Heredia VS Cartago

Allow me to set the scene.

The biannual National Soccer Finals. The last two teams play two games and the winner is determined by the combined score of both games. So in other words, if you lost 3 to 1 in the first game you could still come back…maybe. Or if you won 3 to 1 in first round you could still lose…eek. It all rides on that second game and how many goals you can get…or how many goals you can stop the other team from getting.

Cartago-They haven’t won a finals game in over 70 years…(75 maybe). They won the first game last Sunday…3 to 1. Really, they straight owned last Sunday. They showed up to the Heredia stadium last night ready to change history.

Heredia- Not the underdogs you wanna cheer for maybe, but who wants to lose to the team who hasn’t won in decades? They lost miserably last Sunday in the first game, looking more like a little league team than a national contender.

*Note: I live in Heredia and since I have no other loyalties it only makes sense that I should be a Heredia fan to the death…or at least to the end of my stay in the country.

Beepbeepbeep. Beepbeepbeep. Beepbeepbeep. The sound of car horns honked this…anthem? ...throughout the streets of Heredia yesterday. All day. At any given breath or interval you could hear it miles away or just outside the door. The fans were rallying their enthusiasm, their support and their energies for the night ahead. The big game.

At 6 Veronica, Mary and I left the house to brave the streets for a pre-game beer and to meet up with some friends before diving into the red and yellow sea of the Heredia stadium. The game started at 8 and already the chants and yells and honks and beeps were echoing off every surface of the city. Central park was alive with loving fans smiling and sharing in the kinds of shenanigans that come from a life-long love of the same team.  Of course we were decked out in appropriate attire: Mary in a team T, Veronica in a red hoodie, and I in a shirt so close to red who would know, and a yellow lei draped proudly around my neck. Someone had given Mary a free team flag on her way to meet us at our house, and then on the street corner as we headed to the stadium she was gifted with a package of tortillas…to what purpose we never quite figured out but it was game day so what the hell? Vive Heredia!

Ooeee Oeoeoeee! El Teeaam! El Teeaam!

Sí se puede! Sí se puede! Sí se puede!

As we left the bar for the stadium the chants filled the air. So much optimism. So much confidence. So much joy. Last week’s performance didn’t matter. I was all about this night. This game. Every face was aglow with that childlike confidence that everything will be ok if I just cheer loud enough, or pray hard enough, or shine bright enough, my team WILL win. And as we filed into the stadium the insanity sunk in even more. An hour before the game and the stands were overflowing. Fans were perched on the fence between the field and the seats, with more clinging on below. The men were dressed almost as if it were Halloween with their red wigs left over from some ex-girlfriend’s slutty costume of years past, and their masks of whatever sort (it was festive so it didn’t matter). They wore face paint and body paint, and everything in their closet that was red and/or gold. The women wore their tightest pants and T’s, and their hair and make-up were flawless. We are Heredia, Costa Rica and we are proud.

But dressed to the nines or in nine different things, no importa, when the players came out on the field all were equal. Equally excited. Equally insane. Equally enthusiastic to give their voices up to their players for a win. I mean we’re talking screaming, jumping, throwing confetti, throwing rolls of paper that unraveled through the air like streamers, spraying fire-extinguishers filled with red and yellow…whatever it is fire-extinguishers are filled with. You would think we had already won. And our little group of fans for the night put on our game faces and acted a fool with the rest of them…

Ooeee Oeoeoeee! El Teeaam! El Teeaam!

Sí se puede! Sí se puede! Sí se puede!

I won’t give you a play-by-play. I actually can’t give you a play by play. Red cards. Yellow cards. The ball moving around the field…out of the stadium. People falling. My attention span is really only long enough to watch when the ball is close to the goal. I’ll just shoot for an overview. At half time Heredia was ahead 1-0. There was a current of mixed energy pulsing through the red/yellow mass as we waited out the minutes to the second half. Heredia was winning the game…but they still needed two more points to  beat Cartago for good. Heredia scored again sometime in the second half …it actually gets really fuzzy here. All I know is we went into a 15-minute overtime because the teams were tied for total points. Heredia scored again and the stands went ballistic…again. It was seriously like we won the whole thing every time we scored. Then Cartago scored. The teams were tied once more. More overtime…And then a shoot-out. (If we were worried we had paid too much for these tickets, by this time our fears were relinquished.)

A shoot-out. Five players from each team go one-on-one against the goal keepers. Alternating. Shot for shot. Cartago first. Point. Heredia. Point. Cartago. Point. Heredia. Point. Cartago. BLOCKED!!!!! Heredia. POINT!!!!Cartago. Point. Heredia. POINT!!! Cartago. Point. Heredia……GGGGGOOOOOAAAAALLLLL!!!!!!The fans spilled over the fences and onto the field.  (I know the word spilled sounds a bit cliché…but it was honestly like a liquid mass of red and gold pouring, flowing, splashing into the center of the stadium.)

It was the part of the movie where things start going into slow motion and the camera starts zooming in on those beautiful little individual moments. The Grown men in their red and yellow crying and pulling each other in for the shirtless hug. Women in their heels jumping up and down. The old lady waving her little flag wildly around in the air and the old men running out to join the rest as if they were kids. Fireworks. Things would slowly fade to black and white as the stage was brought out onto the field for the awards ceremony and post-game interviews.

We didn’t stick around for the whole shebang. Hunger and warm beds were calling to those of us whose hearts are not so devoted to the love of the team. We pushed, and were pushed through the definition of a bottleneck as we tried to make out way out of the crazed stadium. After just enough time to make me feel a notch above molested we were spit out on the other side where the infection of joy was spreading and thriving out in the streets. The drivers were drinking and honking and moving a centimeter a minute. The sidewalks were crawling or teaming or just…alive. Someone was spraying water from a hose out into the street from the second floor. As we approached central park the church bells were ringing and if you looked up into the tower you could actually see the priest, his whole body and soul thrown to the endeavor. After a few minutes he stopped ringing the bells and took up a Heredia flag to wave from the window of the bell tower. Yes…I think even God probably did a fist pump or two.

The honking and hollering continued into the night…and the honking, on into today. As I ate my breakfast at about 9 this morning I could hear the horns out across the city…and even now (5:22 PM) a car just drove by: Beepbeepbeep Beepbeepbeep. Beepbeepbeep. I criticize this country for its childishness sometimes, but sometimes it’s good to see this much happiness one place. 

(I dare not speculate on the despair and shame of not winning a twice-annual national soccer tournament 75 years strait when there are only 8 teams in the league...)

Barva Volcano

So there’s this volcano…And I know I keep telling you about all these volcanoes but I really think this is the one. I guess what I mean is I feel like a broken record with the volcano stories but it’s better than the alternative. I promise. I suppose I could regale you with stories of the latest movies I have streamed online, or the people I have seen on the bus, or how a jar of peanut butter is more than $6. So…volcano story it is

*****

Barva Volcano. We read somewhere online that the bus would leave at 6:30 from point X. So at 6:45 or 6:50 on Sunday morning we loaded onto said bus at point -X-3 blocks or so. Accuracy is not a priority here. Fortunately we had Sida (our hilarious roommate from Columbia whose personality more than makes up for whatever she lacks in size.) She made sure we found the illusive bus to begin with and that we got off at the right stop…the right stop being basically on the side of a mountain on a road I didn’t even know a bus could navigate. But there was a sign…and it even had an arrow to tell us that Volcán Barva was up and that way. So we started walking.

I find it a little funny that no one told us a taxi wouldn’t be an option. We knew it was 10 Kilometers from the bus stop to the entrance…we didn’t know it was 10 Kilometers from absolutely nowhere. For the first hour or so we half-heartedly offered our thumbs to the fates, but most cars were headed down the mountain instead of up, and those who were headed up were either too small or too full for 5 girls on a mission. By the second hour we had pretty much accepted the truth that no taxi, no truck and nothing else with tires would be taking our tired feet up this mountain. So step by step we forged forward, and upward and occasionally backward up the road.

                *But really, picture it for a second, five girls walking backward up this road on the side of a volcano…right!? Haha.

At some point the pavement ended and we wound ever upward on rock and dirt and past Dr. Seuss trees and sprawling glimpses of the valley below…I have no idea what all we talked about for those 2 hours headed up. How much our legs hurt? How beautiful it was? What we needed to get at the grocery store? One of the girls, Mary, had gone back to the states for a week and Veronica and I grilled her about the whole experience.  

   Where did you go first?

   What was the first think you ate? How did your stomach feel?

   Did you drive? What was it like?

   What was it like to be surrounded by English?

   Did you go to the grocery store? Was it weird to understand everything effortlessly?

I would rank my curiosity and enthusiasm on par with a kid asking her friend what Disney Land had been like…or an acne-plagued teen grilling his older brother about girls and sex. No detail was too small.

And so the time passed and at about 10 we finally dragged our weary legs up to the ticket window…    
          Prices:  

                Residents- $2

                Non-Residents- $8
I don’t know if they guy booth was feeling extra generous or maybe just lazy and non-confrontational but whatever the case we all only paid our $2 (and believe me…I do not look like a local). We trekked onward.

Aside from hungers pains and a minor dehydration headache, the feeling I remember the most clearly was awe at how relatively close we were to our house and how very much in the jungle we were. Moss covered trees, vines hanging and reaching, green in every direction but down where we danced around the mud from the daily rains. And at last, the lagoon.

Have you ever been on an airplane, flying through a cloud? You’re looking out the window and it’s just hopelessly white. Maybe you sat over the wing but can’t remember because where the wing would be it’s only…white… and thus we approached the water. It could have been an ocean or a big puddle, and anything could have swum, or flown, or walked out of that fog. It was so dense you could actually see the individual particles of moisture swirling about in the slightest breath of a breeze.

We did finally get to see the lake and the wall of trees and green rising up on the other side. But only maybe 60 seconds, then the peep show was over and the cold damp air ushered us away and back on our way back down.

By the time we reached the bus stop again it was 1 and almost raining. We all fell fast asleep on the bus ride home. And at about 2:45 after scarfing down a sandwich in a delirious frenzy and somewhat showering off, I curled up in my bed to rest for real after yet another very successful Sunday Funday. 

Culture Shock

There are 4 stages to culture shock.

Excitement

Withdrawal

Adjustment

Enthusiasm

And it takes time to traverse the span of emotions associated with each.

Excitement- September – February

Honemoon

I passed easily and painlessly through this phase with flying colors. I loved the Spanish all around me, and the market on Saturday mornings and the bus (on time or late or moved around the corner from where it was yesterday.) I loved the beach a few hours away. I was moving around constantly, and spending a month doing my TEFL course, and going home for Christmas and coming back and getting an apartment and starting new jobs.  It was fun.

Withdrawal- February-End of April

This was the part where I found myself crying behind my huge sunglasses at the bus stop, and packing my bags in the middle of the night, and leaving class to pull myself together in the bathroom, and being generally racist for lack of a better word. I fantasized about buying plane tickets and went to Walmart just to feel at home. This was not the most rational point in my life.

Adjustment- End of April to Present

I would argue that I’m not completely out of withdrawal. I still can’t say that I have completely embraced this new world, but I don’t hate it nearly as passionately as before either. Some little bastards actually threw water on me out a car window the other day and I didn’t even shed a tear. I just flipped them off and kept walking. About 30 minutes later I even laughed about it.  If that had happened a month ago I probably would have just sat right down on the side of the road and thrown a full blown pity party. Progress.

Enthusiasm-

This part is supposed to come after about a year when you have really established a life and made a place for yourself in your new environment.

Yeah.

I think one of my bosses said it best: “Why spend your whole life working so you can retire in 

paradise, when you could just spend your life working in paradise?”

By the end of June I will be completely out of withdrawal I think, and will have started adjusting and relearning to love everything again. Good. I won’t be leaving on a sour note. I won’t be staying though to experience the enthusiasm phase. Why spend my life working and waiting to fall in love with this place, when I could just leave here now with some priceless life experiences and get back to the paradise where my heart already is?

Home Sweet Beer Festival

I’ll preface this by saying that my day-to-day life is a Central American cultural experience, so don’t judge when I say that on Saturday I fully appreciated, and even reveled in going home.

I went back to Colorado on Saturday.

Ok not really. I went to a beer festival, but it felt like home. The smell and taste of craft beers, the ambient sound of English floating in conversations all around me, the general air of relaxed excitement about being in the presence of something other than good ole Imperial or Pilsen. I kept feeling like I had just seen my friends a second ago and they’d be back any minute.

*****

I didn’t get a ticket. I didn’t know I could go until they had already sold out. You could still enter for free so the ticket thing wouldn’t normally be so bad except that with the ticket you got a t-shirt, and an awesome little beer-sampling mug, and some other random shit. I LOVE free t-shirts that are actually cool…*sigh. It’s ok.

My roommates, Veronica and Isa had tickets so I can’t really complain too much. With the ticket you were able to taste every beer they had there so I just mooched and we all left pleasantly buzzed. We tried everything from IPAs to stouts so rich and dark it was like sipping a cup of coffee (I think one might have actually had coffee in it) to one or two so sweet and light they could have been juice.

The beer was really only half the fun though. It’s the people who make these things. It’s the grown men in lederhosen (or rather, grown man. Singular.  One dude just rockin it). It’s the fact that one brewery brought goats to the event. I mean who doesn’t want to pet a baby goat while they taste beer? It’s the 60-something year-old gringos who have clearly retired here and are just livin’ the dream and making beer. It’s the guy who gave me his pretzel necklace when he saw me pointing at it. I was only trying to ask Isa how you say ‘pretzel necklace’ in Spanish. It’s the photo bomb below. It’s the sweet sweet sound of English drifting on the breeze.

I have grown oddly accustomed to only understanding about 25% of what I hear on the street or just in passing. For an eavesdropping addict this can get frustrating at times. So imagine how surreal and even heavenly it was to be surrounded by words I didn’t have to think about to understand. Imagine just being able to know what everyone was saying. Ok, not really a leap of the imagination for most of you…but I was like a kid in a candy store. I pretty much walked around for the whole afternoon with a huge perma-smirk plastered on my face.

*****

So I guess in closing, live where you live and soak up the culture, but there is also something to be said for being able to think you’ve gone home every once in a while.

Volcan Arenal day 2

I should have known when the guy behind the counter did the eyebrow raise/laugh to himself thing.

He had asked where I was riding the bike to. The waterfalls?

The lake.

The lake!? (Insert eyebrow raise and tiny chuckle here)

What? Is it far?

Yeah

.

(Seriously!? “Yeah.”  That’s all you have? You couldn’t give me something like “yeah, it’s 15 km” or “Yeah, it’s pretty far. Make sure you take enough water.” Nope. It was just…”yeah.” Followed by:)

Here. You’ll need a lock and a helmet.

So at 7:30 in the morning, that lovely, partly-cloudy Friday, I jumped on my Optimist mountain bike and set out toward the cloud capped volcano. (The brand of the bike made me really happy…and proved ironically appropriate about an hour later as I was cheering myself on at snail’s pace up what seemed like the millionth hill with still no lake in sight.)

I’d just like to interject that I have not owned a bike in years. I haven’t ridden a bike farther than about 2 or 3 miles in years. I haven’t ridden a bike up a significant hill in…That’s right!  Years. You can imagine the overwhelming sense of accomplishment that washed over me when I finally pulled up to the National Park (not quite the lake but cool enough) after an hour and a half of climbing (and once or twice, joyously coasting) the foothills around Volcan Arenal.

At the entrance, the ticket girl’s eyes widened to know where I had ridden from. I asked what there was there at the National Park and she showed me the map of hiking trails. She reached under the counter to grab the map of biking trails too but I assured her I had spent quite enough time on a bike for the time being.

The next hour and a half I was on cloud 9. I hadn’t gotten to really go on a hike by myself since before August when I left Durango. Sure I had hiked other volcanoes but only with a guide or other group. My heart did every cliché thing it could think of. It leaped. It soared. It pounded. I hadn’t forgotten, but I had kind of forgotten, how much being able to go hiking means to me. It wasn’t a super long or strenuous hike, but it took me right up to the base of the volcano where I could look at the panoramic of lake and tropical green.

Had you seen me, you would have thought I was crazy. Or at least a little special. I think I smiled and skipped the whole way back down the trail from the top. When I got back to my bike I thanked the girl at the entrance, bought another bottle of water for safety’s sake and set out for the grueling return.  

The funny thing about hills is, that one way they pretty much just suck, but when you are coming back the other way THEY ARE SO MUCH FUN! It took me exactly half the time to get back to the hostel and I enjoyed it twice as much. I’m reminded again of why people ride bikes.

I’m pretty sure I surprised (and maybe even impressed) the guy behind the counter when I told him I had not only made it all the way to the national park, but I had also done a hike once I got there. I was racking up the ego points that day.

I showered and got all my stuff crammed back into my backpack; then I returned my key and headed into town for pizza and a much-deserved beer before getting back on the bus for San Jose.

So I didn’t do all the touristy zip-lining, hot tub sitting, cave exploring that you’re supposed to do when you go to Arenal as an American tourist…but I did exactly what I wanted to do. And plus, I’m pretty sure the volcano was smiling down at me from underneath its soft, grey, cloudy cap. 

Volcan Arenal

Volcan Arenal.

You went alone?!

I’m afraid to say this is becoming my life theme.

Yes. I went alone.

But why?

…why not?

It’s a good question I guess. Why? I suppose if I had to answer, it’s usually because I felt like going and there wasn’t anyone else around who could or wanted to.

I did it again last week. Last Thursday was a national holiday here in Costa Rica so naturally all the schools were closed. I already have Fridays off so I jumped at the chance at a full 2-day weekend. (haven’t seen one of those in a while because I work on Saturdays…) I packed up just enough clothes for a quick 24 hour trip and at 4:15 Friday morning I scarfed down some food, threw on some clothes and by 5 was catching the bus to San Jose.

The bus left sometime after 6:15 and after what I think was a gorgeous ride (I was dozing in and out for most of it) I stepped off the bus in La Fortuna. I was immediately attacked by a tour agency and ushered into their lair of maps and pretty pictures and “great deals!” Thankfully I made it out 5 minutes later with only a return ticket to San Jose and a free map of the town with directions to my hostel. I’ll concede that tour companies aren’t all bad. They do offer some cool stuff, but no one stepping immediately down from a 5-hour bus ride after waking up at 4 in the morning should be making any big decisions about zipping through canopies or exploring caves. Thankfully Mr. Tour Guide sensed that my mental state was fragile and did the decent thing in letting me off easy.

I checked in to my hostel then followed my stomach back into town. It pulled me around to a little café called “My Coffee” where I did something I never ever ever do. I enjoyed a cup of coffee and an amazing sandwich while I thought about what on earth I wanted to do (that’s not the thing. Minus the sandwich, I do that on a pretty daily basis). After my lunch though, before paying, I actually asked the owner of the place (who had been walking around making small talk with customers) what I should do. I usually keep to myself when I’m traveling alone, but my time with Sarah the previous weeks had taught me that striking up a conversation with a local (or anyone for that matter) can often lead to some great adventures. It did. The owner pointed me to another couple across the room and said they were going to the waterfalls and I should go with them. I didn’t give myself time to think too much about it. I just got up and walked over there and introduced myself.

Nick and Emma from Jersey and Minnesota were awesome. They were traveling around Costa Rica in a beat-up rental car (beat-up because they had full coverage insurance on it and were taking advantage.) We drove out to the “Cataratas,” bought our tickets and hiked down. I would try to describe it but awe-inspiring nature scenes aren’t my forte in prose. Water gushing and roaring, clear icy pools, glistening rocks. It’s all been said. But being there is just good for your soul. Something about jumping into freezing water is just…good. We spend a few hours exchanged travel stories and reader’s digest life stories and splashing around, then they dropped me back off at my hostel with friendly goodbyes and promises to upload some pictures on facebook.

I went for a run in the cool, cloudy evening and after dinner was asleep by 8.

(to be continued…)

Nicaragua (Fin)

Friday, March 29.

3:20 AM

Sounds of a door opening. Closing. Shuffling. REALLY LOUD BELCH. Lights on!

I said to Sarah later (when I could form complete sentences), “No one has been on time for a single thing this entire trip. Then, at 3:20 in the morning, they are 10 minutes early to wake us up! What the FUCK!” We laughed. By then we had learned that’s really all you can do.

By 4:05 we had eaten breakfast, had some coffee and said our good-byes. We hugged all around and threw our stuff into the trunk of the taxi for the three and a half hour ride back to Granada. The three of us piled into the back because the taxi driver, his son, and Myra’s brother were all in the front. It was a painless ride and we were pulling up to the front of the hotel before 8.  We took pictures with the driver and Myra’s brother and we thanked them and paid for the trip. Then we went in to get our stuff and to figure out our room situation for the next two nights.

Our room situation for the next two nights was a whole other series of misunderstandings, unwanted cancelations and miraculous vacancies, the details of which I will spare you (partially  because it would probably be boring, and partially because I’m not sure anyone actually knows just what happened).  I’ll only say that we ended up staying right where we had started, in room 8 at the Hotel Casa Barcelona. Perfect.

Friday and Saturday were exactly what a vacation should be. Our biggest problem (room issues aside) was the inordinate amount of sun we exposed our poor, un-screened bodies to. We laid in the sun, we read, we ate, we swam, we drank, we laid in the sun. Saturday night we went out with a couple of new-found friends and laughed and shared stories like old buddies. By the time we went to bed that night, we were properly rested and ready (or as ready as one can be) for the 10-hour bus trip Sunday.

So that was it. That was Nicaragua. That night we were back in Heredia, and I was back to…well I guess normal life. The emotions of coming home to a place that isn’t exactly home when you are homesick…as if I could put that into words. HA! 

Nicaragua Part 4

After rollercoastering over hills and around curves on some Nicaraguan back roads we arrived at the river and discovered how picnicking was meant to be. The taxi driver set off on horseback with a local in search of Myra while the rest of us set up camp on the bank. Someone started a fire and got the eggs boiling, the kids bee-lined it for the water (and had we known it was an option and worn our swimsuits the three white girls would have gone right in after them. Well Sarah did but she was dressed in slightly more water friendly attire than me or Vanessa).  The coffee was ready, the Cola was out, the beans and rice and fried plantains were piled high on our plates, and the rosquillas were ready to be munched. We threw rocks into the ripples and took pictures by the glittering water. We laughed with the family and made fun of the kids and for a time it just felt like we had all known each other forever.

The Taxi Driver’s Wife: Do you want soup?

Me: Yeah, I guess. I’ll try some.

Wife: Ok come on. We’ll go get it.

Me: Wait what? Where? Do I need to bring a bowl?

I held up a Tupperware and she just laughed and shook her head.

Wife: No. Come on.

She headed out across the river toward the group that was set up on the other side. I followed wondering what exactly was going on (not a new thought at this point). Then I looked up and saw it. Two women were hauling (not carrying…hauling) the biggest bowl I have ever seen actually holding food.  They made their way down the bank and into the water. The bowl was covered with a small table cloth which they lifted, when we finally met mid-stream, to reveal the most delicious-smelling soup I have ever had the pleasure of inhaling. I can’t say it looked quite as appetizing but whatever it lacked in visual charm it made up for ten-fold in olfactory appeal. It traded hands and the taxi driver’s wife and I headed back toward our bank, treasure in tow. Once we got to the other side the egg-boiling pot was replaced on the fire by the giant beast bowl and shortly thereafter everyone in a 100 meter radius was sharing in the unbelievable gift.

Some indefinable time later the taxi driver and the local returned. No success…although at this point it didn’t matter anymore if we found Myra. We had all had such an untradeable and priceless experience that failure or not, it just didn’t matter. We were happy. We all started packing up camp. We returned the nearly empty, fish soup bowl, packed away the dishes, sealed up the drinks, and loaded up into the back of the milk truck for our return on the rollercoaster back roads to La Gateada for one more night.

Myra called that night. She must have miraculously gotten one of the messages (or knowing Central America, word got there by bird or small child or door-to-door gossip…or all three). Anyway, Sarah got to talk to her on the phone for a while, which was enough, she said. Maybe it’ll work out next time…

The three of us packed up our stuff, climbed up onto the mattress, under the mosquito net, in the corner of the living room, and closed our eyes with visions of soup and rivers and real bathrooms floating in our heads. We had two days left in Nicaragua and as we dozed off we wondered just what kinds of adventures those two days would bring. (Well I say we, I can’t really speak for Vanessa and Sarah here, but I did anyway.) 

Nicaragua (Part 3 of ?)

Interjection in the chronology to talk about the toilet. Because let’s be honest, who doesn't love some good potty talk?

Latrine: Pit toilets are the simplest and cheapest type, minimally defined as a hole in the ground.(Thank you Wikipedia.)

A hole in the ground. A hole in the ground with a little concrete platform and raised area that one could theoretically sit on if one so desired. A hole in the ground with a concrete seat out behind the house a good 10-15 meters. A hole in the ground with a concrete seat out behind the house enclosed by four metal walls and a metal roof…in the tropics.

Nothing will constipate you faster than the simple knowledge that that is where you have to go. On the plus side, even mosquitoes couldn't survive in there…or had enough sense to stay out. Either way, my hiny is duly thankful.

Thursday. March 28.

We woke up with the rest of the house. Dogs shuffling around, Norvin the 9-year-old actin’ a fool, water boiling for instant coffee…It was somewhere around 7.

*Central America gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “time is relative.” Time might as well be booted out on its ass and replaced with something more useful like a rocking chair with a cup holder or a watch that tells you the weather instead of the time. For example: “Vamos, ahorita” does not mean “we go right now.” It actually means ”right now we are thinking about, and maybe even acting towards, the act of leaving. So even though it will probably be another hour and a half, we are practically leaving right this second.”

So anyway, we got up. We had some coffee and a breakfast of homemade bread/cookie things called ‘rosquillas’ on the front porch. We walked over to the neighbor’s house to visit with another family Sarah knew. They were packing up for a day at the lake. (This was after all the big holiday of no work or public transportation.)

The whole time we were wondering when exactly we were going to go try to find Myra. I’m not really sure when we finally figured out that someone had sent a note with the milk truck that morning (in fact I’m still not really sure that it happened at all) but Sarah and I finally managed to understand that if Myra got the note somehow, she would then be able to hike to a place where there was cell service, and then call us and…tell us where she was? And despite the practical non-existence of time, this phone call was supposed to come between 11:30 and noon.

We waited. We walked down into town for water. We sat around in the living room and visited. We eventually ate some lunch…

So until this point (I think) it was understood that if Myra called then Sarah and Roberta and Vanessa and I would go with the taxi driver to either a river or a place called “the river” where we could maybe meet Myra? That made sense. Why was the whole family loading dishes and food and hot water and instant coffee and dogs and children into a giant trashcan though? And why was it 12:30 with no word from Myra? And were we going back to Granada tonight or tomorrow morning? And if we went back tomorrow we would need to communicate with our hostel somehow and let them know that our reservation was still good for Friday night. And why did it take 3 phone-calls to actually communicate that information?  And why wouldn't Norvin sit down and stop touching things? And why, no matter how many conversations we had, did no actual useful information get exchanged?

The three gringas were getting tired and irritable. Finally Sarah talked to Roberta’s sister who explained things a little more clearly. 1. Myra was not visiting her grandmother. She was visiting her godmother which is why no one actually knew where exactly she was or how to get there. 2. we were going to the river (an actual river)  because it’s the closest place to Myra’s godmother’s where we could hire a horseman to go with another note to try to find where exactly the house was. 3.The reason the whole family was packing up was because they were having a picnic by the river (we found out later that the picnic was an impromptu thing thrown together because it’s expensive to drive a truck all the way out there so we might as well make the most of it.)

So finally, sometime after 12 or 1230 (what difference does it make?) Myra’s family, the taxi driver’s family, the 3 gringas, and the tiny little dog all loaded into the milk truck and set off for the river.

Nicaragua Part 2 (still not sure of how many)

Wednesday. March 27. Continued.

Backpacks in tow we turned up the street that Sarah said looked familiar. By the time we made it to the top of the hill where the house we were looking for was, the news had already spread. “Sarah!” yelled a neighbor. Of course she remembered Sarah. She explained that Sarah’s friend Myra wasn’t home and that her mom was at the store down in town. We should go talk to her. Funnily enough, the little girl who ran up just minutes later from the other direction said the same thing. 15 Minutes in town and we were already famous.

The next conversation we had (after the hugs and hellos of course) went something like this (only in Spanish…and with lots of gesturing and pointing and eye-brow-raising…and lots or repetition which I’ll leave out for the sake of brevity.)

Characters: Roberta (Myra’s mom), Sarah and me (we will be a combined person because at this point we were kind of acting as a speaking team) and Tino the Taxi Driver. (Vanessa entertained the kids by simply existing)

Sarah: Is Myra here?

Roberta: No.

Sarah: WHAT!? NO!? Really? Seriously?

Roberta: Yeah, really. She is visiting her (insert word here that we took for grandmother but that wasn’t actually grandmother. And we didn’t figure that out until much later)

Sarah: No. Seriously. Where is she? When is she coming back?
Roberta: She is out on a farm visiting her (there’s that damn word again). She’s coming back Sunday. You’ll stay until then.

Sarah: Sunday!? NO! We are leaving tomorrow!

Roberta: No you’re not. There aren’t any buses tomorrow. It’s a holiday. You’ll leave Sunday morning.

Sarah: No. What!? No buses!? Shit! But really. We HAVE to leave before Sunday. We have a ticket back to Costa Rica Sunday morning.

Roberta: No. There aren’t any buses tomorrow or Friday. Maybe Saturday.

Sarah: A taxi?

Roberta: Nope. All the taxi drivers will be with their families.

Sarah: Can’t we just call Myra and tell her I’m here? Can we just go see her where she is? How far is it?

Roberta: No. No cell service. And no transportation until Sunday. She’ll come back Sunday.

(At this point we had a huddle to discuss what we could do. We seemed to be in a bit of a pickle. Roberta wasn’t the most accurate or unbiased source at the moment (even though her hands were planted firmly on her hips in the kind of way that could probably turn a tanker around) and really…we did need to get back to Granada before that bus left Sunday. As much as I love missing a good day of work and all…We saw a taxi driver drop someone off and get out to chat for a bit. Decided. Sarah and I headed over.)

Sarah: Hello. We have a question.

Tino: Hi. What is it?

Sarah: Well first, my friend’s mom says that there won’t be any buses tomorrow or Friday back to Granada from here. Is that true?

Tino: I mean there will be one in the morning and one in the evening but there’s no telling what time it will pass through, and because of the holiday it will stop for about two hours at every stop along the way. It’ll take at least 12 hours to get there.

Sarah: Ok. Then second, we were wondering if a taxi would be able to take us. My friend’s mom said no one would be driving tomorrow at all.

Tino: I’d take you. When do you want to leave?

Sarah: Wait. Really!?

Tino: Sure. We can leave whenever.

Sarah: Tomorrow?

Tino: Tomorrow. Friday. Just let me know.

Sarah: Oh my god thank you so much! Are you sure? Can we get your number so we can call you and let you know what we figure out?

Tino: Sure. (He wrote it in the cover of my book.)

Sarah: I’m Sara(h) by the way.

Tino: Tino (he pointed to his name, in the book by his phone number)

Sarah: We live with Roberta… (Sarah started trying to explain where the house was but Tino stopped her to say…)

Tino: Yeah I know it. She’s my neighbor. You’ll be able to find me.

(Tiny. Town.)

We made a vague plan to search for Myra tomorrow and head out either tomorrow night or Friday morning depending on how things went. We breathed a giant sigh of relief and we cooked and ate the best meal I had in Nicaragua, right there at the little tienda, right there on the main street. The kids pulled us around to show us the little carnival rides, set up in honor of Semana Santa, and they talked our ears off about whatever it is kids talk about.

We slept on a mattress in Roberta’s living room that night.  We didn’t quite feel like family…yet.

Our trip to Nicaragua (Part 1 of however many it takes)

Sunday, March 24.

3:30 AM

I woke up. I hit snooze for 10 more minutes hoping that it would feel like another hour. It felt like 10 seconds. I crawled out of bed and turned on the light. Shock is about the only way to get you motor running at that time of day.  Bright lights. Cold water to the face. You know the drill. 10 minutes later I was ready to go. I hauled my two backpacks down the stairs where I met my friends standing a little dazed in the kitchen. We all downed a glass of water and I took a banana for the road. (You know you’ve met amazing people when they let you sleep at their house and then they wake up with you at 3:30 in the morning to drive you to the bus station…I hadn’t seen Andrea in maybe more than a year and we never talked much, and I had never met her boyfriend whose house I stayed in that night.)

The next 10 hours are a blur. They pretty much just consisted in me sleeping. Waking up to hand the guy my passport. Sleeping. Waking up to get off the bus at the border. Getting back on the bus and crossing the border. Getting back off the bus on the other side of the border. Waiting in the sun for the lady to find her lost bag. Getting back on the bus and getting my passport back. Going back to sleep until Managua, Nicaragua. Getting off the bus. Getting my bag. Going to the hotel. 2:30 PM

Sarah and Vanessa landed at 9:30 that night. Hugs. Tears. Laughs. The works.

Monday, March 25.

We woke up. Ate hotel breakfast (because who doesn’t love hotel breakfast?) Packed. Talked to the friendly guy at the front desk about our plans for the rest of the week. Then we headed out to find the bus to Granada. As we were about to make our first mistake in following the directions, the bus zoomed up, and a sweaty Nicraguan man yelled “GRANADA! MANAGUAGRANADA MANAUAGRANADA MANAGUA GRANADA!” Before we really knew what was happening we were all perched on a hot sweaty bus with our backpacks spread rather un-strategically throughout and our spirits high. An hour later we were spit out on the sidewalk in Granada and pointed pretty accurately in the direction of our hostel. And another 30 minutes and about twenty-too-many cat calls after that, we miraculously found said hostel.

You really don’t need to know all the details of the day. It was a pretty run of the mill first day in a city. We found food, coffee, a swimming pool, and some new friends. By the end of the evening we were cheers-ing our mysterious mixed drinks and swapping all breed of stories outside the pub on the bustling Calle Calzada.

Tuesday. March 26.

For the sake of those involved I’ll leave out the details of this day except to say that we got very hot. We drank a lot of water. And two of us had to go on the great Pharmacy scavenger hunt in search of drugs prescribed by a doctor who actually couldn’t spell Sarah.

Crepes for dinner (enjoyed by all).

Nuf Said.

Wednesday. March 27.

And the real cultural adventure begins:

How to get to La Gateada, Nicaragua: Take a bus from Granada to Managua. Get off at the big blue building by the round-about. Find a taxi to El Mayoreo (No one will explain to you that this is a bus station outside of Managua. You’ll figure it out when you get there and so much more of the conversation from that morning will make sense.) Follow the random guy at the entrance to the bus and hope it’s the right one because about 5 of them say Juigalpa (which is the bigger town that is close to La Gateada.) Don’t get run over by the bus or trampled by the people trying to get on. Make sure all three of you actually make it on. Have your picture taken with a few Nicaraguans because you have blonde hair (I was exempt from that particular step.) Look at pictures of their family members. You are now best friends. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere switch buses for no apparent reason.  Continue for about 2 hours longer than you expected and try your best to ignore whichever of the following is making this ride miserable for you (The giant butts that keep stationing themselves against y our shoulder, the burning afternoon sun that keeps roasting just one of your shoulders through the window, the baby that keeps alternating between hitting you and almost crying… or any number of other possibilities. You are after all on a bus in Central America. Anything can happen). Push your way off the bus and pray as it drives away that this is actually where you are supposed to be.

It was.

The fear of public transportation

Seven buses. I had to ride 7 buses and one taxi on Thursday. Actually that's about to be standard for my Mondays. (Well, 8 buses and no taxi). Thursdays are normally only 6.

I used to be afraid of public transportation, and no I don't just mean in foreign countries (although the language barrier never helped.) I think I only ever rode the bus in Durango about 2 times, and I was never alone.

What was I so afraid of? Did I think I would get on the wrong bus and end up somewhere impossible to return from? Yeah. Did I think I would feel stupid if I didn't know when to get off or if I didn't have the right change or if I had to ask if this was even the right bus? Yeah sure. And was I afraid I might have to talk to a stranger to let me out of the seat. Ok, yes that too. So that all seems pretty silly right? But see I have this bizarre fear of the mundane unknown. I will happily jump on a plane to a foreign country on my own or try some crazy exotic food, but when it comes to those little, easy, everyday things, I am hesitant at best. What if I fail at this simple task that all these other people do all the time? Basically, I'm afraid of looking and feeling stupid.

I know. I know. Stupid huh?

I can happily announce though that I have actually conquered the bus-based fear. Of course I say conquered like I had anything to do with it. A fear of the unknown does become a little irrelevant once that unknown becomes...known.

Now I step up on that bus to San Jose on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I find a window seat if at all possible, I wiggle around and get comfy and I promptly pass out. It's 6:30 in the morning for goodness sake! I always wake up in time to get off again an hour later. I did miss my stop by a minute or two once. But then you just get off and walk back. Big deal.

I got on the wrong bus once too (two weeks ago actually). Before I moved I would catch the bus to Barva by the grocery store where a lot of the buses would pass. I have to catch that bus about 4 times a week so needless to say I would almost have to be trying to get on the wrong one. I wasn't trying. Apparently I just can't read where it is going when I am running along beside it. I just jumped off when it turned left instead of going straight. Fortunately the walk to Barva really isn't so bad...and I was running early.

And last Thursday (7 bus day) I had to do something new. I had an idea where to go, but maps and directions in this country are like opinions; everyone has one and reality can often be irrelevant. I got to the stop that I thought was right based on the information I had and I waited. All the buses that passed in that 15 minutes were going to the right final destination. They just weren't passing by where I needed to be. I finally fought back my returning fear of talking to strangers in a foreign language and asked this kid if my bus came by here. He didn't know but the little angel asked the next grumpy driver for me so I didn't have to open my still-fumbling mouth. Turns out I needed to be on the other highway that runs parallel to that one. I navigated my way over there and waited patiently by the sleeping homeless man until, at last, my bus came!

So I guess all this is just to affirm that I, Sara LittleCloud Knight, am no longer irrationally afraid of getting on the bus. I can focus my fears on more reasonable targets: like the general disregard nearly all drivers in this country seem to have for the lives of others, or the suffocating proximity of other passengers on that 5 o'clock to Barva, the impending possibility of robbery, and of course the first time I have to order pizza at that one place that looks so yummy.

Awake. Or thank God I don't live in a Quinton Tarantino Movie

*Disclaimer: this made sense in my head...

I figured it out!

What, you ask?

I figured out why I am a little less homesick every day. You might think it’s just because I am getting used to being away, and used to being…here instead of there. And that is part of it. But this goes deeper. I figured out why I am getting used to it.

The best way I can describe it (and it’s not great by any standards) is by comparing it to  watching the most awful movie I have ever had the misfortune of seeing. (Sorry Quinton Tarantino fans. He’s great and all, but this one was lost on me…also, spoiler alert. I kinda ruin the big twist so…yeah.)

So the movie is called Dusk Til Dawn. The premise: a couple of shady criminals (brothers I think) kidnap a family for the use of their RV in crossing the border to Mexico. Sounds like your run of the mill thrillerish movie. You have some family drama. You have some suspense. You have some boobies. Basically, they make it across the border and decide to pass the rest of the night in this topless bar until the rendezvous in the morning (get it?...Dusk til Dawn). Well, all this only gets you about a third of the way through the movie.  What!? You ask again? That’s right. A third of the way through the movie there is this plot twist that can only be described by the effect it has on your brain. I was in physical pain. I spent the next two thirds of the movie expecting someone to wake up from this awful dream. The credits started rolling and I still expected them to come back on and say “just kidding guys! That was all a nightmare.”

Days later I still wanted there to be some closure to this movie, some different ending.

Now though, barely less than a year later, I can appreciate the complete and utter brain fuck that Tarantino miraculously (if not distastefully) performed. Getting such an extreme (near physical) 

reaction out of a movie audience here in the 21^st century is nearly impossible. Even Sixth Sense in all its glory couldn’t have prepared me for that. So even though I still despise this movie from the depths of my soul, I have a deep appreciation for Tarantino’s ability to leave me so uprooted, confused and betrayed you would have thought that shit had actually happened to me. (And it was made in 1996)

How exactly does all this relate to my life now? Well I have been doodling along in life with this expectation of how things will go. August will come and I will start school. There will be some holidays here, vacations there and around May I’ll be free again until August. (In the movie: something will go wrong in the bar, shit will get real, the bad guys will lose…yadayadayada.) Two years ago though, reality changed. My expectations didn’t. Maybe my schedule changed, but my friends were still there and I was still in a familiar place, so I tricked myself into believing that everything was…the same. In the movie the guys walk into the bar and even after demonic vampires start coming out of the woodwork…and continue coming out of the woodwork you convince yourself it’s all a dream.

Even after I uprooted my entire life and drove back to East Texas, got on a plane to Guatemala, got on another plane to Costa Rica, got a job, rented an apartment…even after all these things I was still convinced, deep down, that this was all a dream. This was all a vacation or a hiccup in time. I hadn’t gotten to the credits yet when you have to really start evaluating the fact that all of that actually just happened and everything you thought was a dream was (for lack of a better word) real.

It is real though and I am finally becoming ready to accept that. I’m finally ready to admit that maybe things really have changed forever. Don’t get me wrong with my chosen comparisons, this isn't supposed to be sad or depressing. This is a celebration of the fact that I am awake. I could have found myself in much worse places (like that godawful, nasty bar in the movie.)

So in conclusion, I won’t be here forever. I’ll reinvent my life again and again and again I’m sure. But now I know that I can’t just change it all on the outside without bringing my heart and my mind along with me. Otherwise nothing will ever connect, or seem quite right and I will be stuck wondering why monster-vampire things are eating my brains and...yeah. 

Say Yes.

I am lazy. And no, I don’t mean the kind of lazy where you just want to lie around all day watching TV and eating chips and popcorn and ice cream because real food is too much work. (I mean sometimes I’m that kind of lazy…but who isn’t really?) No, I’m talking about the kind of lazy that keeps you from really enjoying life. The kind of lazy that makes you say no to things that you know will be fun and will enrich your life. The kind of lazy that leaves you home alone in your apartment washing dishes and sweeping up microscopic grains of dust that somehow seem to multiply just faster than you can remove them, while your friends are hiking a 14er or skiing fresh powder or lying on a beach somewhere clear and beautiful. It’s just easier to stay home. It’s easier to be alone and to look at the pictures later and have a moment of regret before moving on with your life.

I am that kind of lazy. Or I was.

The past 4 weekends in a row I have done something that I normally would have said no to. In fact, initially I did say no. I always said no.

“No, I think I’m just going to sleep in and get some stuff done. You guys have fun at the beach.”

“Ugh. I drank a little too much last night and got home really late. I don’t want to get on a bus and ride to this festival. I know it’ll be fun but I kinda just wanna take it easy.”

“Man, I really don’t wanna go anywhere this weekend. We don’t know these people very well and it’ll be a lot of work. I know we’ll get to be on a boat and it’ll probably be relaxing but…”

Yeah, THAT kind of lazy.

But I know this about myself, so the past 4 weekends in a row, after saying no, and grumbling with myself a little bit, I packed up my red and white striped bag, grabbed my swim-suit, or sunscreen or sandals looked at my roommate and said, “Ok, let’s go!”

And we did.

It didn’t occur to me how important this was until this last weekend though. The wind in my face and hair and the light spray of the ocean as we sped towards white sands and bluer waters beneath a sky so clear you could almost see the future, and it was good. Not ‘good’ like “oh yeah I’m good, thanks”.  I mean ‘good’ like water when you’re hiking in the desert, like standing at 13,000 feet for the sunrise, like finishing something old or starting something new.  I mean good like soul food and music that gives you chills, like laughing for no good reason. Good like friendships that can endure the silence of distance, or time or even just a walk without any words. Good.

It’s good to say ‘yes’ sometimes. It’s good to let yourself have fun and to enjoy life to the fullest. So then I guess here’s to not being lazy…at least not when it means I might get to experience something …GOOD. 

Oh, so you're gonna be a teacher...

"What are you studying?"

"English."

"Oh so you’re gonna be a teacher?"

I resented those words for the greater part of my college career. NO! I’m not going to be a teacher! I’m going to do something…something…I don’t know!...Something ELSE!

So now I have been out of college for a year and a half, and what am I doing?

I’m teaching.

And I love it.

Granted, I have only been at it for a week and a half and I haven’t faced many of the usual nightmares I’m sure to encounter in the future. But for now I’m actually making money (not a lot of it) doing the things I love: experiencing a different culture, speaking a different language, thinking about English all the time, and (yes this is a thing I love) presenting information to small groups of people on an almost daily basis.

The only thing that could make this any better would be if home were a little closer. But home (if you’ve been following me at all) is a subject all its own.

I guess this post is pretty short and sweet.

I love teaching.

I don’t know why I frowned upon it so much when I was younger but…well, people change.

So one more thing before I go: this may not be the ideal financial situation, but for once in my life, I can finally see what my dad meant when he said it is so much better to be doing something you love…Now I just have to cross my fingers (or just get my tushy in gear) and see what I can do about making this job work for me. 

Sunday at the Beach

I had decided a few summers ago that I just wasn’t a beach girl. We were in Florida, we were broke, and I missed the mountains so much I could physically feel it.

Things change though. People change, and one day you find yourself standing on a beach with your feet in the sand and the water, the sun on your face and your back, and you are in love. [*Disclaimer-my heart is still in the Rocky Mountains, but they are far and in another life so for now I will love the water.]

*****

He said we would leave at 7:30 so even though Ashley and I hardly slept we were up and ready to go almost on time. We sat together at the dining room table eating cereal, drinking coffee and talking about whatever it is people talk about over breakfast.  

We should have known better. Time is a relative thing here. I was raised to understand that when someone says a time they mean it, and you should always be early just in case. Here when someone says a time, it is probably just the first number that came to mind and you should just be ready to entertain yourself with whatever else until…whenever. It really isn’t that big a deal though. It’s sunny. It’s warm. Life is beautiful. Enjoy being lazy. You’ll eventually get there.

And we did. After a beer run, two bathroom stops, a gander at some gators from a bridge, a few terrifying turns here and there, and more than a few negotiations over what language should dominate for the day we finally made it. We trekked across the brown sand and rocks, up over a rocky land mass jutting out into water and dropped our stuff under a palm tree in paradise. White sand and blue waves called our names and within minutes we were flipping and bobbing in the clear, salty water.

And so the day went. Sandy beach to salty sea and back and forth again. By the end I was the kind of tired that just leaves you staring off into space with no desire to move or speak or think or even sleep. The sun has dried your worries, the sand has rubbed them loose, and the water has washed them away to find you on some other rainy day.

*****

I have never been much of a beach person. I’ve always been bored, and annoyed by the scratchy persistence of the sand clinging to everything it touches. But I am in Costa Rica now so I guess I’ll just say Pura Vida! 

Ok, Back to Business

I’m back. Christmas is a yellow and green blur (those are the colors of my sweat pants and hoodie I wore every day I was home). I slept. A lot. In fact if you know me at all you might choose to believe I am lying when I say I slept until 9 or 10 almost every day (and no, I didn’t stay up past midnight…except for new year’s…then I slept ‘til 10). It was relaxing. Christmas was perfect, slow, candlelit by the fire until the electricity came back on. New Years was…anticlimactic… but then really, it’s just another night isn’t it?

And so I’m back. Just 4 hours on a plane and it’s like I never left. Scorching sun, windy evenings, a not-quite-as-predictable-as-you’d-like-it-to-be bus schedule. Home? We’ll see. Friends met me at the airport. It’s always good when flying to a foreign country, to be able to say you have friends meeting you. It makes customs and baggage claim that much less painful. Even better than that though, is having a place to stay already lined up. Not only do you not have to find a taxi (Actually it’s harder to avoid them but that’s something else) but you don’t even have to find a hostel. You just meet your friends, hug them, play catch-up, and before you know it you are unloading your stuff into your temporary new room.

I have been back in the country for less than 24 hours and I have already had a job interview, met a potential private student, picked up a pay check, accepted a job at another school, gone to the grocery store and checked out (and loved) our future apartment. What a day. Now all that’ left is to just finish this blog post, make some homemade guacamole and drink a beer with Ashley and Sacha.

(So that’s it. Short and sweet. I’m back so I’ll be back to writing regularly…later ;)