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?