Nature In My Heart

It's concern. It's a deep and heartfelt concern for the entire planet, all of nature, the living earth. It's the fiery blossom of ire that explodes within me when I witness ignorant injustice toward nature. It's what drives me to lose friends because I tell them instinctively that I'm disgusted that they burn plastic and old computers. It's what makes me jump out of my seat and reprimand a 60-year-old woman when she throws her Tetra-Pak juice box out the bus window. It's my explosive, protective, instinctive rage when I see littering in a place as naturally beautiful and diverse as Zapaton. But, when the rage is quelled by the innocent and apologetic smiles, I realize that my concern is not natural, but learned. It was taught to me, or learned by me. And I could have just as easily been one these of the children who never knew a better way to take care of old tires, plastic bags, and three layer juice boxes. I realize that now that I have entered "The Understanding," it is my duty to bring in others as well. They will feel its depth, its heart, its importance, and they will find the same passion that I have to protect our Mother, Nature, that from which we mysteriously blossomed.

Developing a conscience is a life-long activity. I learned from my family and my friends, through stories and books, through movies and hikes through the woods. Now my goal is to infect these children with the deep concern that I possess. Starting with concepts like synergy (in nature and among humans), symbiosis, mutualism, codependence, coevolution, and COMPASSION. To me, true compassion is the same is being completely present and perceptive. Being completely aware leads to complete respect and compassion. Try it.

I am beginning to realize that they see it within me, they don't know what it is, but they see it, they're curious. They ask themselves why is it that his eyes gloss over when he talks about the mystery of creation, of evolution, of species growing together and relying on each other. Their jaws drop slightly and their brains relax, looking for connections, allowing for new modes of understanding. They see value in my perspective without knowing what it is.

The moment only lasts for as long as I can keep my (Spanish) sentences flowing and coherent. The flow eventually ebbs and I know I've lost all but a few of them. I search for eyes and find one young girl and one young man. They're still captivated. They want in.... The lesson has ended on a highly emotional note, and it is my DUTY to bring them the same intensity next lesson, if indeed I truly believe in my own perspective. And I do. I really do.

A day in the life...

This post is more like a journal entry, to give you a sense of my day-to-day life here.

"Oh wow, that was a hilarious day. I knew it was hilarious while it was happening but it is equally funny now, in retrospect.

It started with a nice breakfast after an even nicer evening with my friend and fellow volunteer Lily Alcock, as well as some other friends. We chose to dine (in San Jose) at the famous (at least among Peace Corps volunteers) restaurant, Train Tracks Pizza, near the San Pedro mall. It is a hidden gem of a place, reachable only by following some dark train tracks about one hundred meters into a lonely alleyway. One would never suspect the quiet neighborhood to contain a house converted into a pizza mecca with the best music in town. A few of us arrived early and then we realized it would be chivalrous to go meet the ladies who were to be joining us at the tracks' edge, so two of my gentlemanly friends did so - and I, in my infinite sympathy, finished their beers for them and chitchatted with the waiter and the owner. While they were gone (longer than I expected) I was invited to choose and album from the restaurant owner's extensive compact disc collection. After much deliberation, oohing and aahing, I chose a Joe Cocker's Greatest Hits. Forty minutes and seven Joe Cocker songs later my friends still hadn't arrived, but more casual conversation and domestic beer filled the gap until they did. Dinner was great, two pizzas, four glasses of wine, and three beers for 30,000 colones, 60 dollars, between

six people. A good deal. Afterwards we tried to go out for some nargile at the Lebanese place but apparently 9:45pm on a Monday was too late for such indulgences. We headed back to the hostel and chatted until tiredness eased us toward our beds for the night.

This morning I woke up and caught an 8:30am bus to Puriscal from San Jose. Once I arrived I waited for a 10am bus to Cerbatana, where my friend Allen lives. The bus was very, very late. Old men were coming up with all sorts of solutions to the bus problems in their exchanges of grumblings and growls.

Once united with my friend and closest PCV neighbor, Allen, we resolved to do a sprint workout to try to loosen up our stiff legs. Two days ago, we decided rather whimsically to run a 10k adventure race that was being held a few kilometers from his town. We both went into it thinking that it wouldn't be too hard, and we came out with the smiles wiped clear off our faces. The route was through very steep hill climbs and descents, rough, rocky cow pasture traverses, through riverbeds and along creeks, a 1200 meter descent and 1200 meters gained again on the way back up, and all of it in the sizzling January summer sun. But of course we will do it again next year!

The sprint workout we did today was called Snertz. it's named after a particular Ultimate Frisbee player with a knack for applied masochism. And now his "Snertz" workout has quite a cult following. Allen and I put ourselves through the nausea, aching lungs, and heavy breathing

with hopes for an easier tomorrow. After the workout we walked up the road back towards his house. While passing a fruit stand our collective spirit led us both to decide that a nice cold pipa (coconut full of water) would be a delightful prize for our efforts. These pipas were so damn delicious that we were both giggly with satisfaction after drinking them. It's a beautiful thing when your body and mind both crave the same thing, and that thing is delivered.

We then cruised back over to Allen's house where his host mother, Dona Ana Grace, had acquired two kilograms of the freshest, finest, purest organically grown coffee for me. Across the street from Allen's house lives a man who grows the coffee and produces small quantities for his neighbors and family. My excitement over the coffee and my exhaustion following the workout were forgotten when I realized that I had only fifteen minutes to shower and be ready to catch the next bus to the center of town!

Sweating (again!) after taking a shower, I scooted down the street to the bus stop. Allen's dogs followed me there. The bus stop is next to a dangerous road and for all I did, they wouldn't stay behind, especially Lola, the newest addition to Allen's family, a big German Sheperd mix that they recently rescued. I was convinced I had missed the bus (for the millionth time) when

another kid showed up at the bus stop. The bus came and we hopped on board.

Once I got to the center of town I headed to the supermarket to stock up for the new house I am moving into. My first hold up was in the toothpaste aisle - there were just too many options...I was overwhelmed. I grabbed one without reading the label to escape the pressure of the overload, it was probably the most colorful one, who knows.

Uncharacteristically, I bought everything I needed before the bus driver started the engine to signal his giddiness to get out of town right at three o'clock. There were no seats left on the bus and I started to regret the last stop I had made in the running of my errands, blaming it for my seatlessness. The I ran into a friend from my town, an older shop owner, and of course, he had an extra seat for me. We chatted and joked about Ticos and their propensity for giving people nicknames. I told him that I was a little shocked that I hadn't acquired one yet, so he started trying to pick one for me - Jason, was his choice. Not the most creative man in the world.

The next few hours were rather uneventful as we cruised through the mountains and cloud-filled valleys. When we reached the last big hill about 10km from my house, some mechanical funny business started going down and the bus puttered to a stop. Long story short - I found myself at 6pm, sun already having set, lying on my back underneath the hundred-pound alternator of the bus, shining a flashlight with my mouth, using a bike cable to connect the current between two other wires, cringing as another guy (not a bus driver) turned the ignition while the bus driver and I lay underneath, hoping the safety break was set properly. The bus never got started. There were sparks, smears of grease and oil, the sound of the motor wanting to succeed in it's effort, but no luck in the end.

So, slowly but surely all seven people that were left in the bus were picked up by familiar motorcycles, leaving me behind with a cheery bus driver, four bags full of fruit and kitchen supplies, and my recently falsified hopes of my first success as a rural bus mechanic. Luckily, I had bought a broom that I was taking to my new house! Why so happy about a broom? You ask. No, not to fly. I strapped two bags on each side of the broom, vegetables and fruit to one side, kitchen supplies to the other, threw on my backpack, and loaded the broom on my shoulders. You can't imagine how thrilled I was for my 10k hike home, I actually live for moments like that one. I often say, "I train not to suck at life." But in all honesty...after 3k uphill I was wishing I had trained harder.

I sang songs and took a break to eat a mango and squeeze out the contents of an avocado into my parched mouth. The mango was all the water I had to get me home. Then, feeling slightly lacking in spirit, realizing that dinner was still an hour away -- Providence materialized in the form of a motorcycle headlight coming from behind. It was my friend, Erick, coming back from visiting a girl in Parrita, a coastal town a few hours away. I loaded up, feeling like I had a stick with buckets of water sloshing around on each side. The trip was going well when - SNAP! The broom broke in half and I barely spared my mangoes undue physical abuse and my computer from falling. I laughed crazily, yelling suave! suave! - realizing the preposterous circumstances that constituted my life at that moment, and loving it, as always, as I got back on the motorcycle. The trip went smoothly after that and I arrived home, forearms burning and the plastic bags virtually fused to my hands. I thanked Erick and gave him as sincere a smile as I could muster, completely please by the goodness of the people around me, doing favors when no favors were due. I offered to pay him for gas but, of course, he would hear nothing of it.

My day was great, my life is great. When people are good to each other there's no need to look for meaning outside of your friends, family, and neighborhood. The meaning of life is to be good to each other even when it doesn't make sense to do so.

New Years Eve

So I found myself sitting on an uncomfortable wooden bench, but as comfortable as could be. It is New Year’s Eve, but only 8pm. Was it the homemade corn beer? Or was it the dubbed episode of Fear Factor that I was watching with my Costa Rican grandfather and grandmother? (Two people who have never seen a beach, a train, a cruise ship, or an iPhone) I’ll give more weight to Fear Factor because it inspired all the entertainment that I withdrew from the commentary my grandparents were making about the contestants. One group of contestants were covered in tattoos and seemed like they were on some speed-based drug, but as we all know, that’s how you get on a game show to begin with. If you’re not on drugs, you just act like you are. That group was called the “apestosos”, which means smelly. Another group consisted of a powerful, assertive woman and a less-than-powerful man. The woman was described as the one that “lleva los pantalones” in the relationship. Luckily for all of us, that is an expression that translates directly in almost all the languages I’ve ever learned. To help you imagine my grandfather’s personality, he’s kind of like a toned down Mohamed Ali interspersed with Ghandi and Al Roker. “A CARAMBAAAA!” is his favorite expression. My grandmother is a bit reserved but she’s got everything working for her. She’s miniature, has a mousy voice and a brilliantly tiny laugh, and usually just giggles at everything. So after eating chalupas and drinking chicha I found myself answering questions about whether or not the Fear Factor contestants were a representative sample of the United States population. I said yes, of course.

New Years Eve is not quite over, it’s just that when you’re buzzing on chicha, from corn which, ten days ago, you plucked from the stalk, stripped from the cob, soaked then wrapped in banana leaves, then ground and boiled yourself, you start to appreciate just about everything more than you normally would. So with three full hours of hilarious exchanges left to go, I find myself at my computer with a desperate desire to catch all the things I’m feeling right now. This short entry might not reflect a certain reality which is important to me right now, that is, that I have overcome a hump that I thought insuperable only a few days ago. With the help of my father and mother, and a few good friends, all the highlights of the many possible perspectives regarding my stay here in Costa Rica became clear to me. I have decided that I am exactly where I need to be right now, that all is right in the world, and that it could never be any different.

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.