Costa Rica conversations (Part 2)

I’m back. And I’m bound and determined to finish my blogging on Costa Rica. A tough thing to do when you get swallowed by your work.
But I’ve been anxious to finish with some of my memories. Yesterday, I was reflecting back to the trip to the Volcan Arenal, Costa Rica‘s active volcano. The whole thing was a bit wild, literally and figuratively …

The long winding road

“Wow, that’s some bridge,” I told our tour guide Rodolfo in Spanish.
The van wagon, or micro-bus as they called it, had rolled up on a line of cars waiting for oncoming traffic to cross a very narrow bridge.
It wasn’t rickety. It seemed sturdy. But it was surrounded by twisted rusting metal. It spanned the length of a rushing river. That river’s banks and the mountain slopes near it were denuded.
“They built this after a landslide destroyed the original bridge,” Rodolfo said. Since we were not moving, he was able to turn from his seat and point to the towering cliff above us. We were just outside the borders of San Ramon. “About two years ago, we had heavy rains. It rained and rained. It finally brought the mountain down. It took everything out, the road, the bridge, everything.”
When we finally get moving, we could see the rushing water as we drive over. It just rains a lot, he said. Fortunately, no one was one the road at the time of the slide, so there were not injuries, he said.
This was one of the first introductions Bill and I got to the jungles of Costa Rica. I had traveled around them as a child. But obviously, the wilds change. And I was anxious to see, hear and feel it all.
From Ciudad Colon, where my cousin lives, out to the volcano was a two-hour drive. As we drove, a part of me just wanted to enjoy the fact I was being driven around. He had driven past the city, which then became rows of home.
Before long, the space between homes increased, until they almost entirely disappeared and thick jungle hugged the sides of the tiny road. The tropical moisture has taken its toll on all of Costa Rica’s roads. But this road to Arenal has been especially hard hit thanks to the merciless weather. Holes are not unusual. In some cases, the road has been cut in half.
Along one mountain side was a piece of the highway that had been reduced to one lane because the land that had been holding it was washed away. About half of the lane on the cliff side was gone. To remedy the situation, warning signs have been put up and cars must yield in an orderly manner.
Our poor tour guide. I treated him like we were in Cash Cab. I was full of questions, which he patiently answered. He told me a lot about the terrain. He took us to a lake with a view of the volcano and introduced us to the captain of a small tourist boat who took us out on a tour.
When we arrived, it was pouring rain. Despite that, the captain was out giving a tour. So we took shelter under a tarp that covered a small vendor’s truck. It was manned by a young man who was selling everything from coconuts to chips and drinks.
And we started to chat.
“Hopefully it will warm up so you folks won’t get too cold,” the young man said. “I’m freezing.”
I hated to say anything to him, but I felt warm. It was almost humid to me, even though it was pouring rain. Even Lucky was fine, running around and having the time of his life in the rain. I finally did cave and tell him that we had come from a dry desert climate and were rather enjoying the rain.
“Really? I’m freezing,” he said. “Actually I do have an uncle in California. I’m not sure where he lives. He lives somewhere near Los Angeles.”
“Really? Well then while your freezing, he’s baking,” I told him. “It’s over 100 degrees where we live in the desert areas. Los Angeles is in the high 90’s. It’s like sitting in an oven. Even when you get in your car.”
“Wow,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to go to the U.S. But I need to learn more English. I’ll be going back to school. I’ll make it there one day.”
I told him he’d be surprised how many people in the U.S. speak Spanish. He smiled. We chatted some more. I got the sense he really wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Physically, he was selling pipas (coconuts) by the side of the road. Mentally, he was trotting about the promising streets of California. I didn’t want to burst his bubble. Who cares if life here is more am/pm and less Spagos. I let the boy dream.
Soon enough, I would learn that our economy is not the only one suffering, though. After we finished up there, we went to grab some lunch and I finally got the chance to have a conversation with Rodolfo about the tourism, one of Costa Rica’s biggest industries.
“It’s terrible right now,” he said.
Terrible?
Yep. Rodolfo has been providing tours for eight years. And business has always been good, he said. But when the economy collapsed here, it did there, too.
“I run bicycle tours for companies,” he said. “A lot of cyclists come here wanting to pedal around the roads. I take them around anywhere they want to go. And they are happy. But the companies are just not spending the money anymore. We had eight tours scheduled earlier this year. Guess how many actually happened?”
I shrugged, “Half?”
“One,” he said. To make ends meet, he has started working at a friend’s auto repair shop. Fortunately, his buddy lets him almost freelance. This is how he’s biding his time until the economies start to recover.
We talked some more, mostly about the volcano and the insanity of living and taking a vacation at hotels so close to an active volcano.
“I stayed at a hotel here once,” he told me. “I was lying in bed and I swear I could feel the vibrations. I heard the booms. I don’t know. It just seems like a bad idea to live so close to it. But everyone here just seems used to it.”
I had to agree. Not long after that, we got our meal, filled out tummies and headed down past the lush greenery back to the city and … into the horrid traffic.
Exhausting, yes. But beautiful. And memorable. I want to take that tour again and get another chance to talk to Rodolfo.
Anyone want to come with us?

Conversations from Costa Rica (Part 1)

Almost a week home and I finally emerge.
I am so sorry. It’s been an interesting few days. I’ll go into them at a later date. Not now. Right now, I wanted at least begin to spill the contents of my head about the trip to Costa Rica. I am surprised to be writing these words but: I miss it. And I wish I could move there. I just have no idea how to make a living. But if I find a way, like my like uncle likes to say, if you can count, don’t count on me (being here anymore that is)
But while I was there, I became a Chatty Cathy.
So I was chatty. Big deal. Actually it was a big deal. I found myself doing the reporter thing a lot because I desperately wanted to absorb as much as I could about the people I was spending time with.
I talked with the cabbies, I talked with our tour guide. I chatted with the young salesman who sold me the coconuts. And I asked lots of questions of my uncles and relatives. I had questions. And I got some great answers … and some interesting looks. Here‘s the first installment of my conversations of Costa Rica:

Taxi Please!
I did not catch their names and they never caught mine. But that didn’t keep the conversation from flowing.
“There’s not a whole lot to see in the city,” our first cabbie told us. “The museum is the best choice.”
We had approached our cabbie while he was parked in front of the main bus stop in San Jose, Costa’s Rica’s crowded capitol. The cabbie took us on a wild ride, diving between vehicles and through crosswalks. Pedestrians, many of them used to insanity of the traffic, boldly leaned in toward the cars. Their confidence in the driver’s ability to navigate around them was impressive if not well founded.
“There’s a big crime problem,” the cabbie told us. He went on to say, as unsafe as the big city was years ago, it was even worse these days as immigrants from Nicaragua flooded in. Our cabbie was surprisingly diplomatic about the issue. Others I spoke to, were less courteous.
Our diplomatic cabbie told us that many Costa Ricans are unhappy with how the immigrants don’t seem invested in their host country. They throw their trash on the ground, he said. Many are unskilled laborers desperate to survive the global downturn. Problem is that Costa Rica has been hit as bad as the rest of the world. So while some immigrants resort to hawking everything from cell phone accessories to plastic Bic pens for 100 colones (about 20 cents) apiece on the street, others have turned to crime. Jewelry, cameras, cell phones, hang on tight to your belongings or you may never see them again.
The conversation took on a lighter tone on our ride back to the bus station (after a very pleasant visit at Costa Rica’s Museo Nacional)
We hailed another cabbie, or rather stopped him, as he was leaving after dropping off people who were obviously tourists. One of them wore a college baseball cap. They left one of the cab’s back doors open. I ran to stop him.
“Well now that you’ve stopped would you take us to the Coca Cola bus stop?”
Oddly he seemed somewhat reluctant but then he said “sure.”
He told me he had picked up the group just before us at Pavas.
“What’s in Pavas?” I asked.
“Oh, lots of things,” he said. Bill and I were missing out apparently. There was lots of shopping and the national stadium where they worship soccer I suppose. Why those tourists came to San Jose, God only knows. I guess everyone is curious about the capitol, he said. He encounters a lot of tourists, he said. They jump in and, to his relief, at least speak in short choppy sentences. Or they may show him a brochure of a hotel where they are staying and give him the “take me there” hand gesture.
Good thing for a man who’s most practiced English phrase it “No speak-a Inglish.”
Sometimes when communication becomes impossible, he pulls out his cell phone, calls a friend who can speak English, and has him translate over the phone. It’s worked so far but for one time. In weird incident, he said a black man and a white woman shoved their suitcases in the trunk, jumped in the cab, then tried to tell him where they wanted to go. But neither spoke a word of Spanish and neither could make clear where they wanted to go.
The cabbie did what he usually does, pulled out the cell and tried to call his English speaking friend. As he did, the duo suddenly jumped out, and tried to hightail it out of there.
“I barely had time to get their suitcases out of my car before they took off,” he said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he may have been lucky to survive that day.
When the riders are non-English or non-Spanish speakers, then they are all screwed, he said.
“I get them where they want to go, but other than knowing they’re human, I have no idea who I have in the cab,” he said.
Stay tuned. More fun conversations from Costa Rica to come.
GT.

The party rolls on

As I write this, we have moved from the busy and crowded area that my uncle lives in (Alto de Guadalupe), to the much less developed area of my cousin. I'd tell you the exact location, but I have no clue.

So, let's recap:

* Saturday was a day of rest after a full day of parties Friday.

To be honest, I kind of freaked out a little bit. My grandma's house was crowded and insane. And after a while, Lucky got tired and cranky, so we left early, over the objections of the rest of the family (who didn't fly the whole day before).

But we went and ran some errands in town with my uncle. We went to the bank and exchanged money (roughly 745 colones per dollar), then went to the store. There we bought diapers, milk, juice, sodas, razors and shaving cream for 15,020 colones ($25.84). We estimate that back home, the diapers alone would have been about $13. So, as you can tell, the dollar is still pretty mighty here.

* Sunday was a busy day, with many events planned. I just want to make a note here to say what an amazing host my uncle has been.

Not only did he have our family as guests (screeching 2-year-old included), but he had his brother (my dad) who is limited in movement with his cane and his "sponge" girlfriend in the house while being one the lead organizers for the weekend's events. He was gracious host, up every morning setting the table and putting out breakfast, and acting as taxi for his guests, making two trips per event in his small car.

Friday was big, Sunday was huge.

We started, of course, with a mass at a small little chapel within walking distance of my grandmother's house, where 98 percent of the people in attendance were family.

Then, we moved to a banquet hall on the grounds of the college of engineering nearby. The place was decked out, the band was booked and food and drink flowed aplenty.

Things started slow. My uncle gave a speech, and the band played while people got their food.

But when the food was done, the slideshow put together by my cousin Alfonso, brought everyone to tears.

And then we danced and danced. That was one hell of a party.

This was likely one of the most joyous family parties I've ever been to. And I've been to some whoppers. All of the cousins were just so happy to be together.


Life hasn't always been easy for us cousins, there have been moments of resentment, things we regret. It was all forgotten and I just wanted to hold all of them. I was just so happy to be there and so happy to share this with my son and my husband. It was just the best. I haven't felt that type of joy in a very long time.


After the party wrapped up, some of us went to my cousin Marcel's house (which had been my family's house when we had lived here). He has completely renovated the place and it looks incredible. We hung out for a little bit, until it was time to head back and get Lucky to sleep.

* And Monday, we rested. Though, we shopped, Bill made salsa. Yes, you read right, Bill made salsa for the Costa Rican family. And we had a small gathering and barbecue at my uncle's house. It was nice ... until it ended on weird note with everyone (aka my aunt) having had a bit too much to drink and either taking naps or going to bed early.

So, that's the summary for now. As more comes into my head, I'll vomit it onto this blog (how's that for a visual?).

Start of the journey home

By Wednesday morning we knew were in trouble.

"What do we have left to pack?" Bill asked me.

"Not much," I said.

After a 25-year absence, I would be boarding a flight bound for Costa Rica where I would see my entire extended family. But first Bill and I had to survive a nine- to 10-hour ordeal with an anxious 2-year-old and an even more anxious 72-year-old.

So here it is in a nutshell. We were packed and had all our bags ready Wednesday night. Even the 72-year-olds (my father). Bill and I were taking count. Making sure everything was the right weight and making sure that we did not miss taking we needed.

Bill's question was more of a request for reassurance. I had asked a few dozen times what we had left to pack. Enough clothes for a week and a few days for me, him and the boy. So that question was asked often.

We left our Inland Empire apartment late morning Wednesday for the last time for the week. Got a new pair of glasses. Indeed ladies and gents, I now have reading glasses. Bill got some pretty cool glasses ... FASHIONISTA!

Then we headed to my sister-in-laws where we slept on her floor.

"I have plenty of blankets," she told us. Minutes before, we found out that an air mattress we had invested in had a pump that would require a 12 hour charge. We had eight hours left before we were leaving.

Nice!

We set up a ton of blankets and the floor. At 9:30 p.m. turned out the lights. That's when the Lucky show began.

God bless him, the boy got up several times and turned the lights on for us. It was perhaps four times. He wandered and played. And the clock ticked. He jumped on me. Then he hopped on pop.

It was, exhausting. He finally fell asleep at 12:30 a.m. Four hours later I got him up. He was not a happy camper.

We arrived at my father's house soon after and to no one's surprise, all hell was breaking loose.

My sister texted me. COME AND TAKE HIM! GET HERE NOW! A superstitious man with a number of anxieties, he was was burning something that he was sure would bring him luck and ward off the bad mojo. We were almost to his house and he was stalling putting on his socks and shoes.

Bill walked in under the impression that he was completely ready to go. So, he went in and my sister said, OK, you're ready, right? And he looked at her like she was stupid and barked at her in Spanish no, he couldn't go yet because he didn't have his socks or shoes on. So, she got down and put his two layers of socks (one a support because of his diabetes) and shoes and got him up and going.

But no, not ready yet. Even though Bill made it out, my father didn't. He made one last trip to his room, and closed the door because he had to get his money ... and no one else can see where he hides it. Why? Because he´s convinced that the second his back is turned, we will steal it.

So, Bill's tapping his foot waiting, Steph (my sister) is fuming, and Lucky's whining because he's awake and trapped in his car seat. Steph and Bill used every ounce of their powers of persuasion to make him move faster. We had to stop and pick up some of his medicine (thank you 24-hour pharmacy with a drive-through). He wanted to get breakfast, and yet was dragging his feet because he needed to get some CD´s to bring with him.

Long story short (trust us, it's a lot), we finally get to the airport and checked in. It was hell carrying all the stuff through the airport, but we got on the plane on our way to Costa Rica (via Dallas).

As usual, my father's demands continued throughout the trip. But at this point, we're pretty used to them. The usual stuff, needing to go to the bathroom (with the fasten seatbelt sign on), needing food (and getting a burger he ate the toppings off of, then about half the burger) and then refusing the in-flight food (then complaining that they didn't feed him on the plane to the family).

But, we made it alive and well, and have survived the first few days of family. We'd post pictures, but we don't have the proper cords and plugs, so you'll see them as soon as we can figure that part out.

You are entering another dimension...

So here’s the itinerary, folks.
Dateline, Cartago, Costa Rica: Mass at 11 a.m. at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Which means I have less than a month to make it up to God and apologize for all the times I made the comment Jesus Saves, but Gretzky scores on the rebound.
Noon: Lunch in a restaurant to be taken over by the clan. This includes at least three educated, and well dressed, fully functioning alcoholics. One of which has absolutely no filter (who spent the first meal with her recently widowed brother, asking me when I was going to start popping out the “bebies.”) So, please, remain seated and keep your hands and arms inside the ride at all times.
That’s Friday. Saturday is a baby shower. A day of normalcy (unless they look at Bill and Lucky and ask “Who brought the testosterone?”)
Sunday, we get to go to Mass … again. Which means I’ll have one day to grovel for forgiveness for all the horse manure I’m going to pull the day before. Oh, it will happen.
Then off to the hall they have rented at the College of Engineering for a grand party with food, drink, cake, drink, dancing, more drink, videos, drinking, pictures, drinking while watching videos and looking at photos and even more drinking. And then we’ll drink some more. And then we stagger home around 7:30 p.m., where we’re probably continue drinking (hey, Grandma’s turning 100. We’re going to drink until she looks 40.)
Actually, if we all drank and got shitfaced, my Aunt “Whitey” would be so underwhelmed. The woman has a bottle of Jack for breakfast. Aren’t the rest of us wusses.
Fortunately, I’ll have the rest of the week to sleep it off before the Desert Sun sees me again.
This whole celebration is just building into this huge event. I know it’s a big deal (it got our asses down there). But it is a bit intimidating seeing everything mapped out in an itinerary by my uncle. I feel like I should walk in with my notebook and a press pass. I don’t usually attend these events unless I’m writing about them for the paper.
I’m sure I’ll have fun. I’m just a cynic. There’s so much room for me to be sarcastic. For me to dig my claws in and go for a laugh. I’ve never taken my family seriously. In fact, I plan on following some of them around with a video camera, hoping to turn the highlights into money on “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”
Stay tuned, team coverage.