Friday, February 8, 2008
Living in the Rainforest, Arrival 4/07/01
Audios everyone, (in CR adios means hello and good-bye)
4/15/01
I’m composing this letter while sitting outside of the Sarapiqui Learning Center where I will be teaching. The school is spacious with hardwood floors and large windows that open up to the lush fronds and violet flowers of the rainforest. The Sarapiqui River rushes through our backyard.
As I write, a metallic teal-colored hummingbird circles around violet, yellow, and pink flowers gathering nectar. They zip through here constantly. Red ants a quarter of an inch long march past carrying leaves 6x’s their size. I sit with my feet up off the ground because a bite from an ant will fester and puss up. There are so many species of trees, flowers, ferns, etc…. They form a thick multicolored wall of green.
The rainforest hums and even screams with activity. At night the insects get louder and louder; they form a sound similar to sitting under a high-voltage electricity wire.
Poisonous frogs of neon green and red hop past the doorway of the school. They are only poisonous to you if you touch them with an open wound.
Butterflies as big as a spread out hand land in the surrounding trees. My favorite creatures here so far are the little lizards. They’re everywhere you least expect them. I opened a door and one scurried away. I picked up a book and a little head peered up at me. When I go to wash my hands, a resident lizard always peeks its head out from behind the sink. Some lizards are as little as one inch long and as thin as a strand of spaghetti. So cute! However, I recently spotted its intimidating older brother, a three-foot snake with four legs and a Mohawk, the iguana. It had perfect camouflage and at first I didn’t see it. When I did spot it, my jaw dropped and a tingling sensation ran up my spine.
Last night two bats flew towards me and veered away from my head at the last minute. They were large enough for me to feel a breeze in the wind as they whizzed by.
Recently, a volunteer discovered a poisonous Coral Snake underneath a stack of books in the school. Screaming was heard from afar, and a Costa Rican man came and lassoed the snake and put it outside. One snake I don’t wan to run into is called the Jumping Pit-viper. How far does it jump is my question. There was a Boa around but I didn’t get a chance to see it.
What’s truly amazing is that I observed all of these things while sitting in front of the school. I haven’t even entered the reserve, which will require another 10 pages of description.
It’s cloudy most of the day and downpours come and last for twenty minutes, then recede. I can sit outside and the insects don’t bother me.
I’ve seen very few mosquitoes, thank God. Also, the humidity is tolerable. Snakes, and malaria don’t scare me here, but what does scare me is the road. I walk along the road to get to town or to go home to my host family and people drive fast and recklessly. Also, snakes gather on the road at night to suck the heat off the pavement.
My host family is wonderful. I live with a married couple in their late twenties, Xinia and Roberto. They have a seven-year-old son named Joseph who kisses me goodnight and gives me blessings. I tried to tell her that my mom was a fisher-woman, but it came out, as “my mom is a fish.” It’s an endless battle with the language and it keeps me laughing hysterically at times. Although I can barely communicate with them, they remain patient and kind. We watch American movies dubbed in Spanish and this is a big help in picking up Spanish.
Today I had the courage to use by baby Spanish to try to demand a fair price for a taxi ride. I’m always getting over-charged for being a Gringa. When the taxi driver dropped me off I did as another volunteer told me to do. Instead of discussing the price I simply handed him 100 colones. He looked at me and shook his head saying “ no, no, 800 colones. “ I replied by saying “no, un otro voluntario dijo 100 colones.” “No, 800 colones,” he insisted. I gave in and gave him the money feeling like I’d been had. Later when I told the other volunteer, she said that under special circumstances it can cost 800 colones and he was in the right. OOPs. It appears that the fastest way to make an ass of yourself is to travel to another country and not speak the language.
This week I may try traveling to Puerto Limon, which is on the Caribbean. It’s my last chance to travel before switching gears from tourist to teacher. Teaching is going to be a big challenge. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Take care everyone, and feel free to email me at: lrngcntr@sol.racso.co.cr
I’d love to hear how everyone is doing, and to keep in touch with what is going on in the states. There are no American papers and I’ll have no idea what’s happening there.
Love Laura
Living in the Rainforest, Mountain Pass Accident
4/21/01
Wow, where to begin? So much has happened in the week and a half since I last wrote. I’ve composed enough letters in my head to fill a small book. For those of you who are short on time, I’ll warn you now that I don’t think this is gonna be a short update.
Today I jumped on a bus to San Jose to find a cheap guitar. There was a two-hour direct route on a long winding bus route to get to San Jose. Since I had the whole day, I chose the long scenic route. So beautiful. A narrow road wound through lush green valleys and past tiny fincas. One beautiful site was that of a lone white cross atop a hill that was surrounded by a field of tiny yellow flowers. The narrow road wound around a steep hillside and climbed in elevation over the pass. The green labyrinth of the rainforest dropped into deep ravines below the road. Waterfalls spilled over rock tables and tumbled down hundreds of meters below. A cool impenetrable mist blew through the high elevations. As we wound around the tight corners of the road and sliced through the mist I wondered how the cars kept from crashing into each other on this thin mountainous road. I wondered, but I wasn’t scared. There’s no point in being scared. Here, I rely on faith. There’s no other way. Shortly after this contemplation, the bus rounded a corner and a truck slammed its breaks on and skidded straight ahead towards my section of the bus. The truck smashed into the side of the bus. Everything came to a halt except the mist that blew past us. All the passengers looked down at the truck diver and he wasn’t hurt. The front end of his truck was compacted but that was it. The bus and all the passengers went unscathed. What was strange was that I felt unaffected by the whole thing. It felt like I was just observing the accident but wasn’t actually involved.
Sometimes traveling gives you that feeling. I probably won’t be taking that route again soon, not because of the accident, but only because the windy road made me want to puke. I did manage to get to San Jose and ask a taxi driver to take me where I could find a cheap guitar. He dropped me off at the local market and I wandered around until I found what I was looking for. With guitar in hand I hopped another bus and headed home. I was proud of this trip, because it signified my ability to speak enough Spanish to travel solo.
Living in the Rainforest, Painting a Local Picture
4/25/01
I suppose I should set the scene a little better. I live eight miles outside of a town called Puerto Viejo De Sarapiqui. The town has a few small markets, bars, and shops with cheaply made plastic objects. There is an Internet café, but it’s expensive and has a slow connection, so I try not to use it. The buildings are painted in various pastel colors. Most buildings and houses have rusted metal roofs.
The town is a bit run-down and molded over from all of the rain and humidity. Litter is tossed about. (Today as I rode the bus, the man in the seat in front of me finished his drink and threw it out the window. Such is the way in Latin America).
I don’t do much in town except for occasionally using the internet café and getting my favorite drink-an iced blend of milk and mango Also, I go to town when I need to catch a connecting bus to a distant place. The buses are cheap and reliable and I’d just as soon never drive in Costa Rica.
Most houses are single story with one to two bedrooms. They are modest and not overly poverty stricken. This is rural Costa Rica and families usually have chickens and scrawny mini-dogs running around. Some fields have horses or tan-colored cows with long sagging ears. I hate to look too closely at any of the animals because they aren’t kept in good health. Too often I see animals with infected open wounds or ribs that nearly pop out of their skin. It turns my stomach or makes me sad. I don’t fully understand why animals are treated this way. Yes, it’s because of poverty, but it’s more that that. There is a different mentality concerning animals. At this point it seems that people don’t empathize with animals, and definitely don’t attribute human-like emotions to animals as we American often do.
I came home a few days ago to find out my host family had acquired a Rottwhiler. This was not a pleasant discovery. Like most dogs here, it remains tied up on a six-foot leash and never gets taken on a walk. I hate guard dogs, but I feel for it. My host family would think I was strange if I asked to take the dog for a walk.
Sometimes Xinia makes me something for breakfast that I just can’t stomach. (Usually she’s a great cook, but Costa Ricans will eat the greasiest things for breakfast: rice, beans, fried yucca, and mayonnaise...) When I wake, coffee is made, and breakfast is sitting out, (fantastic dark Costa Rican coffee.) Xinia leaves for work in the morning. For a while I discovered that the dog savored that which I could not stomach. I’d stand at a distance and toss the tidbits his way. This routine didn’t last long, because one day as I tossed something his way, he didn’t eat it. This was a problem since I didn’t want Xinia to know that I had fed any of her cooking to the dog. This would be seen as an incredible insult. I decided to ask Xinia to only leave me bread and fruit for breakfast.
I know it sounds weird that I have someone cooking for me, but that’s the arrangement. The only money I make by teaching goes towards my room and board with my host family. It’s a decent amount of money to add to the family’s monthly income.
My house is quaint. There is slightly tattered but comfortable furniture. The kitchen and living room are and there are two small bedrooms. Xinia, Roberto, and Joseph sleep in one room and I sleep in the adjacent bedroom. There is a nice, tiled shower with no hot water. Most people don’t have hot water. It’s always hot and humid and I don’t mind taking cold showers here. At first my showers were @45 seconds, but now I wash my hair and everything.
There are 16 chickens and chicks that run around the yard and occasionally a neighbor’s horse is parked in the driveway. The front yard is thick with tropical flowers of all colors; tropical birds and butterflies come to feed on the flowers. There’s a palm tree outside of my window and soon Xinia is going to show me how to knock the coconuts down and machete a hole in the top of the coconut, so that I can drink the agua de pipa.
Xinia keeps the house spotless, as spotless as one can in the rainforest. Even though the house is spotless, I recently discovered an awful secret of the night. When the lights are turned off, they all come out. Late one night I had to pee, and when I walked into the living room and tuned the light on, big brown cockroaches scurried and skidded across the living room floor. They were on every counter top, running over the couch, across the floor, everywhere. Yuck. I love God’s creatures but these give me the willies.
Before I sign off, my latest language blooper: For the last week I have been thinking that I was saying to Xinia, “I have fear of snakes, I have fear of flying, I have fear of....” but I was mistaking “miedo” (fear) with “mierda” (shit) and saying to Xinia, “ I have shit of snakes, I have shit of flying...” and so on.
My friend Sarah recently told me a blooper of an English student in her class. He came up to her intending to say, “I can never put my floppy disk in the computer,” and he accidentally said, “ I can never put my floppy dick in the computer.” Oh, these are great.
I’m off to bed for the night, but I’ll write soon,
Laura
Living in the Rainforest, Carribean Angel
6/2/01
Hello again everyone,
It’s been a while since I last wrote. For any of you who wondered if I was the girl that was recently killed on the Costa Rican Caribbean Coast, the answer is no. That was an awful incident. I’m thinking of avoiding traveling to the Caribbean Coast unless I travel with a group of people.
I traveled to Puerto Limon by myself last month. Puerto Limon is the town where the first American girl was killed a few years ago. During the bus ride there, I met a beautiful boy. The bus stopped at Guapiles to pick up passengers and down the aisle came a tall black boy with corkscrew curls falling around his face and deep-set penetrating eyes. It was another dripping hot day, but he wore a black suite and held a bible. I scooted over so that he would sit with me. He started to speak to me in English. He told me that many black people along the Caribbean Coast still speak English because they came from Jamaica, a former British Colony. They were brought to Costa Rica to build a railroad through the country. He said they brought the Chinese to do the job first, but too many Chinese died of disease. The Jamaicans finished the job and stayed. Puerto Limon is how I would imagine Jamaica to be. It’s interesting that English is a dying second language in these Caribbean towns.
Once our bus neared Puerto Limon, I opened a map and asked my new friend where the American girl had been killed and why. He pointed to the waterfront and said that she was walking alone at night in this dangerous part of town. He pointed to the places that I shouldn’t go. When the bus let us out in Puerto Limon he walked with me through town to find the market and help me find my connecting bus. After I found my bus he walked away, shrouded in a soft light of kindness.
I live nearer to the center of Costa Rica in a rural area where nothing too dangerous happens. The only crime I’ve heard of here is robbery. However, they aren’t very sophisticated about it. One day, someone stole my next-door neighbor Rob’s bike. He has a shiny eight hundred dollar mountain bike that he uses to ride into town. He was bummed and we thought together about how to get it back. I told him that since this is such a small town, maybe we’d see someone riding it. After all, there is only one road to ride, drive, or bike on. Rob thought that they would have at least painted it if they stole it, but since we are in rural Costa Rica, maybe not. Low and behold, two days later, five-year ole little Christian, our other neighbor, spotted a kid riding Rob’s bike and yelled, “stop, that’s Roberto’s bike.” Christian’s father kicked the ked off of the bike, picked it up, and delivered it back to Rob. Funny. I definitely live in the country. Teaching has been keeping me very busy. The kids are so special. Little Flor, Lester, Raul, etc…I’ll write about them soon. Good night all. Thank you to those who wrote back and said that they liked hearing about life in Costa Rica. Laura
Hello again everyone,
It’s been a while since I last wrote. For any of you who wondered if I was the girl that was recently killed on the Costa Rican Caribbean Coast, the answer is no. That was an awful incident. I’m thinking of avoiding traveling to the Caribbean Coast unless I travel with a group of people.
I traveled to Puerto Limon by myself last month. Puerto Limon is the town where the first American girl was killed a few years ago. During the bus ride there, I met a beautiful boy. The bus stopped at Guapiles to pick up passengers and down the aisle came a tall black boy with corkscrew curls falling around his face and deep-set penetrating eyes. It was another dripping hot day, but he wore a black suite and held a bible. I scooted over so that he would sit with me. He started to speak to me in English. He told me that many black people along the Caribbean Coast still speak English because they came from Jamaica, a former British Colony. They were brought to Costa Rica to build a railroad through the country. He said they brought the Chinese to do the job first, but too many Chinese died of disease. The Jamaicans finished the job and stayed. Puerto Limon is how I would imagine Jamaica to be. It’s interesting that English is a dying second language in these Caribbean towns.
Once our bus neared Puerto Limon, I opened a map and asked my new friend where the American girl had been killed and why. He pointed to the waterfront and said that she was walking alone at night in this dangerous part of town. He pointed to the places that I shouldn’t go. When the bus let us out in Puerto Limon he walked with me through town to find the market and help me find my connecting bus. After I found my bus he walked away, shrouded in a soft light of kindness.
I live nearer to the center of Costa Rica in a rural area where nothing too dangerous happens. The only crime I’ve heard of here is robbery. However, they aren’t very sophisticated about it. One day, someone stole my next-door neighbor Rob’s bike. He has a shiny eight hundred dollar mountain bike that he uses to ride into town. He was bummed and we thought together about how to get it back. I told him that since this is such a small town, maybe we’d see someone riding it. After all, there is only one road to ride, drive, or bike on. Rob thought that they would have at least painted it if they stole it, but since we are in rural Costa Rica, maybe not. Low and behold, two days later, five-year ole little Christian, our other neighbor, spotted a kid riding Rob’s bike and yelled, “stop, that’s Roberto’s bike.” Christian’s father kicked the ked off of the bike, picked it up, and delivered it back to Rob. Funny. I definitely live in the country. Teaching has been keeping me very busy. The kids are so special. Little Flor, Lester, Raul, etc…I’ll write about them soon. Good night all. Thank you to those who wrote back and said that they liked hearing about life in Costa Rica. Laura
Living in the Rainforest, Hidden Howlers
5/15/01
Hello everybody,
I wanted to send a quick creature update from the rainforest front.
Yesterday I ventured into the forest for a short walk down a densely wooded trail. I don’t walk in the forest that often because the mosquitoes leave bites the size of quarters, and my fear of poisonous snakes keeps me tiptoeing down trails. The last time I walked down a trail by myself, I was nervously inching along, when a lizard bolted out of the brush, hopped over the trail in front of me, and scurried off into the woods. I screeched, jumped backwards, looked down at the trail and then saw a coiled up deadly Pit Viper at me feet. I quietly backed away from the Pit Viper with my heart racing in my chest and decided I wouldn’t walk in the forest for a while.
However, yesterday I gave it another shot. This time, as I tiptoed down the trail I saw a large branch around fifty feet from me dip down to the ground and bounce back up. It was a Howler monkey in the tree in front of me. Howler monkeys are only about a foot and a half long, but they make a sound like a Pit-bull being burned at the stake, and they can be heard from far away.
After seeing the Howler, I crept further up the trail to get closer to it. For fun I started trying to imitate the Howler call. All of a sudden I heard howls coming from all around me. I stopped, sat on the ground, and looked up above me into the trees. I was in the middle of a troupe of Howlers. I spotted one above me and then another jumping from a neighboring tree moving towards the tree above me. The big Howlers were growling and screeching as they gathered in the tree above me. Then, I heard a puppy-like whine and saw a baby Howler following its mom through the trees. The troupe became quiet and I looked up to see six Howler monkeys looking down at me. I stood looking up at them in silence as the forest grew dim. Glancing up at them I made the simple connection…no forest, no monkeys, and the forest continues to shrink around them.
This was the closest thing to a Jane Goodall, National Geographic moment that I may ever have. Take care all, Laura
Living in the Rainforest, Begging for Bus Fare in San Jose
7/10/01
My brother was flying into Costa Rica and I took the bus to San Jose to meet him. I arrived in San Jose mid-day, but he wasn’t flying-in until ten that night.
After wandering around downtown, I went to a touristy restaurant to get some dinner. The waiter was extra friendly to me as I sat and ate my dinner alone. When I went to pay, there was a problem with my credit card. It wasn’t being accepted. I asked him to try it again, but he said he had tried it several times and it hadn’t worked.
“What?” I wondered. “Why?” I didn’t know what to do. I was alone in the city and if the credit card didn’t work, that meant I was alone with no money, and no way to pay for a place to stay. I apologized to the waiter, “Discuple, no entiendo que paso.” I asked him if I could pay the next day. Luckily, this nice waiter had compassion and let me go on my, leaving the restaurant without paying. This type of good faith is a beautiful characteristic of many Ticos.
As I headed out onto the street at night a panic started welling up inside. “Oh God, that means that I can’t get cash to have bus fair to go to the airport to meet my brother. Worst of all, I can’t pay for a hotel and might have to spend the night on the street,” I thought to myself. My traveling experience and instinct kicked in, and kept me calm yet determined. I thought of options such as looking for an all night casino or hanging out on the street near the police if I had to stay on the street at night. The situation, I knew, was serious. San Jose is a dangerous city at night with rape or stabbing a real possibility, especially for someone who sticks out with blonde hair and green eyes.
I tried my credit card five times at the cajero and got the same message each time- denied. I decided that my main hope was to get someone to give me the 100 colones, fifty cents, that I needed to take the bus to meet my brother at the airport.
I had to do the unthinkable. Myself, a blonde, gringa from one of the wealthiest countries of the world was going to have to beg for money on the streets of a second world nation. “Do it! I told myself, Just f-ing do it! If you don’t beg now for fifty cents, you might be begging in the middle of the night for your life.”
I walked down the street and approached a few people.
“Por favor, necesito 100 colones por el bus.” I asked.
They ignored me and steered away from me. Some surreal survival persona kicked in as I became more and more determined to avoid spending the night on the street.
I heard a couple of guys in a parked car yelling at me, “Gringa, Rica.” I usually walked down the street ignoring these comments, but not on that night. I walked over to their car and leaned down to look them in the eye.
“Cree usted en Dios?” (Do you believe in God?) I asked, knowing that almost everyone in the country did.
“Si,” they both responded.
“Porque yo necesito un milagro,” (Because I need a miracle,) I told them matter-of-factly. I explained in my broken Spanish that I was stuck without money and needed one hundred colones for bus fair to meet my brother at the airport. They gave me the 100 colones.
“Muchas Gracias,” I said, saved. I was very thankful to God, and the ability to speak a little Spanish.
I’d been lucky. I got on the bus, met my brother at the airport and told him the story of our near miss.
My brother wasn’t that surprised by the story. He is an adventurer himself and had had many close calls while attempting to ride his bike across India years before.
My brother was flying into Costa Rica and I took the bus to San Jose to meet him. I arrived in San Jose mid-day, but he wasn’t flying-in until ten that night.
After wandering around downtown, I went to a touristy restaurant to get some dinner. The waiter was extra friendly to me as I sat and ate my dinner alone. When I went to pay, there was a problem with my credit card. It wasn’t being accepted. I asked him to try it again, but he said he had tried it several times and it hadn’t worked.
“What?” I wondered. “Why?” I didn’t know what to do. I was alone in the city and if the credit card didn’t work, that meant I was alone with no money, and no way to pay for a place to stay. I apologized to the waiter, “Discuple, no entiendo que paso.” I asked him if I could pay the next day. Luckily, this nice waiter had compassion and let me go on my, leaving the restaurant without paying. This type of good faith is a beautiful characteristic of many Ticos.
As I headed out onto the street at night a panic started welling up inside. “Oh God, that means that I can’t get cash to have bus fair to go to the airport to meet my brother. Worst of all, I can’t pay for a hotel and might have to spend the night on the street,” I thought to myself. My traveling experience and instinct kicked in, and kept me calm yet determined. I thought of options such as looking for an all night casino or hanging out on the street near the police if I had to stay on the street at night. The situation, I knew, was serious. San Jose is a dangerous city at night with rape or stabbing a real possibility, especially for someone who sticks out with blonde hair and green eyes.
I tried my credit card five times at the cajero and got the same message each time- denied. I decided that my main hope was to get someone to give me the 100 colones, fifty cents, that I needed to take the bus to meet my brother at the airport.
I had to do the unthinkable. Myself, a blonde, gringa from one of the wealthiest countries of the world was going to have to beg for money on the streets of a second world nation. “Do it! I told myself, Just f-ing do it! If you don’t beg now for fifty cents, you might be begging in the middle of the night for your life.”
I walked down the street and approached a few people.
“Por favor, necesito 100 colones por el bus.” I asked.
They ignored me and steered away from me. Some surreal survival persona kicked in as I became more and more determined to avoid spending the night on the street.
I heard a couple of guys in a parked car yelling at me, “Gringa, Rica.” I usually walked down the street ignoring these comments, but not on that night. I walked over to their car and leaned down to look them in the eye.
“Cree usted en Dios?” (Do you believe in God?) I asked, knowing that almost everyone in the country did.
“Si,” they both responded.
“Porque yo necesito un milagro,” (Because I need a miracle,) I told them matter-of-factly. I explained in my broken Spanish that I was stuck without money and needed one hundred colones for bus fair to meet my brother at the airport. They gave me the 100 colones.
“Muchas Gracias,” I said, saved. I was very thankful to God, and the ability to speak a little Spanish.
I’d been lucky. I got on the bus, met my brother at the airport and told him the story of our near miss.
My brother wasn’t that surprised by the story. He is an adventurer himself and had had many close calls while attempting to ride his bike across India years before.
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