speak for themselves. Okay, almost...the last two are my town that I live in.
Friday, June 12, 2009
On people and places
My bedroom window is six pieces of glass, each separated by a medium-colored wood. The mini Buddhist prayer flags fall smack in the middle of all of them, their colors illuminated by the light.
But what lies beyond is most important. Every day when I get up, I get to look out at the down-sloped apple orchard of my family’s yard that rolls down the dirt road, eventually leading into town, and meeting mountains and steep rolling hills in the distance. It’s green, it’s lush, it’s temperate, and it’s not the Costa Rica I had imagined. In fact, I imagined palm trees, flat jungle-like terrain, never-ending sun, and unbearable heat. But I’ve got quite the opposite and I couldn’t be happier. This is the Zona de Los Santos.
If you open the back door of my bedroom, you look steeply up the mountain at more apple trees, avocado trees, peach trees, a few citrus trees, and one elusive, pure white horse that roams among them munching on the tropical flora. The climate here is the most desirable in all of Costa Rica, I believe; cool mornings, cool afternoons, cool evenings. I find myself wearing long pants, long-ish sleeves, my many scarves, and an occasional sweater or hat. I eat breakfast every day on the front porch looking out toward town at the mountains as the sun rises over the hills. Usually, you can find crates and crates of apples or peaches or zucchini on the ground ripening in the sun in the front yard.
That brings me to the family that has adopted me for the next 6 months to two years. Who are these wonderful Costa Ricans that have so generously opened their home and their hearts to me (and bought me a brand new porcelain white sink to install in my bedroom, which is in fact a bit more like a mini apartment)?
Here’s who they are (pictures to come soon):
Miguel, my host father: a happy, happy man, curious about American culture; sits at the dinner table repeating random words in English like fork, spoon, sugar, carrots; works hard picking fruit on the land and in nearby communities to sell to vendors who attend farmer’s markets.
Carmen, my host mother: a warm gentle woman with long sable-colored hair with streaks of gray always in a pony tail who makes homemade tortillas every morning; owns the local pulperia (a mini-all-purpose store) so, nearly everybody in town knows her.
Annabelle, my 24-year-old host sister: a smart, well-educated, easy-going young woman who teaches math at a high-school in a nearby town; loves politics and is rooting for the first woman president in Costa Rica in the upcoming elections next February.
Rosybelle, my 22-year-old host sister: doesn’t live here but visits on the weekends; a more-traditional Costa Rican young woman who loves high heels; studying human resources at university and working in another province of Costa Rica.
Raquel, my 18-year-old host sister: a funky, typical high-schooler who loves her friends; is curious about American culture; is studying tourism; heading to college next year, and moved out of her bedroom into a spare one for me to use indefinitely.
And I can’t go on without mentioning my neighbors. They are the owners of El Toucanet Lodge (www.eltoucanet.com), so that means for all you friends and family looking to visit, I could not recommend a more beautiful, relaxing place to stay with a peaceful, romantic ambience. Edna is a warm, spiritual, lovely Costa Rican and her husband Gary is a laid-back American from LA who has barely been back to the States twice in nearly 20 years. Together they run a great business (with excellent food) and have brought a lot of good things to this community through the lodge. They also let me use their wi-fi and come over for the occasional dinner. How lucky I am.
So that’s my life as of late, and the people in it. It feels nice to be done with training and to be finally getting to the point of why I came here. Right now, it’s gray out and pouring down rain on the tin roof above me, it’s this way nearly every afternoon until November. I left my cobalt blue rain boots at home, so I am looking forward to buying a pair of tall black rubber rain boots here. Shortly, I’m walking up the road to the Lodge to dine with a couple from Chicago (music professors) staying at the lodge. They so generously offered for me to join them this evening, and I eagerly obliged. Today is my ninth day at my site; it humbles and excites me to think about all the experiences yet to be had.
Street life in a nearby community (mine is not so hustling and bustling):
But what lies beyond is most important. Every day when I get up, I get to look out at the down-sloped apple orchard of my family’s yard that rolls down the dirt road, eventually leading into town, and meeting mountains and steep rolling hills in the distance. It’s green, it’s lush, it’s temperate, and it’s not the Costa Rica I had imagined. In fact, I imagined palm trees, flat jungle-like terrain, never-ending sun, and unbearable heat. But I’ve got quite the opposite and I couldn’t be happier. This is the Zona de Los Santos.If you open the back door of my bedroom, you look steeply up the mountain at more apple trees, avocado trees, peach trees, a few citrus trees, and one elusive, pure white horse that roams among them munching on the tropical flora. The climate here is the most desirable in all of Costa Rica, I believe; cool mornings, cool afternoons, cool evenings. I find myself wearing long pants, long-ish sleeves, my many scarves, and an occasional sweater or hat. I eat breakfast every day on the front porch looking out toward town at the mountains as the sun rises over the hills. Usually, you can find crates and crates of apples or peaches or zucchini on the ground ripening in the sun in the front yard.
That brings me to the family that has adopted me for the next 6 months to two years. Who are these wonderful Costa Ricans that have so generously opened their home and their hearts to me (and bought me a brand new porcelain white sink to install in my bedroom, which is in fact a bit more like a mini apartment)?Here’s who they are (pictures to come soon):
Miguel, my host father: a happy, happy man, curious about American culture; sits at the dinner table repeating random words in English like fork, spoon, sugar, carrots; works hard picking fruit on the land and in nearby communities to sell to vendors who attend farmer’s markets.
Carmen, my host mother: a warm gentle woman with long sable-colored hair with streaks of gray always in a pony tail who makes homemade tortillas every morning; owns the local pulperia (a mini-all-purpose store) so, nearly everybody in town knows her.
Annabelle, my 24-year-old host sister: a smart, well-educated, easy-going young woman who teaches math at a high-school in a nearby town; loves politics and is rooting for the first woman president in Costa Rica in the upcoming elections next February.
Rosybelle, my 22-year-old host sister: doesn’t live here but visits on the weekends; a more-traditional Costa Rican young woman who loves high heels; studying human resources at university and working in another province of Costa Rica.
Raquel, my 18-year-old host sister: a funky, typical high-schooler who loves her friends; is curious about American culture; is studying tourism; heading to college next year, and moved out of her bedroom into a spare one for me to use indefinitely.
And I can’t go on without mentioning my neighbors. They are the owners of El Toucanet Lodge (www.eltoucanet.com), so that means for all you friends and family looking to visit, I could not recommend a more beautiful, relaxing place to stay with a peaceful, romantic ambience. Edna is a warm, spiritual, lovely Costa Rican and her husband Gary is a laid-back American from LA who has barely been back to the States twice in nearly 20 years. Together they run a great business (with excellent food) and have brought a lot of good things to this community through the lodge. They also let me use their wi-fi and come over for the occasional dinner. How lucky I am.
So that’s my life as of late, and the people in it. It feels nice to be done with training and to be finally getting to the point of why I came here. Right now, it’s gray out and pouring down rain on the tin roof above me, it’s this way nearly every afternoon until November. I left my cobalt blue rain boots at home, so I am looking forward to buying a pair of tall black rubber rain boots here. Shortly, I’m walking up the road to the Lodge to dine with a couple from Chicago (music professors) staying at the lodge. They so generously offered for me to join them this evening, and I eagerly obliged. Today is my ninth day at my site; it humbles and excites me to think about all the experiences yet to be had.
Street life in a nearby community (mine is not so hustling and bustling):
Time - noun, the indefinite continued progress of existence
I have arrived at my site, and my two years as a Peace Corps volunteer have officially begun. And here, I am discovering, I lead a very simple, spontaneous life. I usually wake up bright and early with the Costa Rican sun, or with the typical Costa Rican sounds that permeate my thin wooden walls in my mountain community that is supposedly so quiet Lonely Planet says you can hear the coffee drying. These typical sounds include cows, roosters, washing machines, people speaking Spanish in the road, birds, dogs barking, and the list goes on. Though it may sound like I am living in a hustling and bustling metropolitan tropical locale, it is quite the opposite. I usually head out for a walk to enjoy the fresh mountain air and the rolling emerald mountains blanketed with coffee plantations and apple orchards. Upon return, breakfast usually consists of some type of fruit – pineapple, mango, papaya, banana – and pan casero (the typical bread), or if I’m lucky, cereal or oatmeal (I can no longer do rice and beans three times a day).
Then I usually stroll into town (by strolling I mean walking down a beautiful dirt road lined on both sides with bright green pastures and streams), sometimes with an agenda for a meeting or two, but most times I usually just take what comes my way. For example, I had plans the other morning to head to the school to help paint a mural. On the way into town, I ran into Don Lorenzo, a warm, elderly gentleman who sells apples from a fruit stand in front of his house. His greeting welcomed me to stop and talk. I introduced myself to the man standing at his fruit stand, Rodolfo. Turns out Rodolfo is just the person I needed to meet. Not only is he Don Lorenzo’s son, but he also makes furniture in a shop in his house (could be a potential skill to learn in the next two years), and lucky for me, is the President of the Junta de Educacion, or the Board of Education at the school, just the person I need to talk to to make connections. After spending a good portion of time talking about projects in my community, I forgot what I was doing and where I was going. Once I realized it, I continued into town towards school and began to help with the mural. Later that morning a woman on the bus asked if I was the Peace Corps volunteer in town and asked if I needed a place to live, and that it would make her very happy if I came and lived with her.,.this is after the school director called two families telling them I needed a place to live (which I didn’t). When the lunch hour rolls around, nearly all shuts down. People retreat to their houses and the sound of forks clinking against plates can be heard from the open doors when one walks down the road between 11:45 and 1. For lunch, I never know where I am going to be, and I never turn down the offer to dine with someone new. Lunch always consists of rice and beans, and usually some type of salad or picadillo, tortillas and freshly made fruit juice. Friday for example, after lunch I returned to the school to sit in on the theater class practicing for a play that will show in July. I laughed internally to myself as I found myself practicing play lines with 5th grade peaches and apples in the school play. While at the school that very same day, Arturo, a man I had met earlier in the week came by to see if I would help him learn to design brochures for his mountain cabanas that he owns for a tourism fair. Also that same day, the son of a woman I met who runs a used clothing store dropped by to bring me a newspaper I was looking to read. When 5 o’clock rolled around, and it was dumping down rain, and I was found sans umbrella for my 20 minute walk home, I passed time just sitting at the school waiting for the rain to stop. It never did, but the preschool teacher lent me her umbrella for a not-so wet walk home. That night, Friday, I found myself banging on phone books with my 5-year-old neighbor for nearly an hour, making rhythms and repeating them back to each other. I’m usually in bed under my bug net by 8:30 or 9 with a good book, my computer, or a cup of tea. Again, the next day is all repeats, with a few variations. Simplicity.
During these first three months as a PCV, we have to just take life as it comes. We have no agenda, no one to report to, no 9-5 job, simply the goal of getting to know our community, getting to know the people, the projects, the desires, the hopes, and their history. For these first three months we are simply students, with the task to write a 30 page in-depth diagnostic report about our community, about their strengths, weaknesses, projects, goals, failures, problems, etc. This will in turn lead up to create sustainable projects that are wanted and needed by the community. Right now two years seems like a long time. But the concept of time in the Peace Corps is so different than the time I knew in the states. And I’m not talking about the fact that it’s 9:16 at night and I can hardly keep my eyes open. I’m talking more about the fact that time is warped here. The minutes go by slow, the hours-less slow, the days-fast, and the months-they hardly exist. And if I have something to look forward to, nothing exists in the meantime. Tomorrow is Saturday, I have a whole week ahead of me, and in fact I still have almost two years ahead of me, but I know that Saturday will happen, and I will know many new faces tomorrow, but after Saturday, my family comes to visit in January. That will be here before I can even blink. Back in the states, January would seems like an eternity away, a summer away, and a semester worth of school away. But here, January is just around the corner. Time is so indefinite, so transforming, so existing, and progressive, and here I am just so wrapped up in it...existing. It’s not even ten, and I am already nearly asleep. Farewell, until next time…when I explain my lovely host family that I am living with for the first six months. Think apple orchard, avocado trees, peach trees, and one surreal white horse that roams among them.
Then I usually stroll into town (by strolling I mean walking down a beautiful dirt road lined on both sides with bright green pastures and streams), sometimes with an agenda for a meeting or two, but most times I usually just take what comes my way. For example, I had plans the other morning to head to the school to help paint a mural. On the way into town, I ran into Don Lorenzo, a warm, elderly gentleman who sells apples from a fruit stand in front of his house. His greeting welcomed me to stop and talk. I introduced myself to the man standing at his fruit stand, Rodolfo. Turns out Rodolfo is just the person I needed to meet. Not only is he Don Lorenzo’s son, but he also makes furniture in a shop in his house (could be a potential skill to learn in the next two years), and lucky for me, is the President of the Junta de Educacion, or the Board of Education at the school, just the person I need to talk to to make connections. After spending a good portion of time talking about projects in my community, I forgot what I was doing and where I was going. Once I realized it, I continued into town towards school and began to help with the mural. Later that morning a woman on the bus asked if I was the Peace Corps volunteer in town and asked if I needed a place to live, and that it would make her very happy if I came and lived with her.,.this is after the school director called two families telling them I needed a place to live (which I didn’t). When the lunch hour rolls around, nearly all shuts down. People retreat to their houses and the sound of forks clinking against plates can be heard from the open doors when one walks down the road between 11:45 and 1. For lunch, I never know where I am going to be, and I never turn down the offer to dine with someone new. Lunch always consists of rice and beans, and usually some type of salad or picadillo, tortillas and freshly made fruit juice. Friday for example, after lunch I returned to the school to sit in on the theater class practicing for a play that will show in July. I laughed internally to myself as I found myself practicing play lines with 5th grade peaches and apples in the school play. While at the school that very same day, Arturo, a man I had met earlier in the week came by to see if I would help him learn to design brochures for his mountain cabanas that he owns for a tourism fair. Also that same day, the son of a woman I met who runs a used clothing store dropped by to bring me a newspaper I was looking to read. When 5 o’clock rolled around, and it was dumping down rain, and I was found sans umbrella for my 20 minute walk home, I passed time just sitting at the school waiting for the rain to stop. It never did, but the preschool teacher lent me her umbrella for a not-so wet walk home. That night, Friday, I found myself banging on phone books with my 5-year-old neighbor for nearly an hour, making rhythms and repeating them back to each other. I’m usually in bed under my bug net by 8:30 or 9 with a good book, my computer, or a cup of tea. Again, the next day is all repeats, with a few variations. Simplicity.
During these first three months as a PCV, we have to just take life as it comes. We have no agenda, no one to report to, no 9-5 job, simply the goal of getting to know our community, getting to know the people, the projects, the desires, the hopes, and their history. For these first three months we are simply students, with the task to write a 30 page in-depth diagnostic report about our community, about their strengths, weaknesses, projects, goals, failures, problems, etc. This will in turn lead up to create sustainable projects that are wanted and needed by the community. Right now two years seems like a long time. But the concept of time in the Peace Corps is so different than the time I knew in the states. And I’m not talking about the fact that it’s 9:16 at night and I can hardly keep my eyes open. I’m talking more about the fact that time is warped here. The minutes go by slow, the hours-less slow, the days-fast, and the months-they hardly exist. And if I have something to look forward to, nothing exists in the meantime. Tomorrow is Saturday, I have a whole week ahead of me, and in fact I still have almost two years ahead of me, but I know that Saturday will happen, and I will know many new faces tomorrow, but after Saturday, my family comes to visit in January. That will be here before I can even blink. Back in the states, January would seems like an eternity away, a summer away, and a semester worth of school away. But here, January is just around the corner. Time is so indefinite, so transforming, so existing, and progressive, and here I am just so wrapped up in it...existing. It’s not even ten, and I am already nearly asleep. Farewell, until next time…when I explain my lovely host family that I am living with for the first six months. Think apple orchard, avocado trees, peach trees, and one surreal white horse that roams among them.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
On pain and becoming an official Peace Corps volunteer
Friday we officially committed the next 24 months of our lives to Costa Rica...legally, I am bound to serve this country until May 29, 2011. This means training has ended and we are finally beginning what we have come here to do.....be Peace Corps Volunteers. Here’s some pictures from the big ceremony.
The ambassador and the Peace Corps Costa Rica Country Director: 
So with that being said (and shown), today, Sunday, all of the new volunteers are going to their sites all scattered throughout the country. That is, everyone except me. Why? you ask. Well, the answer is in the two trips to the hospital, the two shots in the buttocks, the two xrays, the one abdominal sonogram, the five types of medicine, and the two blood tests I have had over the past week. Don’t be alarmed. It sounds worse than it is.
Earlier this week, I left our second to last Spanish class due to the beginnings of an illness: cramping and pain in the abdomen and pain in the lungs. Later that day it all worsened. By nightfall, it was unbearable, and instead of trying to force myself to sleep in loads of uncomfortable pain, I called the Peace Corps Medical Officer and told her I would be escorting myself to the ER in San Jose. Trying to explain the type of pain I was having in to the doctors at the hospital in Spanish must have been entertaining. I think it probably translated to something a little bit like this in English: My lungs hurt. I can’t breathe. There is pain in my abdomen. It feels [motion with hands a symbol that is supposed to mean tight]. I can’t breathe strongly. I cant be flat in my bed. Needless to say, they got the point and sent me to the ER for an xray. I thought my Spanish was pretty good until the point when the xray technician left the room for me to change for my xray. There I waited eagerly for him to return in my hot pink bra, anxious to know the source of my pain. He opened the door and quickly said "No, no, no, camisa SIN braseirre," meaning shirt no bra. I understood the opposite: bra no short. Ha, I’m sure he got a good laugh at that one…the gringo that came in and wanted to have an xray done topless.
The ambassador and the Peace Corps Costa Rica Country Director: Adrienne and Chase becoming official:
That´s me becoming official:
Okay, I´m official!
This is the group of Children, Youth and Families volunteers with program managers and spanish language facilitators:
So with that being said (and shown), today, Sunday, all of the new volunteers are going to their sites all scattered throughout the country. That is, everyone except me. Why? you ask. Well, the answer is in the two trips to the hospital, the two shots in the buttocks, the two xrays, the one abdominal sonogram, the five types of medicine, and the two blood tests I have had over the past week. Don’t be alarmed. It sounds worse than it is.Earlier this week, I left our second to last Spanish class due to the beginnings of an illness: cramping and pain in the abdomen and pain in the lungs. Later that day it all worsened. By nightfall, it was unbearable, and instead of trying to force myself to sleep in loads of uncomfortable pain, I called the Peace Corps Medical Officer and told her I would be escorting myself to the ER in San Jose. Trying to explain the type of pain I was having in to the doctors at the hospital in Spanish must have been entertaining. I think it probably translated to something a little bit like this in English: My lungs hurt. I can’t breathe. There is pain in my abdomen. It feels [motion with hands a symbol that is supposed to mean tight]. I can’t breathe strongly. I cant be flat in my bed. Needless to say, they got the point and sent me to the ER for an xray. I thought my Spanish was pretty good until the point when the xray technician left the room for me to change for my xray. There I waited eagerly for him to return in my hot pink bra, anxious to know the source of my pain. He opened the door and quickly said "No, no, no, camisa SIN braseirre," meaning shirt no bra. I understood the opposite: bra no short. Ha, I’m sure he got a good laugh at that one…the gringo that came in and wanted to have an xray done topless.
Anyway, long story short, I was told I had an infection of the lining of my lungs…inflammation that caused those breathing pains, oftentimes known as pluerisy. Fast forward to Thursday, after being on three medicines and not getting better, I take myself back to the hospital. More tests, and pokes and prods later, I was told some ambiguous thing about my lungs and nerves and given two more medicines.
I made it to my swearing-in ceremony early the next morning eventhough I was in extreme pain as I took the official oath. So here I sit, in my training community, the last, the only Tico 19 former Peace Corps TRAINEE left. Though it’s loud and cars and motos buzz by and the rain pounds on the tin roof above me, it is so silent. All my training mates have scattered throughout this land, eager and ready to embark on this adventure we all came here to do. Soon, with a little more rest, TLC, and a few more days of these meds, I will be back on my feet, heading south to my new home as well, ready to insert myself into the little community of 400 in the mountains of Costa Rica.
I made it to my swearing-in ceremony early the next morning eventhough I was in extreme pain as I took the official oath. So here I sit, in my training community, the last, the only Tico 19 former Peace Corps TRAINEE left. Though it’s loud and cars and motos buzz by and the rain pounds on the tin roof above me, it is so silent. All my training mates have scattered throughout this land, eager and ready to embark on this adventure we all came here to do. Soon, with a little more rest, TLC, and a few more days of these meds, I will be back on my feet, heading south to my new home as well, ready to insert myself into the little community of 400 in the mountains of Costa Rica.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Read below to see where you are going to come visit me.
Friday was site assignment day.
This means two things:
1) After much ambiguity during this whole Peace Corps process, and months of people asking where I am going and not being able to give them an answer, I finally know where I am going to be living. So here is your answer.
2) More importantly, this is the post where I get to brag about my site placement so I can entice some visitors my way!
Where to begin? Well, first, due to publicity of this blog, I am unable to post the specific name of my site for Peace Corps security reasons, so I posted a picture below showing you where I am going. However, don’t be discouraged. I will tell you plenty so that you will shut down this computer and be on the next plane to Costa Rica.
So, here´s where I am going:
Okay, okay, here´s more: On May 30th I will be packing up my life from the past three months and head south. For the next two years I am going to be living in the Los Santos region of Costa Rica about an hour and a half from the capital of San Jose. Now, for this I am grateful: close proximity to the capital, the beach and national parks (more on this later).
Here´s a picture from the Internet of the general region:
And here´s a picture of a church in one of the communities:
This means two things:
1) After much ambiguity during this whole Peace Corps process, and months of people asking where I am going and not being able to give them an answer, I finally know where I am going to be living. So here is your answer.
2) More importantly, this is the post where I get to brag about my site placement so I can entice some visitors my way!
Where to begin? Well, first, due to publicity of this blog, I am unable to post the specific name of my site for Peace Corps security reasons, so I posted a picture below showing you where I am going. However, don’t be discouraged. I will tell you plenty so that you will shut down this computer and be on the next plane to Costa Rica.
So, here´s where I am going:
Okay, okay, here´s more: On May 30th I will be packing up my life from the past three months and head south. For the next two years I am going to be living in the Los Santos region of Costa Rica about an hour and a half from the capital of San Jose. Now, for this I am grateful: close proximity to the capital, the beach and national parks (more on this later).
Here´s a picture from the Internet of the general region:
And here´s a picture of a church in one of the communities:
But that´s enough photos for now....since I didn´t take them, and I will be visiting in a week. So stay tuned for more.
First, the Los Santos region is mostly known for it’s coffee plantations (some of the best coffee in the world comes from this region) and stunning topography (very mountainous) and scenic beauty. When my program manager announced this site, he said it was a photographer’s playground, and before I knew it I was walking to the front of the room to add my name to the map of Costa Rica. I guess I will begin to explore landscape photography…
So, more specifically my site…I am located in the Los Santos National Forest Reserve at about 6,200 hundred feet elevation next to Tapanti National Park and not far from Chirripo National Park (the highest mountain in CR is located here, so for all you hikers out there…). Not only I am one of the coldest Peace Corps site, but I am also thrilled about the fact that I will get to wear all my scarves and fleeces and an occasional beanie at night. I was beginning to wonder how I was going to handle this heat for two years, now I don’t have to! Also for those who like birds and watching them, you can come spend time at my site looking for the elusive Quetzal, a rare bird that is prolific in this area. Also, this region is one of the best trout fishing regions in Costa Rica. Aside from coastal sport fishing, this is where people come inland to fish for trucha, or rainbow trout in the many clear mountain rivers. Rare to most other parts of Costa Rica, this region is also rich with apple trees, avocado trees, and peach trees. And I am only a couple hours from some great beaches and four hours from Panama if you like crossing borders. Not to mention there are several mountain lodges scattered throughout the valley, so there is no lack of places to stay. The Internet described my site as a once in a lifetime experience you will never forget…a dream town that you would think it never existed. But it does.
But folks, don’t get me wrong, I am in the Peace Corps, not the Posh Corps and they place us in these communities for a reason. So yes, it sounds wonderful, and I’m sure it is, but as with any place, it also has its problems. And this is where I hopefully come in.
But if mountains, forest reserves, national parks, birds, quality coffee, fishing, stunning topography, fresh fruit trees, beaches, cool weather in an incredibly hot country, and me, doesn’t entice you, I don’t know what does. My door is open!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Freckles and Del Monte Pineapples.
I’m not sure if it’s the food, the water, the sun, or the culture. But the other morning as I was diligently smearing my usual SPF 100 all over my face, I noticed, for the first time in my life, I have freckles. My nose is covered in a mask of spots and part of my cheeks as well. No matter how many times I got sun in the past, I never developed freckles as a result. But now I have. I just think it’s interesting. And there’s really no other point to the story than that.
Living with host families can be awkward. And by awkward I also mean draining, uncomfortable, humorous, challenging, unfamiliar, confining, tricky, precarious, entertaining, wacky, and sometimes just downright ridiculous.
This past week, I spent time in the southern part of Costa Rica on a site visit visiting two different current volunteers. The purpose of the visit is to get us into the field to see the ins and outs of being an official Peace Corps Volunteer. During these visits, we stay with host families. So, I left behind the comforts of my own home and family near San Jose that I have been living with since March to go be a stranger in the house of two new families for a few days each.
The first site visit was a small indigenous community of about 700 people near the larger city of Buenos Aires. Here the roads were made of stones and dirt….rich, crimson-colored dirt that was contrasted with the lush rolling emerald Costa Rican countryside, the two complimentary colors unknowingly bringing out the beauty in the other. The houses were spread far apart, cars were few and far between, the soccer field was the town’s hang out, there was one small school, one high school, lots of roosters and chickens, and no grocery store. But since this is about host families, back to that…my host mother and father were a married couple 4 years younger than myself…23, married one year, and with a 4-month-old baby who didn’t cry once during the night of the three nights I was there. Their house was simple. Made of cement. The walls inside were more like partitions made of wooden planks. They didn’t reach the ceiling, but rather left space so that the tin roof that covered the entire structure could be seen throughout the whole house. Not to mention any noise could be heard throughout the whole house as well. My room had a mattress on the floor and an old wooden closet. It was simple, basic, and extremely different that where I live right now during training. The couple was young, seemingly educated, and more than willing to go out of their way to make me feel comfortable.
Mid week, we moved 30 minutes down the road to a neighborhood of Buenos Aires called Santa Cruz. Here you had many more than 700 inhabitants, more like 5,000-ish. Pineapple and sugar cane fields surrounded the city, and high numbers of people, including my host father, worked at Pindeco, the company that packs and ships Del Monte pineapples to the US. Because of this, every meal not only came with rice and beans, but also with pineapple. And if you didn’t get pineapple in slices, you got it in a juice form. And if you didn’t get rice (wait, that never happened)…correction, in addition to rice on the plate, you also got it in juice form mixed with the pineapple – fresco de piña con arroz, a delicious, refreshing drink. My host mother was a generous, older, caring woman of short stature with a hint of eccentricism. She willingly offered to wash my nearly completely dirty weeks’ worth of sweaty clothes. The awkward part came when she came to me after lunch two different times once day holding two of my shirts up to her commenting how much she liked them, asking me if I like them, and continuing to stand there with a questioning look on her face. Now, in a culture of indirectness this was to be interpreted as “won’t you please gift these shirts to me?” At the time, I knew what she wanted with this seemingly innocent compliment, so with my American ways, I played ignorant and just thanked her profusely for the compliment and for washing my clothes. Phew, crisis diverted (all in Spanish, not to forget). Well, not so fast. Later that week, one of those two shirts mysteriously disappeared from my clothes pile. Again, I played ignorant, of course to not accuse her of stealing my shirt, and simply asked if she had taken it to iron. When I did, she quickly said yes and grabbed the shirt from her bedroom and handed it back to me. Upon my departure, after 20 questions of how I liked living in her house, she gifted me a small trinket of Mary and Jesus on a wooden base…something that she obviously pulled off her shelf and handed to me with all its nicks and bangs and dust. She gave me well wishes for Mary and Jesus to protect me always and sent me on my way, not without her phone number and a promise from me to call her.
The point is, these two experiences couldn’t have been more interesting…and awkward. From the quieter young couple to the eccentric woman in her 50s, I have had a lot of awkward moments…just in the past week (too many to even retell). I can’t explain how good it felt to get ‘home’ to my training community and be back in the comforts of my own bed, my own family, my usual food, my room with walls that reach the ceiling, and the thought that things are starting to feel comfortable. But just when they are really starting to feel that way, we up and move to another host family. In just one week, I find out where I will be placed for the next two years. And in four weeks I will move yet again to go start over with that new host family in my new site.
When you think about it, it really is interesting how so many families let complete strangers (Peace Corps volunteers) into their house in countries all around the world. Inevitably, when two different cultures collide, there is bound to be some tiredness (always trying to speak Spanish); some uncomfortableness (indirect, culturally different questions); some humor (figuring out how to open a Costa Rican lock at 11 pm when all the people are already all in bed); some challenge (figuring out how to not eat the 4 pounds of rice they give you); some tricky situations (figuring out how to get your clothes back); some entertainment (the mountain of people in the house at all times); and sometimes things that are just downright ridiculous (all of it). But the biggest lesson I learned this week is to laugh and embrace this awkwardness, because with time, things will change. Besides, by the time I make it to my fifth host family at the end of this month, I should be an old pro.
This was my and my friend Josh´s group of girls whom we helped....they had the best bin by far:
Can you see my freckles? I´ve got ´em on my nose:
So now I will begin with my real blog post…
Living with host families can be awkward. And by awkward I also mean draining, uncomfortable, humorous, challenging, unfamiliar, confining, tricky, precarious, entertaining, wacky, and sometimes just downright ridiculous.
This past week, I spent time in the southern part of Costa Rica on a site visit visiting two different current volunteers. The purpose of the visit is to get us into the field to see the ins and outs of being an official Peace Corps Volunteer. During these visits, we stay with host families. So, I left behind the comforts of my own home and family near San Jose that I have been living with since March to go be a stranger in the house of two new families for a few days each.
The first site visit was a small indigenous community of about 700 people near the larger city of Buenos Aires. Here the roads were made of stones and dirt….rich, crimson-colored dirt that was contrasted with the lush rolling emerald Costa Rican countryside, the two complimentary colors unknowingly bringing out the beauty in the other. The houses were spread far apart, cars were few and far between, the soccer field was the town’s hang out, there was one small school, one high school, lots of roosters and chickens, and no grocery store. But since this is about host families, back to that…my host mother and father were a married couple 4 years younger than myself…23, married one year, and with a 4-month-old baby who didn’t cry once during the night of the three nights I was there. Their house was simple. Made of cement. The walls inside were more like partitions made of wooden planks. They didn’t reach the ceiling, but rather left space so that the tin roof that covered the entire structure could be seen throughout the whole house. Not to mention any noise could be heard throughout the whole house as well. My room had a mattress on the floor and an old wooden closet. It was simple, basic, and extremely different that where I live right now during training. The couple was young, seemingly educated, and more than willing to go out of their way to make me feel comfortable.
Mid week, we moved 30 minutes down the road to a neighborhood of Buenos Aires called Santa Cruz. Here you had many more than 700 inhabitants, more like 5,000-ish. Pineapple and sugar cane fields surrounded the city, and high numbers of people, including my host father, worked at Pindeco, the company that packs and ships Del Monte pineapples to the US. Because of this, every meal not only came with rice and beans, but also with pineapple. And if you didn’t get pineapple in slices, you got it in a juice form. And if you didn’t get rice (wait, that never happened)…correction, in addition to rice on the plate, you also got it in juice form mixed with the pineapple – fresco de piña con arroz, a delicious, refreshing drink. My host mother was a generous, older, caring woman of short stature with a hint of eccentricism. She willingly offered to wash my nearly completely dirty weeks’ worth of sweaty clothes. The awkward part came when she came to me after lunch two different times once day holding two of my shirts up to her commenting how much she liked them, asking me if I like them, and continuing to stand there with a questioning look on her face. Now, in a culture of indirectness this was to be interpreted as “won’t you please gift these shirts to me?” At the time, I knew what she wanted with this seemingly innocent compliment, so with my American ways, I played ignorant and just thanked her profusely for the compliment and for washing my clothes. Phew, crisis diverted (all in Spanish, not to forget). Well, not so fast. Later that week, one of those two shirts mysteriously disappeared from my clothes pile. Again, I played ignorant, of course to not accuse her of stealing my shirt, and simply asked if she had taken it to iron. When I did, she quickly said yes and grabbed the shirt from her bedroom and handed it back to me. Upon my departure, after 20 questions of how I liked living in her house, she gifted me a small trinket of Mary and Jesus on a wooden base…something that she obviously pulled off her shelf and handed to me with all its nicks and bangs and dust. She gave me well wishes for Mary and Jesus to protect me always and sent me on my way, not without her phone number and a promise from me to call her.
Here is a comparison of my two rooms during my site visit:
The point is, these two experiences couldn’t have been more interesting…and awkward. From the quieter young couple to the eccentric woman in her 50s, I have had a lot of awkward moments…just in the past week (too many to even retell). I can’t explain how good it felt to get ‘home’ to my training community and be back in the comforts of my own bed, my own family, my usual food, my room with walls that reach the ceiling, and the thought that things are starting to feel comfortable. But just when they are really starting to feel that way, we up and move to another host family. In just one week, I find out where I will be placed for the next two years. And in four weeks I will move yet again to go start over with that new host family in my new site.When you think about it, it really is interesting how so many families let complete strangers (Peace Corps volunteers) into their house in countries all around the world. Inevitably, when two different cultures collide, there is bound to be some tiredness (always trying to speak Spanish); some uncomfortableness (indirect, culturally different questions); some humor (figuring out how to open a Costa Rican lock at 11 pm when all the people are already all in bed); some challenge (figuring out how to not eat the 4 pounds of rice they give you); some tricky situations (figuring out how to get your clothes back); some entertainment (the mountain of people in the house at all times); and sometimes things that are just downright ridiculous (all of it). But the biggest lesson I learned this week is to laugh and embrace this awkwardness, because with time, things will change. Besides, by the time I make it to my fifth host family at the end of this month, I should be an old pro.
A few pictures from the site visit.
Those fields are fields of Del Monte pineapple. If you´ve ever eaten one of those, chances are it came from here! Eat up:
Government housing in Costa Rica:
We did a group project of painting recycling bins and shared the importance of recycling:
This was my and my friend Josh´s group of girls whom we helped....they had the best bin by far:
And finally, did our fair share of goofing off:
The end.
Friday, I find out the fate of the next two years! Hope it´s somewhere good!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Two hydrogens and an oxygen that tried to be milk and coffee
Water. It’s a hot topic all around the world. And when you’re in the Peace Corps, even hotter. Since arriving in Costa Rica, I have only been drinking boiled water. They say the water here is safe, but every now and then there can be a bicho in it that could very easily make you sick. So for now, I continue to boil it, like they recommend. But that’s not the point of this story. The point is the following: I never know what’s going to come out of my faucet.
Last week, I woke up, bleary-eyed one morning and headed to my (private) bathroom still half-asleep to brush my teeth. I turned on the faucet and pouring out came what looked like muddy flood runoff or slightly watery coffee. Costa Rica being the land of coffee, the latter didn’t seem too impossible. It woke me up rather abruptly and I questioned my host family. They seemed to believe that this was a common yearly occurrence after Holy Week here…something having to do with cleaning out some sort of pipes or system (at least that’s what I understood in Spanish). So we just waited it out and drank the next run of clear water. Earlier this week, I went to wash my face in the bathroom, and this time milk came out. Okay, not milk literally, but the water was as white as milk pouring right out of the faucet like you could just hold a bowl full of granola below it and grab a spoon. Instead, I washed my face with it, and who knows if it made it cleaner or dirtier, but I wasn’t really hungry for granola. Finally, two nights ago, nothing came out of my faucet. Nothing. No water to be found…not even milky nor muddy. No one in my host family was sure why, and no one else (neighbors, etc) was experiencing this. We just waited it out (it lasted about a day or so), and though it didn’t last long, it seemed much longer. And finally finally, on the topic of ‘no water’, this morning, in the shower halfway through, my high pressure, rain-shower-like showerhead slowed to nearly a dribble and turned scalding hot. I quickly finished and proceeded on with my morning in my regular fashion.
After such incidents of surprise lately by what does (or doesn’t) come out of my faucet, I have really begun to appreciate water. Pure, clean, clear water…something we maybe take for granted in the US to always flow clear and potable with the turn of a knob. But since being here I have learned a lot about and appreciated water (I don’t even have it nearly as hard as my friends in the Peace Corps in other parts of the world). So, even though my water may have bichos in it, I can just boil them out; If it’s milky or muddy, I just have to be patient and wait till it runs clear again; If there is none, let’s hope I didn’t just go for a run or hope I have some boiled reserve in the fridge to drink. It’s that simple.
Soon, the water will be flowing plentiful, but this time from the sky.
And it won’t stop until November.
Last week, I woke up, bleary-eyed one morning and headed to my (private) bathroom still half-asleep to brush my teeth. I turned on the faucet and pouring out came what looked like muddy flood runoff or slightly watery coffee. Costa Rica being the land of coffee, the latter didn’t seem too impossible. It woke me up rather abruptly and I questioned my host family. They seemed to believe that this was a common yearly occurrence after Holy Week here…something having to do with cleaning out some sort of pipes or system (at least that’s what I understood in Spanish). So we just waited it out and drank the next run of clear water. Earlier this week, I went to wash my face in the bathroom, and this time milk came out. Okay, not milk literally, but the water was as white as milk pouring right out of the faucet like you could just hold a bowl full of granola below it and grab a spoon. Instead, I washed my face with it, and who knows if it made it cleaner or dirtier, but I wasn’t really hungry for granola. Finally, two nights ago, nothing came out of my faucet. Nothing. No water to be found…not even milky nor muddy. No one in my host family was sure why, and no one else (neighbors, etc) was experiencing this. We just waited it out (it lasted about a day or so), and though it didn’t last long, it seemed much longer. And finally finally, on the topic of ‘no water’, this morning, in the shower halfway through, my high pressure, rain-shower-like showerhead slowed to nearly a dribble and turned scalding hot. I quickly finished and proceeded on with my morning in my regular fashion.
After such incidents of surprise lately by what does (or doesn’t) come out of my faucet, I have really begun to appreciate water. Pure, clean, clear water…something we maybe take for granted in the US to always flow clear and potable with the turn of a knob. But since being here I have learned a lot about and appreciated water (I don’t even have it nearly as hard as my friends in the Peace Corps in other parts of the world). So, even though my water may have bichos in it, I can just boil them out; If it’s milky or muddy, I just have to be patient and wait till it runs clear again; If there is none, let’s hope I didn’t just go for a run or hope I have some boiled reserve in the fridge to drink. It’s that simple.
Soon, the water will be flowing plentiful, but this time from the sky.
And it won’t stop until November.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
