Journey into the Jungle: Part 2 - The Coconut

My roommate, Jacob “the Dude” Westman, coined the term “Costa Rica, the new west” on our trip to Cahuita National Park. In one sense, he was describing Costa Rica as an extension of the not-so-old American idea of manifest destiny. As recent as the 1990s, US citizens and Canadians have invested heavily in developments in this country. The Oregon Trail leads to Costa Rica.

Yet in another sense, Jacob was referring to the wild west. Rules aren’t rigid here; laws are not necessarily upheld. Police officers are bribed. It’s ill advised to walk the streets alone at night because of muggings. More US passports are reported stolen in San Jose than any another city in the world.

Foreigners work hard to establish their lives in Costa Rica. They have to deal with the excruciatingly slow and difficult bureaucracy not unlike other Central American nations. They have to find their own place and then furnish it. They need to make new friends. Establishing a new life isn’t easy, but it is this very thing - the newness, this sense of adventure – which gringos seek.

One of the greatest changes that anyone living abroad has to grow accustomed to is food. What are the things that I miss the most? New York pizza. A Jersey bagel. But there are foods that are unique to the region that I was looking forward to before moving here, like fresh pineapple and rice & beans. But there is one food that has stood out above the rest. The coconut.

Jeffrey, our guide to Cahuita National Park, was taking us snorkeling, where “fruit is included in the tour”. I had nothing in my pockets, no iPhone, no money. I had no sense of time and nowhere I needed to be. When Jeffrey mentioned the fruit, I imagined fresh pineapple awaiting me, simmering on a plate on the sunny deck of a sailboat. Not quite.

Jeffrey led us to a launch, filled with canoes and enclosed by coconut trees. I watched as Jeffrey took a long wooden stick and swung it at the coconuts: one, two, three, they tumbled into the sand. Then he took one of the coconuts, leaned it against a pile of rocks, cut into it with a knife, and smashed them as hard as he could with the stick. I was so mesmerized by him that I didn’t notice that Jacob had already opened his coconut until he handed me the knife and plopped the heavy, hairy fruit in my hands.

When I tore into that coconut with the knife, smashed it with all my might with the stick, and then peeled the final layers with my bare hands, I felt primitive, otherworldly. Never had I felt further away from the streets of Manhattan. I was in a different world, a place where coconuts fall from trees and you walk barefoot in the sand. Where it’s OK to just let go and be free.

Living in Costa Rica is not without challenges. But gringos need these challenges – they seek them – so they have something to overcome. Every good story has conflict. As I put the coconut to my mouth, I realized that because I had worked for it, the juice was that much sweeter.

Journey to the Jungle: Part 1 - The Sloth

5% of the world’s biodiversity (animal and plant life) is in Costa Rica, more than Europe and the United States combined, all in an area of the size of West Virginia. Nearly every bird, mammal, fish, and critter that you could imagine resides somewhere in Costa Rica. Living in the Central Valley, I’ve been experiencing Latin culture, but I hadn’t fully experienced the wildlife of Costa Rica. That is, not until I ventured to Parque Nacional Cahuita, a wild jungle on a beautiful beach along the Caribbean Coast, rarely traveled to by the common tourist.

Accompanying me on this venture was my roommate Jacob, who is best described as “the Dude” from the movie, “The Big Lebowski”. He’s also 6’5 feet tall, which was a huge relief for my mom, because if I was traveling with him, she could rest assured that I would be safe. It was Jacob who recommended we travel to Cahuita.

Our trip began with a touch of fate. We had planned to stay in Puerto Viejo, a popular party destination south of the national park but despite bringing our backpacks and sandals to work, we still missed the final bus there. Instead we ended up passing through the town of Cahuita, and when we stepped off the bus and onto the dirt road, we immediately changed our minds. Perhaps it was the dry air against our cheeks, or the sand beneath our feet, or the laid-back feeling in the air. Whatever it was, we couldn’t resist staying overnight in the small town of Cahuita.

The chilled out vibe of Cahuita comes from a Caribbean atmosphere. In fact, the locals we talked to identified themselves more with the Caribbean than they did their native Costa Rica. Outside our hostel, we could hear people conversing in the local dialect, Mekatlyu. Whereas so much of Costa Rica has undergone development with the onslaught of tourists, Cahuita has been able to retain its culture and its natural beauty. Only a few hundred meters from our hostel was the national park. We walked along the dirt road, and within minutes, we found ourselves surrounded by monkeys, snakes, hundreds of species of birds, and my favorite, sloths.

It was on our first venture into the national park when we saw our first sloth. We had been hiking for about a half an hour, eyes pointed downwards, searching for snakes, when I commented, “hey, we should look up too and maybe we’ll see a sloth.” As soon as I said that, Jacob lifted his head and low and behold (or should I say “high and behold”), we spotted a sloth, hanging off a branch at the top of the tree line, peacefully gazing into the sky, without a worry in the world.

It seemed like fate that brought us to Cahuita; it was as if an indescribable force propelled me to tell Jacob to look for sloths in just the precise moment when one was hanging above his head. Ever since I’ve come down here – just the fact that I am down here – I’ve thought a lot about fate. But there’s also something else, something I learned from my weekend in Cahuita. Costa Rica’s most famous saying is “pura vida”. Literally, “pura vida” means “pure life”, but the meaning goes much deeper. It refers to a “go with the flow” way of thinking, just letting things happen, and believing that in the end, it will all work out. As a result of this mentality, the pace of life is very slow here, something I’ve had to grown accustomed to, coming from quite the opposite environment of hectic New York. It’s important, I think, to take it easy sometimes, to let go of our need to control our surroundings. Like the sloth hanging from a branch of the tree, sometimes you have to chill.

Gefilte Fish

The mother of one of my students invited me to her home for Shabbat dinner. As the six year old son passed the gefilte fish across the table to his grandma, I realized that somehow, in this Christian nation, I have felt as – if not more – connected to my Jewish roots than living in New Jersey or New York, where are there are more Jews than anywhere in the world, second only to Israel. How is this possible?

First, let’s look at Costa Rica’s relationship with Israel. Costa Rica was the first country to establish their embassy in Jerusalem, unlike most countries, where their embassies are in Tel Aviv so as not to offend the Palestinians’ claim on the religious city. This is a statement in itself and it stems from a very unique commonality between two nations – they are (or were) the only democracies in a region surrounded by military regimes.

What role do Jews play in Costa Rica? Well, there’s Luis Liberman Ginsburg. Who? He’s only the vice president of Costa Rica.

This country is a hospitable country to foreigners, making Costa Rica a place where Jews cannot only practice their religion, but thrive in an active Jewish community and in the community at large. Part of the reason that I’ve felt a strong connection to Judaism here is because it’s something I’m familiar with in an unfamiliar land. But I believe that it’s more than that. It stems from the fact that the Jewish community here is not only successful, but is very tight-knit. It seems like Jews here do not marry outside their faith: in every Jewish gathering I’ve attended, there has also been someone playing the matchmaker. Also the day after I informed my student that I was Jewish, he handed me his cell phone, saying, “it’s my mom”, and she extended an invitation to her home for Shabbat dinner. Would that have happened in New Jersey? Probably not. Not when there are 500,000 Jews as compared to 3500.

Yet it’s more than sheer numbers. In Japan, where there are 2000 Jews, I didn’t find the Jewish community to be as welcoming nor as active as in Costa Rica. This may be in part because the Costa Rican Jews have a rich history. Most of the oldest Jews here immigrated in the 20s and 30s from the same village – a shtetel in Poland called Yelechov. There are even 200 holocaust survivors in Costa Rica. In the center of San Jose is a statue of Anne Frank (picture above).

The Jewish community here is unlike any other Jewish community I have ever come across in my travels. Despite being accepting to Jews, Costa Rica is still a Christian dominated land, and so it’s unlikely you’ll come across a kosher restaurant or a mikvah. The Jewish community has responded to this by defining its Jewish identity in unique ways, at least from a New Jersey Jew’s perspective. My student’s family is part of the orthodox community here. Having attended Shabbat services on Friday night (as they do every week) at a synagogue where men and women are separate, they returned to the grandmother’s home to meet me for dinner…by car. They then served the vegetarian (that’s me, by the way) cheese lasagna while everyone else ate chicken. They may even be working today - one of my Jewish friends here told me that most Jewish businesses stay open on Shabbat. What I’ve gathered from all this is that there seems to be a distinction here between inside and outside the synagogue.

Judaism is not only a religion, but a culture and a race, a small minority with major success, a people of nearly 6000 years (the oldest existing religion in the world) who have survived countless persecutions. As my student’s family drove me home after Shabbat dinner, I told them that it was nice to be among Jews. “There’s a unique connection among us,” the mother responded, “which nobody else understands.”

The Adventure to Guatemala: Part 2

Cesar pulled the car over and we examined the tires in the storm. The front left and the back left were flat. We changed the front tire, which was completely dead, but we only had one spare. In order to secure a safe spot on the side of the road, we had to turn around and drive against traffic. The only lights visible in the night were those of the oncoming cars. We pulled over to the side and Cesar rang the doorbells of nearby homes to no avail. I noticed he was wincing in pain - his forefinger had turned green. He injured it while changing the tire.

Cesar called for help from Guatemala City - an hour away - and we waited. Mima sat quietly and the girls typed away on their phones while Cesar soaked his finger in the rain. Three hours later, Cesar's brother showed up with a truck, who knows where he got it from (there's no AAA in Central America). Cesar drove the van onto the back of the truck and I gazed through a misty windshield as we were driven back to Cesar's home, lost in a state of exhaustion and surreal silence.

We were the lucky ones. The next morning I awoke to a television report about landslides, "rumbas", throughout the country. The road to Antigua was closed; rescue teams were sent out, searching for people buried beneath the earth. Nine people were reported dead.

What I found most striking of all from this experience was the way the Palacios responded to the situation. Not a single complaint was made by any of the teenage girls. Not once did Mima express fear or incertitude. Cesar took charge, understanding his duty to his family, and seemed unaffected by his wife and daughters' gentle laughter when he wrapped up his finger in a makeshift splint of band-aids. I taught the family the word game "Ghost" and they demonstrated the English they had learned at their bilingual school with giggles and squeaky voices.

Things move at a slower pace down here than most places - let alone the New York area. There is less stress and worry - at least on the outside. Maybe having gone through a 36 year civil war, countless corrupt governments, and little in the way of human rights, the people of Guatemala are able to let a small crisis (or inconvenience, depending on how you look at it) glide down their backs like the falling rain. All people encounter tragedies in their lives of some form or another. Perhaps it's how we respond in the face of these events that really defines us.

The Adventure to Guatemala: Part 1

As I entered the terminal at La Aurora International Airport, I studied the faces of men and women from a different world. This was my first flight within Central America and I didn't see a single gringo lining up to get his or her ticket checked before stepping onto the plane. Guatemala was the first country I knew I would travel to before I even mored to Costa Rica. I wanted to see where Marleny, my family's housekeeper since I was three, grew up; I wanted to meet her family. I wanted to experience Central America.

In the last decade, only 5% of the murders in Guatemala were prosecuted. The number of kidnappings have quintupled; annual murder rates have risen from 2904 to 6498. Despite new penalties for femicide, they are considered useless in a country where so many murders go unsolved.

These dangers stem from poverty, which is impossible not to notice if you look out the airplane window as the plane hits the runaway in Guatemala City. Between the forests and rolling hills are dilapidated homes as far as the eye can see.

The first thing you can't help but notice when you step out of the airport are the Mayans, Nearly half the population consists of "indigenas" clad in traditional garb - striped skirts, ornate blouses, and long, beaded necklaces for the women with braided hair, cowboy-like sombreros for the men. The Mayans may be the poorest people in the country, but they possess an incredible richness in history and culture. It was to an ancient city, Antigua, where I was headed, to which my friend, Reuben, who traveled the slither of land from Costa Rica to Guatemala, described as, "the Jerusalem of Costa Rica".

Marleny's niece, her husband, and their three daughters, ages 15, 17, and 19, picked me up at the airport. Cesar, who has a note written by one of his daughters above the desk in his office that states, "el mejor papi del mundo", rented a van just to have enough room for me and my luggage (which was only a backpack).

After lunch at a nearby mall, we set off for Antigua. Not only does Antigua retain its beauty through colonial building and ancient ruins, but it is surrounded by 3 volcanoes. But I only knew of them through books and photographs. By the time we left lunch, a deep fog had taken over the sky, and it started to rain. Hard.

In the midst of a thunderstorm, Cesar Palacio took the wheel, dodging potholes left and right, on the road to Antigua. The three daughters were in the back , playing with their blackberries, and Mirna was silently observing. When our tires hit the cobblestone streets, I could tell, despite the horrid weather, that Antigua was a special place. In fact, Antigua looked pretty in the rain, heavy droplets falling in front of the lights of the Catedral de Santiago. I studied the local dwellings, built with mud, stones, and wooden poles "bajareque" style, through the blurred car window. Perhaps this was the way Antigua should be seen - the city has stood the test of time, surviving earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and has retained its traditional charm, not unlike that of Kyoto, Japan.

All was fine as we ran back into the van and left the ancient city. But on the road back to Guatemala City, Cesar was unable to avoid one of the many potholes. One was all it took.

Part 2 soon to come...

Yom Kippur in Costa Rica

There are four synagogues in Costa Rica: an orthodox and Sephardic temple in the Jewish area of Pavas, a chabad, and one in the outskirts of San Jose, which a member described as “reform or conservative – whichever way you look at it.” Costa Rica is nearly 85% Christian (70% Roman Catholic and 14% Evangelical Protestant). There are a total 2500 Jews.

B’nai Israel, the “whichever way you look at it” synagogue, was my shul of choice. I took a long taxi ride through San Jose traffic to a destination I feared the driver had no idea how to find, let alone what a "sinagoga" was (my explanation: Una iglesia para judio!). The sun set and it was dark. But as I scanned the buildings out the window, I spotted the Magen David (Jewish star) in the window and shouted, “Esso!”

The services were conducted in English, Spanish, and Hebrew. I felt strangely drawn to the Spanish prayers, to chanting aloud in the native tongue. When the service ended, I kibitzed with the congregants. They were from all over the world: Spain, Mexico, USA, Colombia. The rabbis were a couple from Argentina.

Although I wasn’t spending the holiest of days with my family, I was glad to experience Yom Kippur in Latin America. It felt good to be part of a larger community. There I was, saying the same prayers as Jews around the world, atoning for my sins, fasting. It’s nice to know that almost anywhere I go in the world there will be a synagogue for me to go to, the Magen David proudly displayed. Now if only that were the case with a good bagel.

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…”