Fishing with Gramps

Often times it proves futile to plan more than a few days in advance in rural Costa Rica, but my Tico grandfather struck me as the kind of man who would keep a promise albeit a week away. So, one Saturday I suggested that the next weekend we go fishing down by the Candelaria River, a river I had once before visited in summer when it was very shallow. Delfín Cascante thought for quite a while about the prospect, gazing off into the mountainside, considering his tasks for the coming week, the gathering of worms that would be necessary, and the dull ache in his right knee that had bothered him for years.

“Bueno…me imagino, pienso que sí, ir al rio pa pescar un ratico, hace un tiempillo que no voy al río pa sacar pejes.” He said. A soft contentment filled my midsection as he accepted my offer. I was already enjoying the future that would come to pass.

That week floated by on a hefty breeze like some weeks do and when Friday came around I found myself choosing a pick-up soccer game over the fishing trip for the next day, but only after making sure that Delfín was pura vida with pushing the trip to Sunday.

“Bueno….mejor porque Domingo, si, Domingo es un día cuando, la verdad es que, Domingo casi no se hace nada. Entonces…en vez de ir hoy nos vamos mañana.” Delfín is one of the happiest men in the whole town. He’s a deeply faithful man who is chalk full of sayings, aphorisms, and solid moral advice. I allowed myself to giggle over the projections my mind was creating for the next day, imagining Delfín dropping a time-tested story here, a jewel of mountain knowledge there, and then a powerful moment of silence shortly thereafter.

Sunday morning I woke up at 4am to the sound of rain on the tin roof. As I fell back to sleep I felt it wouldn’t be raining when I woke up two hours late – and indeed it wasn’t.

Sitting in the kitchen, the sideways morning light was coming through the boards of the wall, the smoke from the fire lightly filling the room. My host mother, Mariela, put a mountain of rice, a fistful of beans, a hard-boiled egg, and Lord-knows how many tablespoons of melted butter in the center of a big banana leaf, expertly folded the sides up and tied it closed with a thin strip taken from the same leaf. She filled a liter bottle with water, squeezed in some lime juice, dumped in some refined sugar and told me that forgetting my lunch was not an option. “Don’t leave it on the table or something, or you’ll be upset.”

“May God be with you.” She said as we headed out at 6:40am on a beautiful and crisp Sunday morning. “Igualmente.” Delfín and I both responded in unison. Despite our different ages we both felt like kids escaping the house, anticipating a day of adventure, surprise, sun, wind, rain, danger, animals, snakes, birds, creeks and of course the river.

We walked briskly past the first neighbors who were milking their cow.

“Off to the river, eh?” Jesus Astua, father of three asked.

“Si, si. Para pescar un ratito.” Delfín responded. Smiles and light laughter were exchanged. I could tell Delfín was doing something out of the ordinary and I only now fully appreciate his companionship.

We passed many more neighbors, a few walked with us along the way then drifted off on paths that transverse the hillsides, destined for distant swaths of land where their cows grazed. But we let gravity carry us down, down, down to the valley’s bottom.

Finally we crossed a creek and were plunged into the rain forest, leaving behind the cow pastures and corrals. Delfín’s head and eyes were shooting here and there, searching for something, something specific and very important, it seemed. I searched as well for this mystery necessity. An abrupt stop and he pulled out his machete, mumbling about trees and usefulness and flexibility. I stayed quiet as we continued downward, following his deft footsteps. His rubber boots hopped from spot to spot with utter stability – easily the most mobile 73-year-old I’ve ever known. He drifted down the path with as much ease as I, all the while looking for…AHA! He must be looking for fishing poles, I thought. Shortly thereafter all of his previous statements had new meanings. Palos didn’t mean trees this time so much as “poles”, of course! He cut down two small 6-foot saplings, stripped them of their little branches and we continued on down the mountainside.

Joking a lot and talking about everything, we also enjoyed wonderful silences filled with birds swooping and chirping, cicadas buzzing and the sound of boots plodding along.

Then came the familiar sound of life itself, water running quickly through the forest. We cut off the main trail and expertly descended (well, Delfín did, not me so much) down a hidden one. Then it opened up before my eyes: a lagoon in the forest, direct light barley skimming the surface so early in the morning, and the mystical sound of a bubbling stream. I was filled with joy.

We set down our packs and drank some sugar liquid, which tasted like liquid flowers, and I aided Delfín in the precise and traditional wrapping of the poles with fishing line.

“So, are you going to want to fish or just watch me?” He asked sincerely.

“Oh, I’ll fish for sure!” I responded, realizing that I had been in a sort of trance, staring in awe at the creek like it was the first one I had ever seen. My amazement couldn’t be contained. The place was a full ninety minutes walk from the closest house and running into someone else out there was almost an impossibility. But I pretended that I was not astonished and Delfín gave me thirty or so skinny earthworms.

As I put a worm on the hook he said, “Buenno, I thought I was going to have to teach you to put the bait on, but no, you got it down no problem, usted se la juega.” I smiled a Mason smile and we both had a good chuckle about the difference between “gringos tontos” and “gringos Cuerpo de Paz.”

While I was preparing to find a good spot I heard: “Buennnno! Jueeepuchis…!” Delfín had already caught a fish! “Bueeeeno….” He said as he put the fish in a plastic bag hanging from his hip. I took off my shoes and crossed the river, and little did I know the next five hours would be passed shoeless, hopping from rock to rock, sinking in sand and mud, while Delfín trucked about in his shin-high rubber boots, which he emptied periodically. A few hours were passed heading downstream catching sardines and small fish until we reached the river.

The clear creek water effortlessly mixed with the brown river, running along side until it was all one current. The river was about fifty meters across and five meters deep in the middle. We fished the dyed water and took out a few more fish, then moved down river a touch. A small crossing took us by surprise and the creek surged up to our waists.

“Bueeeeno…” We both said, the saying quickly becoming the most frequent phrase of the adventure. I would translate this particular inflection of the word to mean: “Well would ya look at that….”

By this point Delfín and I had adopted our own rhythms, each fishing his own river, walking ahead or behind, staying here or going there. A periodic call of “bueeeeno…” would get the other’s attention and spawn a sincere smile on both of our faces. Things were going well.

At one point I found myself walking on a fallen tree parallel to the river’s edge and I spotted a smooth movement amongst the vines beside me. A beautiful 6-foot sabanera was slithering along minding her own business. Yellow-bellied and non-venomous, I stopped for a look. I called Delfín over, both of us balancing on the log to get a good look. He mentioned that he would usually kill it with his machete because they are known to bite cows on the hooves. But that day he felt my aversion and we let him slither away.

About 1pm we started catching fish after fish, each of which Delfín could identify and I could not. Only barbudos (from Spanish barba for beard) I realized was the name for catfish. Our biggest fish was no more than a foot long but each of us caught about twenty, as well as many sardines as the day started to cloud over.

We talked about the coming rain as a drunk talks about the end of the night, we knew it was coming but we just kept on going. Our luck was on high. The bait was never in the water for more than a minute or two before a fish came flying out, bending our well-chosen poles!

“Bueeeeno!” Delfín called, and as I looked over I too got a bite! “Bueeeno…!” I said. We laughed every time. I didn’t know the expression in Spanish at the time but I knew we were both thinking: “this just never gets old!” My leaf full of worms came to an end and Delfín still had a few left, so I started looking for camarones (shrimp/crayfish). God smiled and I caught my first ever crayfish in Costa Rica. Shortly thereafter we used four dismembered pieces of that crayfish to catch four more fish!!! Neither of us could believe it. And just like that, as the last fish was pulled off the hook the first drops of rain hit our faces.

We laughed about how wet we were going to be as we gathered our things and then silently plodded up the mountainside. It wasn’t easy for either of us but then again neither of us is a stranger to hard work and long hikes, especially Delfín. We hiked through muddy cow pastures, pits of mud and manure, which was a tremendous bitch. But true to our luck that day, we got home by 3pm in time for coffee and ate our fresh catch for dinner that night.

The family was a little averse (I don’t really know why, history, I guess) to my decision to take some of my catch over to our neighbors but I knew it was something I felt compelled to do. Maybe Africa was telling me to do so. The universe shines on us every once in a while and there’s just no reason not to share the light.

Our poles are still hidden down on the river’s edge, waiting for the next trip.

Mornings

The mornings are magical. I wake up and hear the birds, the horses, the roosters. My body finally in sync with the rest of the life around me. It's a relationship that has taken time to become rich and rewarding. It's been many days since I've been reluctant to get out of bed when my alarm goes off. And for a reason still unknown to me there is never rain in the morning.

As my feet hit the concrete floor I'm reminded of the chilly air from the night before, the same air that kept me sleeping so soundly. I walk blithely down between the banana plants and drooping ferns heavy with the drops from the night's rain. My first smile of the day blooms for my host mother as I greet her. "Como amaneció?!" How'd you wake up? I ask, smelling the smoke of the wood fire underneath the tortillas. "Bien, gracias a Dios." She responds.

I look out the back door and see the mist burning up, disappearing slowly. Glancing up I see the spiders' webs from the night before, but no spiders. A cup of coffee splashes down in front of me and my ritual begins, blowing the right side of the cup, creating a whirlpool to cool the hot liquid. Yodo, they sometimes call it, iodine, the cure-all. Should you forget your daily dose, you might be overtaken.

"Soñó algo?" She asks me, and I begin to recount the dreams I remember. My dreams have been vivid lately, as my mind has become calm. My environment is no longer a mystery to me despite it's infinity being no less rich. I tell her about the airport where my dream took place, and the TSA guards who gave me a hard time (bless their souls). She laughs at the absurdity of a machine that blows air through your clothes to check for explosives, and I reciprocate.

The chickens are tranquil relative to the madness that happens during the nightly moth boom. They're walking slowly, waking up just like myself. The Royal Rooster, who has feathers all the way down to and covering his feet, but is dirtier than most royalty, keeps us aware of his presence every minute or two.

Mornings are amazing, there's a lack of bugs, and the "morning twilight" as I like to call it, when the light is palpable, like it's rolling over the hills slowly, bathing everything in its warmth. The air is still crisp but can only be described in narrative, for the morning is a process just like anything else. I can only imagine it's particular glory in relation to the cold of the night and the heat of the day. It's a time when one can't help but be in the moment, letting life take its course.

"Sí me da chicha cuando las hormigas salen de la leña, cubierta en hormigas yo," says my host Mother. Nothing gives her more pleasure than to keep my stomach full and hear me laugh; I owe her more than I'll ever be able to pay back. And so I start another day, walk the thirty minutes downhill to town and hear the happy greetings of the third graders remembering they get an hour of English class with me today. Lucky doesn't begin to describe my life, I'm blessed.

A rare bad experience, and a learning experience...

Laugh as necessary, oh teachers of the past, and those with teaching experience who are familiar with this type of thing but the fact remains: I just had the single worst experience I’ve ever had in a classroom. Several boys in the 2^nd grade class were behaving in a fashion that made me so angry I actually raised my fist as if to punch one of their adorable little faces. One kid is 10 years old and in 2^nd grade, he thinks he can do whatever he wants, and in fact he can do whatever he wants (probably in his house too). What am I going to do…punch him? Making matters worse they can’t be obliged to write things down because they aren’t proficient at writing yet.

Am I receiving this as punishment for how I chose to behave as a kid?

Fact is, a few years back I used to do this meditation wherein you close your eyes and picture a loved one, an enemy, and someone you’re indifferent to at the same time, superimposing the images. Then you try to cultivate the same level of compassion for all three people. Back then and until recently I could never find a real “enemy” to picture, even Hitler didn’t work because he never did anything directly harmful to me, too far removed I suppose. But now, with the entrance of these diabolic students on the scene, I think my anger toward them may be the closest I’ve ever been, in my adult life, to having an enemy.

Right now I’m not sure if I can ever return to teaching that specific class of 2^nd graders. But to have the whole class suffer for the disgraceful (read: lacking grace) comportment of a few seems unjust. But had you, my reader, seen the (now risible) defiance and maddening behavior that I saw, you might have counseled me to recognize a lost cause when I saw one.

I know I’m not suppose to write too much about the negatives in my blog and, believe me, I’m not looking for pity, but the act of writing this entry and sharing it with the compassionate world beyond these isolated mountainsides has calmed me greatly.

Love,

Mason

p.s. This happened two weeks ago and was just now transcribed. I have taught them again and they weren't so bad. Certainly haven't been taught (as I was by my father) that first impressions are f#*&ing critical!!

Palmito

As some of you may know, when you add the suffixes –ito or –ita to the end of a Spanish word, the noun adopts a smaller and cuter meaning. Example: puppy: cachorro→ cachorrito, girl: chica→chiquita, dude: mahe→mahecito, etc. So, when my host Dad, Gerardo, told me that we needed to “sacar palmito” to cook up for a tourist group I thought it would be a reasonably easy task. Just cut down a little palm tree and take out the soft, juicy, protein-filled center.

So off we went, up the road about a kilometer and half, opened up the barbed-wire fence and cut down into the mountainside.

“Whose lot is this?” I asked.

“Un Señor whose name is Blah Blah Blah Arias Garcia Blah,” he told me.

In and around Zapatón we cut into people’s lots all the time for any variety of tasks, rotating cows into new pastures, gathering herbs from the mountain, cutting down trees for cooking wood. There are existing agreements and intra-familiar relationships that I don’t hope to understand, but if I keep asking every time we enter a new lot maybe someday I’ll get the names straight. Sometimes the people live in and around Zapatón and I can identify the lot with a particular character’s face, but more often than not the plot of land belongs to someone who lives in San José.

It occurred to me the first few times that we plunged into someone’s mountainside to ask if he had permission but then I realized that my host Dad doesn’t think like that. He knows with certainty that the mountain belongs to everyone, so why ask permission when you know you’re making use of it responsibly.

We start walking down a path, well trodden by cows and horses, but rather steep, muddy, and narrow. Agile cows, I think. Depending on my mood any given day, I’ll point at trees rarely or frequently and ask what they’re called, also a process which I catalyzed without hopes for success in learning all the names. Then we passed by a good looking horse, not large, but healthy as a… well you know. Gerardo stopped in front of me, pointing with his machete across a huge gully (which the path we were on obviously didn’t cross) and said “there’s one.”

“¿Un qué?” I asked.

“Una palma.” He said, a palm tree.

I thought for a second and then realized that he was taking me to cut down a tree known as a Palma Royal, the Royal Palm. I don’t need to give you a sense of the size of this tree, but I will. It was freaking huge, nearly ten meters high. We then bushwhacked our way across the gully, the loose, wet ground sliding down the hill under the weight of our rice and bean-ful bodies. Gerardo went first chopping as few branches as possible, as is his way, while I trailed behind in sheer terror, waiting for a snake to snap at me from head level or a huge spider to leap into my face. I’m just glad he didn’t see my face, like a little kid on the tea cup/saucer ride for the first time, entering into the unknown, trying to love it but not exactly succeeding.

Then we made it to the aforespotted Royal Palm. I gazed up at the beast and saw that it was covered in ants when Gerardo started chopping ferociously. Every upward-reaching leaf, some twenty-five feet long, started at ground level and went straight up and then out over our heads (thank you, gravity, for providing one more spot for creatures unknown to descend upon me). To this day the leaves of the Royal Palm, which take about three years to reach full height, are used as the roofs of rustic ranchos (your welcome S. Starr), and in the past were the only roof material for the indigenous populations.

So we chopped and chopped and chopped, one leaf after another groping groundward gracefully. I relieved him of the machete work and peeled a few leaves down myself but before I knew it my hand was bleeding. But blisters come and go out here…very moist, so I continued. This prompted a lesson on machete use which consisted of the idea that you mustn’t allow the machete to wiggle (bailar) in your hand when it strikes the object. This helped a lot.

Gerardo’s turn again. We were getting near the center; the leaves were no longer dark and hard-shelled. The smooth and soft white core was starting to be seen.

Now imagine a bloomin’ onion™ about ten feet high, leave it in the jungle for two years. What happens? I’ll tell you what happens. The whole thing fills up with ants, hornets, and very, very large spiders.

That’s when a huge spider about the size of my palm came out of the tree and descended upon Gerardo. Landing on the ground after Gerardo did what I’ll call the “spider dance”, the spider froze. I admired the spider’s brilliance and his recent domestic misfortune and Gerardo said, “Ese si pica duro.” That one bites hard for sure. I studied it more to be ready to identify it on my own. “It’s called a pica-caballo (horse biter).” I did some research later – turns out in English they’re called TURANTULAS….

So thirty minutes of chopping and we finally arrived at the center, kind of like that movie where they go to the core of the earth. We cut out a few pieces and ate them to see how “tierno” it was and we decided we need to cut a foot or so lower to get to the real goodness.

Twenty minutes later, we arrived to the deeper core of the earth, digo…palm tree. We tasted the rich deliciousness and decided that it was just what we were looking for. The final product of all our work was ten kilos of the freshest organic heart of palm I had ever masticated. Sure as hell beats eating it out of a can, although I never have. Now, those who know me will understand that I enjoyed the hike out of the valley with 25lbs. of heart of palm on my shoulder almost as much as the chopping process. I slipped many times, planting my hand in the wonderful mud, getting my jeans dirty and shaking the drops of sweat out of my eyes.

I followed this process through to the end, meaning I spent five hours in the kitchen (which contains a wood-burning stove without proper ventilation. I waited for my grandma to boil the heart of palm, then participated in the relentless chopping of the palmito, finer and finer with a broken machete blade (more blisters). Then the garlic, cumin, cilantro, and various other herbs. And finally the second cooking on a large curved skillet.

The tourists were 9^th graders from the Seattle area, chaperoned by three adults. They ate the food without ever asking themselves where it came from but I saw their eyes – they enjoyed it thoroughly. Gerardo gave the chat on indigenous culture and tradition and they were on their way. I shared the story of the palmito with one of the chaperones, hoping he would tell it later around a campfire or something, and showed him my blistered and stained hands from the effort. He was surprised and appreciative when I pointed out a Royal Palm nearby and he got a feel for where it came from. I was probably a little too proud of myself, but hey…it was a lot of work – and it cost a spider his home.

Stories from my Tico Grandpa

The Professor

It just so happens that not so long ago there was a professor, a famous man, a studied man, a professor who embarked on a journey to visit many cities around Costa Rica. Dressed much as all the professors of the day he had his suit and tie, clean shoes and spyglass, a cane as well. For he was a man who was born in the city, raised and educated at the best schools, learned in Greek and Latin, mathematics and philosophy, knew all there was to know.

And it just so happens that during his journey, he encountered a river which he had to cross, but over which there was no bridge. He looked all around and sure enough, down at the river side stood a villager next to a sturdy little boat. He approached the man and it just so happened that he was the boat man, in charge of taking travelers across the river.

“Ulpe! Ulpe! Ulpe!” The professor said, approaching the man. “Might you happen to be the man who might help me across this here river?”

“Why oh yes sir - that I am. I am the boat man, that’s my profession and that’s what I do; I take people across this here river, from this side to the other – and back if they need it. This is what my father did and his father before him,” said the humble boat man.

Glancing at the river, seeing the strong current and gauging the sturdiness of the little boat as well as the experience of its operator, he asked the man: “So, you’ve been here your whole life, you’ve never been to school or university?”

“No sir, my father taught me from an early age how to help the people of the country across this here river, that’s what he did his whole life, rest in peace, and his father before him, rest in peace, and that’s what I do now.” He ushered the professor on to the boat.

Boarding the boat, amazed, the professor inquired: “So, good Sir, you mean to tell me that you know nothing of addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, or the like?”

“No Sir, I have to say I don’t.”

“And nothing of the history of the world? Of geology? Of geography? Of medicine or philosophy?”

“No sir, what I know is my profession, taught to me by my father and his father before him.”

Astonished, the professor exclaimed: “My dear Sir, with all due respect, I do believe you’ve lost HALF OF YOUR LIFE!”

The boatman smiled humbly, letting the professor calm down, and continued paddling the boat across the powerful river. They were making good progress when it just so happened that a curious thing came to pass and the river flipped the boat right over – dumping the professor and the boatman into the river.

The professor flailed and flapped, both men trying to hold onto the overturned boat. And as the professor screamed wildly with the water taking him over, the boatman yelled: “Professor, Sir, don’t you know how to swim?”

“No!” The professor said desperately.

“Professor, Sir! I do believe you’ve lost ALL OF YOUR LIFE!”

Estudiar vs. Exper-i-encia

We’ve studied so much that we can’t go back. The questions surge up by the dozen, some days more than others. The folks who live without books or letters begin each day in a different way. They take a breath and hear the sounds, they feel the weight of their feet on the ground. Experience, it’s called, a life of activity, not analyzed with symbols but with feelings and intuition. My tico grandpa takes what he knows of religion from the myriad relationships, hopes, fears and decisions. He sends signals and messages through the sounds of his mouth, moves his hands all around, chews tobacco, spits it out. Where does that leave us, the studied and learned? We ask questions of depth and ‘importance’ without living the answers. Often we don’t want to hear the answers, but our logic and curiosity compels us to continue. Escaping to a simpler frame of mind, where questions deserve to remain unanswered can seem like giving up. But who’s to say we didn’t trick ourselves to begin with, out of the obvious. Without studies and questions we live the answers, answering the questions before they’re even asked. Or just as they surge up we pluck fruit from a tree, and the sweetness hits our lips.

Marañón

There was something symbolic about the marañón I ate yesterday. It was a fruit I had never tasted before, bright red with a dark nut growing outside of the fruit, hanging from the bottom. The first one I tried was bitter, but the second was as sweet as could be. The texture was new to me. It was very juicy but then its consistency changed slowly, going through phases like gum, but quicker, like hot cane sugar straight from the cauldron. Eventually it became rubbery, until I swallowed it and took another bite, intrigued.

I will surely try many new things and meet many new people over the next few weeks. Some will be bitter at first and sweeter the second and third time around. Then again, some fruits are bitter every time, and some are downright caustic!

Similarly, the first time I rode my family’s horse, Cholo, he stopped to eat some grass and then refused to continue. I pulled up the reins, denying him his leafy goodness, and gave him some heel to the ribs. I even grabbed a stick and whipped his ass but he just wouldn’t go anywhere. When I let up on the reins he would eat, and when I pulled them up he would just stand there. On subsequent rides I was equipped with spurs and a cowboy hat, and I’ll never be sure if it was the spurs or the sombrero that got his respect. The only issue now-a-days is his masculinity and his massive horse ego. Every time he sees a beautiful mare, or a prowling stallion he needs constant prodding to be focused. Pobrecito, who am I to take away his glory and masculinity? A jerk. He has eleven years of experience – how many horse years is that? Also he was involved in an “incident” of sorts. My host father’s oldest son drowned while crossing the river on this particular beast, something I was informed of after I had already ridden him two times. Don’t worry I have no trips to the river planned. So with each subsequent ride he likes me more. I like washing him and talking to him, but as my Tico grandpa, Delfin, says: las bestias siempre son bestias, hay unas que son manzaticas pero todavia son bestias. Beasts are always beasts and they can be extra calm and used to you, but they’re still beasts. Most of the time Cholo and I just trot along because I feel bad jabbing his little ribs hard enough to get to runnin’, do unto others, ya know?

Reflection

Some might say that Peace Corps volunteers in general tend to have a profound sense of compassion, more so than your average American. I would say that compassion is more a result of two years abroad in a rural community than a prerequisite for service. But I ask myself, have I ever been part of such a caring and optimistic group of people…I don’t think so. From our first moment together we started rubbing off on each other in a sort of orgiastic happiness, platonic of course…most of the time.

As a group we do seem to look back a lot and reflect on our lives, but mostly to see where it is we come from, what has shaped us. But when we are in our Peace Corps sites, our homes, usually pretty far from all that we have known before, we live in the moment, laughing, crying, dancing, and smiling with the people who we have around us. It can’t be denied that we are some of the luckiest people on earth, first as Americans fortunate enough to have attended universities, second as Peace Corps volunteers, and thirdly to be living in the paradise that is Costa Rica.

Tico culture has been growing on me quickly. Some volunteers have encountered powerful barriers, cultural and personal, that make it difficult to absorb the culture and assimilate into it. I feel fortunate (beyond words, but I’ll try anyway) to have assimilated into various cultures and absorbed elements of so many others in my peculiar quarter century of life. The result has been a progressively reduced period of assimilation. My first attempt was in Chile and I would wager to say that I didn’t feel fully integrated until five or six months had passed. Next was France, learning the language was easier with my Spanish background and after about three months I felt surprisingly French in my heart. Then Spain, which seemed to take only about four weeks. I’ll be back there soon because it felt like home so quickly, and the food – oh, the food. The next experience was much different and much more difficult than any of the previous ones. Assimilation into Nigerien culture, including language, religion, and food, took every ounce of energy for all six months that I was blessed to be there, and right when I was feeling at home, I found out it was time to start over somewhere else. Don’t read that as self-pity, because it’s not – just the facts my friends. Now here I am, trying to bring Tico culture into the depths of my being. I’ll be sure to let the world know when that happens fully. It’s not too far off. Now that I have found out that my new site will be within an indigenous reservation (into which random normal Ticos have started moving nonetheless) I am sure to face new and unanticipated cultural challenges. Everyone tells me that in general the indigenous cultures of Costa Rica are “closed off” and “difficult to work with.” But the people who make generalizations without disclaimers before or after haven’t read enough philosophy (at least most of the time), unless of course their intention is to create conversation and discussion, and in such cases I have no objections.

I admire everyone’s efforts in learning Spanish. Learning a new language through true immersion takes a brave, passionate, and intelligent person; luckily I’ve already done it once for the Spanish language. So all you others who are doing it for the first time: god (lowercase g) bless you all, and as for me I will focus on other things – like coffee and children.

I’m sure many of you want to hear interesting stories. I could tell you about my friend’s family, who caught a squirrel and put it on a leash which was then tied to an umbrella. His little improvised collar warmed many hearts. Or I could tell you about the night my host mother caught a LARGE toad, on top of which was placed a cornizuelo (dung beetle?) which grabbed on for dear life. They called it “La Corrida de Sapos”, the Running of the Toads. Yes, the cornizuelo went for all 8 seconds, unbelievable yes, but true – I know because we were all counting out loud. Or I could even tell you about the vultures spreading their wings six feet wide at 6am, all in a line on the fence outside our guesthouse, catching the first rays of sun with their long black feathers. But there’s just too much reflection going on in my head right now. Recounting stories full of details, textures, colors, sounds, tucans and rivers me cuesta muchísimo.

So reflection is what y’all will get. The offer always stands that if you write me a letter (or postcard) of any length you will get a lengthy letter back with stories galore.

Mason Hults, PCV

Cuerpo de Paz

Apartado Postal 1266

1000 San José, Costa Rica

“bring with you a heart that watches and receives” -Wordsworth

Wau!

Moon. Tonight I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about the moon, various interpretations of what people have heard on the news. We’re lounging around and enjoying what seems to be a larger moon, but people seem to think that at midnight it will be really “Wau!” Whether or not I’ll be able to stay up three hours past my normal bedtime…solo Dios sabe.

Saturday. Saturdays are wonderful days for a Peace Corps trainee. One can sleep in until later than the usual 5:30am wake up time, lounge around until just before noon, and spend the afternoon playing soccer and Frisbee with seven year-old neighbors. It’s truly a wonderful day. Another volunteer came today from her urbanish host family to visit our lovely area, well also to visit her husband who lives up in the mountains with us. Just when I was starting to take the beauties all around me for granted, a city-dweller drops in to remind me how lucky I am. On top of that they’re a wonderful couple, capable of spreading their energy into those around them. Today was proof. I admire their spunk and audacity; Chris and Stephanie, you guys rock.

Saints? Also tangentially worthy of mention are Coy and Melissa (well, they’re worthy of a biography, but…), two volunteers who completed their service in Belize and decided to extend for another two years. Melissa was also a volunteer for two years in Zambia before her program in Belize. She is a Peace Corps rock star and an inspiration to us all. Whether their dazzling worldviews and personalities are products singularly of Peace Corps experiences is doubtful, but I can still hope my own experience will imbue me with some of that Snazz.

Back to Saturday. I must mention the tiny black blood-sucking beasts that have munched craters in my legs. Not quite sand flies, but not quite black flies. Sometimes one might not even know one’s being eaten alive, potentially they inject an anesthetic before they beginning to eat. One only notices when spots of blood begin to accumulate on the skin, long after the beasts have slithered away into the mists.

Culture. My host family is quintessentially Tica (Costa Rican) and I am so grateful to them for all they do for me. Worthy of mention was the lack of any antagonism when I turned the faucet on one morning and exploded the shower head, when I dropped a roll of toilet paper in the toilet, when I clogged the toilet (twice in one day), when I let the dog run away, when I asked if I could set up my gymnastic rings in their garage, or when I showed up at 8pm when I told them I’d be home at 4:30pm. They have shown me only compassion and understanding while adopting me into their family despite my multiple and obvious ignorancias.

Birds. The aforementioned Melissa, whom I once caught daydreaming amongst the sounds of birds outside our conference room during a session, seemingly seeing the sounds and hearing the colors, mentioned something of important parts of the day for bird-watching. I stumbled into one of these periods today and saw something like twelve different types of birds in one hour, including two different types of humming birds. And now that I’m an amateur photographer with equipment that surpasses his skill-set I was able to catch a few of them in action. My favorite so far is a jet black hummingbird with metallic green on his back and a little red near his eyes. Thanks to Stephanie for being hopelessly addicted to photography and catching the little bugger suckling on some flowers outside and for doing so with my camera.

Food. I have never eaten so much fruit in my life and for those who know me well that seems like it might be a hyperbole. Now although half of the jokes I make are based on nonfictions that I create for you, my friends, this blog is reserved for reality, albeit reality à la Mason. Fruit bowls of mango, pineapple, melon, and banana come in threes, daily. Sometimes I substitute whole meals for bowls of fruit. Fish, chicken, and beef come in random intervals and are welcomed wholestomachedly. Fruits whose names have no translation sneak into my diet intermittently (as do sweet breads of many types and sizes). Many Costa Rican men have robust bellies, otherwise known as panzas. But these are not beer bellies, these are strong bellies capable of many things, which I will continue to discover as the weeks go on.

Happiness. See above.

Pre-departure

Pre-departure for my service in Niger was an amazing time, full of revelations and powerful anxieties which I failed to record. I won’t deprive myself or my friends and family of my next service’s pre-departure ruminations, and luckily for you all, they now coincide with brilliant adventures and explorations in Western Europe. This particular entry is a product of Madrid where today I absorbed the fullness of Picasso’s Guernica in person, 15’ by 30’, at the Reina Sofia Museum, as well as Dali’s The Great Masturbator, and many, many others. One other was deep in the dungeonesque basement of the Palace and there was nothing but large iron-looking boxes with metal straps, some 7’ tall and 10’ wide, but when I touched them, they were suede…how peculiar. Thank you, artiste excentrique. Later, I escorted my wonderful, brilliant, and gracious friend Phil to the train station where we ate overpriced baguette sandwiches with jamón Serrano and two insufficient slices of cheese. He departed saying “kala ton ton,” Zarma not for goodbye – but see you soon. Amen to that Phil. I proceeded with my camera and my wallet as my only possessions and took many pictures of passersby, the sunset, and the bustling metro until I was scolded by a security guard. “What’s the difference between looking and taking a picture?” I asked quickly but sincerely. “The difference is you’re not allowed to take pictures.” He responded frankly. I smiled at his honest answer, capped my camera lens and trotted off. I caught a metro with a man playing an accordion. When he held out his change purse for donations I deposited a large green apple (taken from the Starwood Preferred Guest floor of the Westin Palace) and he seemed grateful. In a similar vein, the front desk clerk of the aforementioned hotel, upon hearing my reason for being in Madrid (volunteering in Africa), went on a little rant. “You know, we have this program where we add 1€ to each hotel booking which goes to getting clean water for underdeveloped countries, and you would be so surprised to see how many people in THIS hotel get angry and make me take off the 1€ charge! Sure I work at this expensive hotel, but I have to feed my kids as well.” We sighed together and smiled. So, I bid you not ask where your money is going all the time, realize you can live on very little and be tremendously happy. All the great religions knowingly exhort giving to others, no matter where it’s going. Jesus didn’t ask where someone was going to walk before he washed their feet for free.

And to finish up with a fun fact: the Prophet Mohammed used to say that his three favorite things were: women, perfume (read incense), and prayer. What a guy.