Final Thoughts on Fate

This is my third time in Costa Rica. The first was a trip with my family and the second a group tour when I was in high school. There was a rebellious side to me as a teenager - I lauded Catcher in the Rye, and opposed almost anything mainstream. I associated a lot of these ideas with music, hailing classic rock as the sole genre worth listening to and insisting that that pop had no value except as a drug of conformity.

It was on an organic farm in Costa Rica that I put Zeppelin II into my CD player for the first time, watching rain pound against the roof of my camping tent. The effect that album had on my rebel teenage spirit was immense: when I returned from the trip, I arrived at school with “Ramble On” blasting through open windows.

In college, I got into more current music, rap, modern rock, and eventually jazz. While my devotion to The Beatles, Rolling Stones, and The Who remained strong, Led Zeppelin loomed farther into the background. As the years passed, I listened to them less and less.

Two weeks after moving to Costa Rica, I scanned my iTunes list for something to listen to. I had forgotten about the night on the organic farm with Zeppelin in my ears. Yet that night, I chose Zeppelin II. But that wasn’t all. The strangest thing wasn’t that I happened to put on the same album I got into the last time I was here, but that I got the same feeling I had while listening to it. I was into it like I had been that rainy day…a decade ago. It was only later that I made the connection. As the lyrics go, “I’m goin’ round the world, on my way, I’ve been this way ten years to the day…”

Journey into Nature Part 2: Is it fate?

As soon as I arrived in Costa Rica, there was talk about fate. Now I’ve never really been a believer in fate – I believe in choice and in God. In the recent months before coming here, I was becoming wary of making decisions. Maybe it was my future looming in the distance, but for whatever reason, I began taking a different approach for the small decisions: let fate handle it. And then suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, I ended up in Costa Rica.

When I first arrived here, Carlos told me the story about how the day he arrived in Costa Rica was the same day his wife's birthday (who is a Tica). Is that fate? My journey to Barva looking for the waterfall to no end, yet finding myself in the very festival I thought I was missing…is that fate? And why am in Costa Rica, anyway? Three weeks before landing at Juan Santamaria International Airport, feeling the humidity hit my cheeks, I never would have imagined myself living here.

With these thoughts circulating, I made a second attempt to escape the urban life and commune with nature. This time, I would head past Barva to San Jose de la Montana, which I was told, was a real mountain town, and was near the entrance of Barva Volcano. I didn’t know how long it would take to hike up to the peak of the volcano, or which path to take, all I knew was that I wanted to find a spot in the woods, eat a sandwich (I packed a PB&J with pretzels), and read my book (In Cold Blood).

I hopped on a bus, and when I arrived in San Jose de Montana, I got off at the very last stop, and asked the bus driver, “Donde esta la Montana?” Keep hiking up, he said, take a right, and a left, and then I’d reach the volcano. It sounded simple enough.

Simple, sure, but long and steep. I hiked up that road for four hours…and it felt fantastic. As I walked higher and higher, it became more rural and rural. I saw cows grazing on a cloudy field. Wet local cheeses for sale lying lonesome on a wooden table. A middle-aged man and woman igniting a fire with sticks along a stream. As I kept hiking, I entered into a white mist. It was gorgeous drifting through the trees that dotted the hills. But soon, I couldn’t see any trees. All I could see was white. I was in a cloud.

Fine, I thought, I could keep going all day – maybe I’d even reach the volcano. But then it started to rain.

I took shelter at a nearby restaurant – the first one I had seen for miles (or should I say kilometers). I had an umbrella but I didn’t bring my rainjacket, and I was getting cold. I knew then that I was done hiking for the day, even if I was just three kilometers from the entrance to the volcano. I had imagined the walk from the entrance to the base of the volcano to be a five-hour journey, but I’d find out later, it was only five kilometers away.

I sat down at the restaurant and was thrilled to see a cheese omelet on the menu. Cheese omelets here mean ham and cheese, so I tried to explain what I wanted to the waitress (no ham!), and a man came over asking if I needed help. I didn’t really, but I let him anyway. He said, “Welcome to Costa Rica!”, and sat back down with his family of four. When the omelet arrived, he came to my table again, and said, “Don’t worry, I already paid.”

I was wowed by this man’s generosity. Then as I began to walk back down, I debated whether I should try hitchhiking or not. On the one hand, it was pouring, but on the other, was it safe, in a country with metal bars and electric fences in front of homes? I finally got fed up with the rain, stuck out my thumb, and was picked up twice.

Although I didn’t reach the peak of Volcan Barva, it felt great to hike, and see rural parts of the country. And although I didn’t reach my goal – I never found that spot where I could sit down, eat my sandwich, and read – I discovered something more valuable. Maybe the generosity of the people I had met that day came from the fact that they were from the countryside, or maybe it was because they thought I was a tourist, and they wanted to make a good impression of their country. But still, what it showed to me, was that certain values have no bounds, and one of them, which makes humankind so great, is kindness.

Journey into Nature Part 1: Is it fate?

I wanted to escape the city and go into the mountains. I found on wikitravel a “gorgeous waterfall and swimming hall” in the “small and cute” town of Barva, which is just north of Heredia. None of the local Gringos or Ticos who I asked about the waterfall had ever heard of such a place, but that didn’t stop me from journeying into the unknown.

While on the bus, I reached for my guide book and read that Barva is known for the Feria de la Mascarada, where performers dress up in lavish costumes and wear huge masks (some of which weight up to 20 kg) of demons, devils….and local celebrities. The festival was on the upcoming Wednesday…I was three days too early.

I imagined Barva as a quiet village set under the shadow of Barva Volcano. But this was no mountain village. The main square was filled with people, out with family and friends, and vendors, selling churros and chop suey. I left the bus and read the directions, “Facing the church, walk left, then take your first left. Follow that road for a quarter of a mile…to the left will be a trail going down to the river.” I took the first left and walked down the road…

...as I walked, I came across a flat white building with music blasting from inside. I peeked my head in. There was a girl dancing, dressed in traditional garb, a white, green, and red plaited dress, in front of a screen that showed pictures of Jerusalem and had lyrics about Jesus. Everyone was chanting with incredible fervor, besides a detached teenage girl sneaking peeks at her cell phone. An old woman saw me and motioned for me to enter so I did, and I stood there and watched. I thought about my time at the discoteca and how dancing and singing was such a big part of the culture here…and I made the connection to religion. I suppose certain things are engrained in society and they're all interconnected. I thought about a night in Heredia when I heard blasting salsa music coming from a large hall and when I looked inside, I was surprised to see not the young students from the university nearby, but a crowd of old men and women, dancing their heads off. You’d never see that in the States, I thought, it’s not an integral part of our culture, something we learn as a child, and continue until we’re elderly, like dancing to a bolero, or bolting out tunes at karaoke, or juggling a soccer ball with our feet.

I continued down the road. But I saw no trail, river, just houses, and cars speeding by me at dangerous speeds. So I retraced my steps and took the second left instead of the first. This time I passed a river, and thought I was going the right way…but never saw a trail. By this point, I had walked quite a bit, so I took a taxi back to the main square, ready to admit there was no waterfall (but now, I wonder if it could have been the other "left"...)

When I got to the town square, a van stopped in front of me and eight young men and women dressed in costumes and giant masks walked out. They began dancing in a circle, and I realized that the reason the square was so packed with people was because today, not the upcoming Wednesday, was the Feria de la Mascarada. I watched the performance with glee, thinking, sometimes the unexpected comes true.

Starting a New Life

August 17, 2011

I’ve finally moved into my own place: a two-bedroom apartment in a great neighborhood for a reasonable price. Only it’s unfurnished…which in Costa Rica means no stove, no fridge, no bed, no table, not even a chair.

To make things more difficult, I moved in on Mother’s Day, and Ticos really love their mothers. Nearly all shops close (the two days prior are so busy they’re like the Black Friday) and the locals spend time with their families. One of the few stores open is Walmart, which is really expensive here, so there was no way I was buying furniture there. But at least I could get a bottle of raid. When I moved into my apartment, the shower curtain was suspiciously closed; then when I opened it, low and behold – a cockroach had discovered a nice wet spot to reside. Throughout the apartment, there were bugs everywhere. My sister had told me a story before I left about how when she was in Costa Rica, she woke up to a tarantula descending towards her. I didn’t particularly want that experience.

I got a little lost on my way to Walmart and found myself wandering through a residential area I hadn’t been. I came across a soccer game and middle class families were watching the players move like acrobats in the rain. This was how I imagined Central America.

Back at the apartment, I took out the bottle of raid and sprayed every nook and cranny of the place. I removed the dead cockroach in the shower, killed the spider in the bedroom, and squashed the small, fly-like creatures, which were easy to kill, but were also intent on sticking to the most difficult to reach corners of the room. I discovered one spider in the laundry room that had built a web that was quite impressive. You could tell that that spider had labored over it, that it had lived there for a long time (in spider years).

When I killed the spiders, they all put up a fight – crawling away, flailing their little legs – except for the spider that made the intricate web. That spider let go after a single spray of Raid, as if it knew this day would come. Although I killed every other insect in the place to the point where my apartment reeked of bug spray, and I obliterated all the other webs, I didn’t tear down that spider’s web. I couldn’t destroy its home.

Religious Pilgrimage

Every August 2nd, Ticos (Costa Ricans), Nicos (Nicaraguans), and citizens of other nations in the region walk from their hometown to La Basilica de Nuestra Senora de Los Angeles in the ancient capital of Cartago. Old men, women, and small children alike make the journey, some from miles away, and for weeks on end. When they finally reach the basilica, many complete the last two hundred meters on their knees.

They make this journey to see a statuette less than a meter tall. La Negrita, or “The Black Virgin”, is a representation of the Virgin Mary. The story goes that it was found at the basilica in Cartago by a native woman on August 2nd, 1635, and when she tried to take it, it miraculously reappeared…twice. Although La Negrita may be small, it is incredibly holy to Ticos, who have declared her the “patron Virgin”.

Needles to say, I wanted to see what all the fuss was all about.

With a day off work on August 2nd for the holiday, I made plans to go to Cartago immediately. The only problem was I couldn’t find anyone to go with me - everyone who I met here had either already taken the journey, or had no intention of going. Well, it wouldn’t be the only time I traveled solo.

But then it got more complicated. Monse told me that the pilgrims were completing their walk on August 1st. I had to work that day and would have to go at night. Pickpocketing is a bit of a problem in Costa Rica and it is ill advised to go out at alone at night. Even worse, I would have to take a bus through San Jose, which is not only more dangerous than Heredia, but it is a city in which I had never been – plus I would have to walk through the city center to get the bus to Cartago. (There are no “bus stations” here really, you just have to find the street where the bus you want goes – oh and there aren’t addresses here either. Seriously. I currently live at “one hundred and fifty meters from the so-and-so high school” and it’s not uncommon to have addresses where something occurred, like a famous person was born or died, or even near buildings that no longer exist. Addresses are geared toward the locals. But we’re getting off topic.)

I decided to be prudent and go in the morning on August 2nd to see the mass instead. So I was up at 6:30 (a late day…I’m usually up at 5:45 for work) and bussed it out there (no, I wasn’t making the trek). Out the bus window, I got to see a few of the last pilgrims on the final leg of the journey. I took out my camera for the first time since I arrived here and snapped away.

When I reached La Basilica, an impressive structure, there were throngs of people praying with umbrellas. I made my way into the crowd of people who hymned away, watching the priests through a TV screen and gazing at La Negrita, enshrined in gold.

A police plane flew dangerously low and dropped something from the sky. I had no idea what was falling and I ducked under a stranger’s umbrella, shielding my face with my hands. But then I saw what it was that the plane had let fall from the sky – they were flowers.

I looked around to see if I could spot any other gringos. I didn’t see any but one thing’s for sure: I was the only Jew here. But having gone to a Jewish day school, I was familiar with the act of praying; although people of differing religions seem so opposed to each other, there is a certain connection they have, an understanding.

I spent forty minutes or so at the mass. I found a spot in the grass near a mom and three kids who were Nicos. When the prayers came to a (temporary) end, one of the children turned to me and put out his hand. I shook it. Strangers all around me offered me their hands. And they said two words. “La Paz.”

There are certain ideas that have no boundaries. No matter our nationality, religion, or race, we all share the human ideals. I thought back to when I was at Strawberry Fields in Central Park on the 70th Anniversary of John Lennon’s death and New Yorkers chanted “Give Peace a Chance!” We stood out in the December cold for hours to commemorate a symbol of peace. I remembered my time studying Hebrew in Israel, and thinking how “Shalom” was the only word in the language with three meanings – Hello, Goodbye, and Peace. And here, every person who had made the incredible journey to the basilica had come to pray for the same ideal. Peace is Costa Rican: there is no army, no war. But it’s more. Although countries may be divided, and their differences may be vast, peace has no boundaries.

La Discoteca

Carlos’ wife taught me how to dance merengue and salsa in preparation for a night out at the local “middle class discoteca”. I put on the pleather shoes I bought last week at Moo Shoes in the Lower East Side of Manhattan just for this occasion, and Monse taught me the “basicos” of these dances in the living room.

It was at the discoteca that I received the dose of culture that I was looking for. Ticos (Costa Ricans) flocked to the dance floor as the night wore on, dressed to impress. Each song was a different style. In addition to salsa and merengue, there was reggaeton, a Latin urban music that originated in Panama and has become very popular in Costa Rica, along with several other songs and dances. All of them were not only distinct musically and had different dances, but they had their own character. Most impressive was Cumbia, a dance that originated as a courtship dance with African slaves, which was so quick that it looked like it was in fast forward motion, and Carlos even “pulled a muscle while doing it once.” I wasn’t surprised. The men spun the women in circles, they held each other’s arms behind their backs, then in front, knees and feet never stopped moving. The dance was so fast that the exactitude of the movements were almost indiscernible. I found myself watching one couple, who Carlos described as “doing it right.” They were mesmerizing.

I wanted to try my hand at merengue. I noticed a group of girls looking over at the “gringo” so I asked one of them, “quiere bailar?” After a nod of the head, she joined me on the dance floor, and I led with the correct steps this time, Monse’s instructions in my head, “Always keep your knees and feet moving; take both of her hands and move them up and then around outlining el sol; take your right hand off her waist and spin around with your back toward her, then take her hand with your left and spin her; take your right hand off her waist and spin around her with your back toward her again, but this time take her left hand with your right and her left with your right and spin her; keep spinning”.

I was sweating like crazy and we danced in so many circles I was surprised I wasn’t seeing double. I had never put so much thought into dance moves before, which made the experience kind of rewarding, but the most fun I had were the times when I let go and went with my instincts.

The evening was a uniquely Latin experience and definitely a highlight of my time here so far. Unlike in the States, the dances here have specific moves that the locals learn from a young age. In addition to having a great time trying out these moves for the first time, I was impressed with the exactitude of the dances, the speed to which they were performed, and ultimately, the sheer joy in the faces of the Ticos.

First Two Days in Costa Rica

7/22/2011

The mixed emotions of fear and excitement in moving to a new country are similar to that of teaching. Entering into an unknown world takes courage, and so does standing in front of a classroom for the first time. By putting great efforts into my teaching here, and attempting to use the most effective methods to bring out success, I hope that success in the classroom will translate to my overall experience in Costa Rica, like it did when I lived in Japan and China. I wonder if the two - teaching and living in a foreign land - are inextricably bound. There is the obvious reason behind so many teaching jobs for foreigners abroad - to fill a need. But is it more than that? To be a teacher is to be a particular kind of person - one who is willing to meticulously plan and at the same time, be able to think on one's feet; this is much like the ambitious world traveler, who plans trips, yet often possesses an inclination for spontaneity. The best teachers have eyes in the back of their head; you ought to be aware of your surroundings in a strange place. There is nothing better to a teacher than seeing the excitement of a student learning something new, the same emotion that a foreigner feels when he or she embraces a different culture. Perhaps even the obligation that teachers feel toward their students is what motivates the person who lives abroad - a feeling of obligation to oneself, or God, or life.

There are five things I'd like to accomplish in this new chapter of my life: be the best teacher I can be, learn as much Spanish as possible, learn how to dance salsa and merengue, travel, and soak up the culture like a sponge.

Until I get settled, I'm living with my friend Carlos and his wife, who are incredible hosts. They've been helping me with everything from picking me up at the airport to driving me around to cooking meals to translating from Spanish to English. They've taught me a few words of Costa Rican slang. "Tuanis!", which means "Great!", supposedly comes from gringos saying "Too nice!" and "Que buena nota!" is slang for "Que Cool!". The one that has earned the most laughter so far, however, is "chunche", which translates into "thingumajig" (a "lazy word").

That's all for now. I'm going merengue and salsa dancing Saturday night. The experience will be recorded in my next blog.