Trogglehumper's Bad Dream

The telltale art

    With a vividness that rivals even the latest High Definition plasma technology, I dreamed a house made of stone and mortar that for me was the only home I seemed able to know.  The other orphans in the home wore practiced faces copied meticulously from Dickens and Dahl, designed to emote both pity and potential.  But not Marshall.  The oldest by far, he deliberately ignored all visitors and wiled away the daylight hours locked in his basement studio, allowing no child to cross the sacred threshold.  We were fascinated by him.  He had, it seemed, no interest whatsoever in adoption.  "The only family I need" he told us time and again "are my brothers Mic and Table".  He was right, too.  Marshall had it all.  He had fans in every country, and a recording contract that could keep him rolling in whatever he chose to roll in for centuries if his heart was able to keep up.  None of us knew why he continued to live in the orphanage.   Perhaps it was because he remained unmolested, able to turn out chart topper after chart topper with no fear of interruption or micro management.  Perhaps it was because he reveled in our idolatry.  The way we lined the halls, hoping to catch samples of lyrics or 808 tracks, clinging to what seeped through the walls as if it would fill the holes in our lives... it was pitiful, really, but fame is a drug just like any other.  It's potency catches the young like after school cigarettes and erodes sensibilities like so much lung tissue.
Though he paid us little heed, and shared none of his wealth, we worshiped him, blindly.  For all his faults, his presence certainly broke the monotony of selling ourselves to the occasional born again Christians, sterile yuppies and self imagined philanthropists.   For one thing, there was the elaborate tunnel system that he'd installed, which he used to discreetly slip to and from his helipad whenever he had important meetings, shopping trips, drug runs or concerts that called him away.   We were strictly forbidden from using the tunnels, but what child do you know who could resist such temptation, especially when the only authority around was senile and painfully naive?  We loved Mr. Kessler as much for his dedication to finding us families as for his blissful ignorance of all our misdoings.  It was a rare occasion indeed when he meddled in Marshall's affairs, or our own for that matter, and in keeping with this, he played little more than a walk on role in this dream.  At any rate, neither Mr. Kessler nor Marshall himself seemed to care too much that we ventured into the tunnels.  Some rules are flexible, more for show than anything, but the kabbash on entering the studio was one that both men emphasized would bear serious consequences, as witnessed by Junior, who was summarily dismissed into the downward spiral of foster care after he was caught attempting to lift a print from one of the blow up dolls our peroxide drenched idol left deflating in the dimly lit corridors. 
    It could have been fascination that drove me to break Marshall's cardinal rule.  He would have chalked it up to fanatic obsession, for his fame had made him blind to the cycle of power that drives us to rebel against those who dominate us.  It was jealousy, plain and simple.  He had found the secret that had eluded all of us.  He was needed, or at least was told as much all the time, and every instinct that would have kept me alive in the remotest of jungles screamed that his secret lay behind that padded door, guarded only by a fingerprint reader locking system.  For all his power and influence over the minds of the young, he was arrogant and believed that none of us would be so daft as to attempt to enter the shrine for fear of his wrath.  If he could have seen the true colour of our hearts, I am convinced he would have guarded himself much more carefully, but we were experts at the art of facade, more so than fans, execs and managers combined, and for this he saw only a gentle red where green glowed in the shadows.   
    It was simple really.  He was always careful when he left home for meetings, rendezvous with escorts and other such malignancies.  But when he was late for a gig, which happened all too often, he was careless, turning corners before the door had a chance to hermetically seal. It was one such night, his cape trailing out behind him like jet lag that he exited with telltale haste, leaving us in a haze of half chosen words about whatever city he was off to entertain - Hartford I believe it was.  I, however, was way ahead of him.  The slobbery blob of Trident was slipped into the latch unnoticed and the door fumbled with itself clumsily, granting me passage even as the din of distant rotor blades faded into the suburban normalcy. 
    It was smaller than I imagined.  The crew of Cribz would have had to choose their angles carefully and cut to commercial much quicker than normal if they'd been able to find this place, and would undoubtedly leave humbled and disappointed.  There were luxuries, to be sure, just not that many:  a solid gold jukebox with an impressive collection of '45's ranging from Aretha to Zappa, a real working Star Trek replicator, which I used to conjure up a steaming cup of Earl Gray (hot) and a recording setup like none I'd ever imagined.  This was a far cry from Terrance Howard's basement.  It was the real deal.  I fingered the 76 track mixer reverently and eyed the Sonic noise-limiting unidirectional mic hanging from the ceiling hungrily.  It called to me and I crossed to it impulsively, but was given pause mere steps away, by something unexpected in the corner.    What was an archaic oil painting doing here?  Why was the self appointed king of Caucasian rap painted into a Victorian picnic, surrounded by surrogates and work horses?  Why did he look so old and tired?  It made no sense.  A strange sensation awoke within me.  In all the years of rejection and false hope, I had known frustration.  It had hung like a mariner's albatross around my neck, stooping me away from the gaze of the successful, making me unwillingly penitent in the temple of the whole.  This was deeper, more carnal than jealousy and frustration. For the first time, I felt rage, inexplicable and blinding, filling my empty spaces, giving me the unparalleled strength of the bowflex infomercial models.  It was my first drink from the elixir of the powerful, and it sold me to their devilry just as it had to all those who tread these passages before me. 
    Knowing nothing of why or what for, I raised the frame above my head and let it fall over the sharpened spires of the platinum microphone.  A feedback loop screeched through the air as the canvas ripped, and faraway on a stage piled high with roses, an icon fell silent, his rapid aging and disintegration at first celebrated as elaborate stage theatrics, then written into the annals of history as another unexplained fall from grace.  A staged suicide?  An early retirement, well concealed?  Alien abduction?  The theories bounced off chat room walls for months before fading from memory, like so many unshuffled MP3's.  The truth remains a secret between you, me and the devil. 
    My third album is due out in August of this year.  My Lear jet awaits on the tarmac eager to sweep me through my west coast tour.  My own portrait sits in the corner.  I am following well worn footpaths.  What separates my destiny from that of my candy coated predecessor?  I, for one, share all I have with the other orphans, for they are family, and family is everything.  Besides, you never know when the very roots that feed and support you will wend their way into a poison that they may send skyward with the same vigor they always had for satisfying the thirst of the high and mighty, whose thirst they long to make their own.  Then I woke up.         

Land Shrimp!

Shrimp and their various flickering cousins are the first link in many a marine eco food web.  From slow moving behemoth whales to spirited frenetic fishes to
the occasional seafood restauranteur, there are few who do not delight in the sight of these delicious, cholesterol rich treats.  However, I will be the first to admit
that the shimp I find on my front porch beneath the welcome mat, under and in my shoes as well as all over the floor in the massage room hardly strike me as savory.
I am speaking of the plague like infestation of land shrimp that appear each rainy season here in the Monteverde zone.  Their name in Spanish is "camaroncitos" or
"tiny shrimps" and they are a complete mystery.  They really shouldn't be here.  No one can figure out how they fit into the eco system.  They only showed up here
recently and are about as welcome as the newest string of hotels, the corporate supermarket, and the Monteverde mall.  Perhaps they arrived together, born from the same
primordial ooze. 

The shrimp live underground as eggs/larva for most of the year, and about 90% of their life cycle is spent as such in the dark.  When the rains come, they rise en masse, reproduce and die, creating a crunchy
carpet that can be thick enough to obscure a floor's natural color.  They seem to have first appeared at the hotel El Establo, which frequent readers of this blog may recognize
as the subject of many a vitriolic rant.  It is the source of most of Monteverde's light, air and physical pollution, and remains the root of many of the zone's labor issues as well.
Anyway, the shrimp seem to be exceedingly good at two things:  jumping up and down in place, and dying.  It's interesting to see a creature as acrobatic as that burn out so quickly. 

Linguist, Cunning Passes away at 71

I awoke early here in Alajuela this morning.  I can never sleep the night before a flight.  I strolled into the courtyard of my hostel armed with a cup of coffee, this book and my ever trusty ipod.  I settled in, read about 30 pages, the shuffle delivering Zap Mama, Led Zeppelin, Wilsin and Yandel, Frank Zappa and finally, George Carlin.  It was one of Carlin's routines about dying - the one in which he proclaims -I'm an american, I expect a little cancer in my food and water!  I'm a loyal American and I'm not happy unless I let government and industry poison me a little bit every day.-  He goes on to rail against the macho assholes who say If I'm ever comatose, just pull the plug.  I say Fuck you, leave my plug alone!  Get an extension cord for my plug!  If you find out I got a hole I didn't know I had, put a fuckin' plug in it!I wandered inside and got on the free internet computer only to see that the man whose voice was wafting into my ears passed away yesterday from heart failure.  I know that Garrett, Eric and probably others will write full eulogies, but I just wanted to say that I will miss George terribly, and that I'm glad he brought the talent, cynicism and humor that he did to the world. 

Health Scare Post Script

Okay,
so I bit the bullet and on Wednesday went to Juan Pablo, one of two private dentists here in Monteverde.  He took x-rays, did a full, thorough cleaning, and actually examined each tooth carefully before diagnosing anything.  After forty-five minutes or so, he proclaimed that I have all of zero cavities and most likely didn't have any in the two teeth that were torn apart by the clinic.  His word for the public clinic's handiwork was "assasination".  The visit, cleaning, x-rays, etc. wound up running me a whopping $38 US dollars. 

Mental note: just because it is free doesn't make it worth the pain...

   

Through the eyes of a child

This is my place, reflected.

Universal Health Scare

Millions of people, including some kids I know are without health insurance in the US.  Many of the lucky ones who have coverage pay up to 50% of their monthly income on premiums (like my mother, for example).  Many others don't actually receive the benefits they are promised.  Most of us have seen Michael Moore's Sicko (or at least The Incredibles), and know the common arguments.  We know the evils of HMO's.  We know how they make a killing denying benefits and cutting people off from their replacement organs.  Very few people would argue that the United States has a brilliant health care system that serves all its citizens fairly - and those who would make such an argument probably aren't poor, middle class or in need of pre-approval for life saving surgery. 

There are some very strong arguments out there to universalize the health care system and put it in federal/state government's hands.  Let it be said that I believe that this is possible, and that it is a good idea, depending on how it is realized.  The system is thoroughly broken, and needs something needs to happen soon to fix it.  I was a huge fan of Bill and Hillary's efforts to overhaul health care in 1992.  I am a supporter of Barak Obama's current proposals.   A good start would certainly be cutting administrative costs and protecting children.  I agree that we're not yet ready for a completely federally run healthcare system and that, like it or not, we are going to see private insurance and providers carry us through at least the next generation or two of Americans. 

I live in a country (Costa Rica) that has universal health coverage for every citizen, administered and paid for by the federal government.  I live in a country that has four million citizens, so this is in fact possible.  The health care here pretty much is broken, but in a different way than America's... While the system up there is corrupt, held together like shattered safety glass, ours could be more described as moth eaten and full of holes.   

For the first two years I was here, i found no occasion to see a doctor or a dentist.  My health was fine, and I just happily buzzed along, assured by the fact that I had a card that entitled me to services whenever I needed them.  Most of my local friends from the US who needed serious medical care chose to go to private medical clinics, as the word on the street is that the best practicioners end up there.  Most of my students and Tico friends went to the public clinic.  Since we got the positive results about the baby, we have done one ultrasound through a private clinic (better quality video and pics) that cost us around $50.  Not bad for a check up and full baby monty (okay, not the FULL monty - we still don't know the gender).   Since then, we've been taking advantage of the free public services.  I must say, that while it is nice to not have co-pays, premiums, pre-existing conditions, etc. to contend with, the sustem here has been rather maddening. 
Sandra went for her first check-up and was immediately labeled "high-risk" for "obesity" and advanced age.  She is a little big for four months, but to call her Obese?  And she is 36 years old... Anyway, the local doctor told her she couldn't receive any more services until she went down to Puntarenas hospital for a battery of tests. 
Puntarenas hospital is one of the scariest, most unhealthy places on planet Earth, right up there with Abu Ghraib.  There are always people bleeding in the waiting room, patients get lined up in beds in halls and people with broken bones leave equipped with paper mache casts that barely hold their limbs in place, often at funny angles.   the next stop after Puntarenas is always a private clinic... (Not all the hospitals are that bad, but it is the closest to us...)
Sandra took the three hours public bus trip down to the hospital on a tuesday morning.  The bus arrived at 8:30 AM, and she headed into the maternity unit.  She was promptly greeted and told to come back the following Friday, as there was no one who could attend to her that day.  The bus back to Monteverde didn't leave until 2:30, so she spent a total of 11 hours waiting in the sun and traveling on rocky roads to get an appointment.  There is no phone reservation system.  Talk about high risk...
    the following Friday, I took off from school and went down with her for the second attempt.  We arrived again at 8:30 in plenty of time for our 9:00 appt.  We were called into the specialist's office at nearly 11:00, and the appointment lasted all of six minutes.   The doctor listened to the baby's heart, felt Sandra's belly and told us that she is fine and there was absolutely no reason for her to have come down, risking a miscarriage on the bus.  He was furious at the clinic doctors in Monteverde. 
So now we're cleared to get tests done in Monteverde.  To do so, one has to be at the clinic before 6:30 am to get in line (otherwise all the day's appointments get filled).  Twice now she has gone to turn in fluid samples and been turned away.  We did manage to  get in one day and were told she has a UTI and given antibiotics. 
But wait, there's more!  I decided that since we were having such luck with our pre-natal care, I'd pay a visit to the clinic dentist.  Sandra got an appointment for last Thursday at 7:00 and we all went together.  I waited in line and was selected for a 10:00 appointment.  Everyone around was red with envy.  We got Bismark a vaccination  that he needed and Sandra's check up wound up being on time and easy. 
At 9:00 or so, the dentist came out of the office and called a name.  No one answered.  She called the next name and that too was met with silence.  I sauntered over and asked how many people were ahead of me, and she said "Aw, just come on in."  So far so good.  I sat down in the well used chair and stared into the familiar mouth illuminating light.  My first check up in three years.  A simple cleaning, right?  Wrong!   
I opened up and she peeked in, immediately counting "1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9... nine cavities" she pronounced to her assistant.  I thought to myself, "what is she doing?  She hasn't even touched any teeth.... and she's... Were's the little mirror?  Where's the little metal tooth scraper thingy?  When is she going to ask what flavor of tooth polish I'd like?  I sure hope they have cherry!"  It was around that point in my inner monologue that I felt the first wave of pain and realized that she was drilling.  No warning, no anesthetic, just a piercing shrill electric drill.  I ran my tongue over my teeth quickly the moment she took a break, and two back molars were already hollowed out.  The assistant came over and filled them from a squeeze tube of liquid metal.  When they were filled, I asked her to stop and said I'd like to get a second opinion about the other seven cavities.  She said she was done anyway, because the rules prohibit her from filling more that two at a time.  She handed me another appointment for next Tuesday, ominoustly labeled "cleaning and care" and called in the next patient, who sat down before I was out the door.  I considered rescuing them, as she fired up the drill again, but this one seemed to expect what was coming. 
Needless to say, I made an appointment with a private dentist.  It will be worth the chunk of paycheck for peace of mind. 

Last night I couldn't sleep for the pain in my jaw.  They put too much metal in, and I'm pretty sure the handiwork will have to be filed down soon.  When I did finally sleep, I dreamed I was on an assembly line and anonymous people in medical masks kept cutting pieces of me off and replacing them with things like old tennis shoes, a blender, and bicycle parts.   

The moral of the story is that our signs need more that just calls for Universal health care, because quality should probably be part of the equation as well...

Malling Ticos, Mauling forest

Where does one expect to encounter a mall?  Scottsdale, AZ; Green Hills, TN; Los Angeles, CA; London.
It's hard to imagine these cities without them.  We love to hate them, and I for one used to find myself at them far more often than logic ever directed.  Movies, cheap clothes, expensive clothes, not to mention all the food court action your bowels can handle - and more!
    Monteverde has been crying for a mall, and needs one the way farmers need pesticide.  Well, we're going to get one, so it would seem.  Several local business owners have gotten together and purchased a nice chunk of land on the Eastern slope of the Santa Elena Valley.  The property itself used to look like this:

Currently, it looks more like this:

There are those that are really excited about the influx of US business interests in Monteverde, such as these folks , who will be financing most of the businesses that buy into the mall.  Monteverde's younger population is also apparently quite excited about the prospects of our very own mall.  A recent "study" by the mall developers shows unequivocally that 100% of Monteverde's teenagers (and their mothers) think the town is boring and would be better with a mall.  it would offer more shopping options (imports), employ more workers and ensure lower prices.  How can you argue with that?  The science was sound, and a nice little pie chart colored a delicate rose seems to justify the ends perfectly. 

There are also those rabblerousers in town that are not so fond of inviting Wal-mart (here called "Hiper-Mas") Macdonald's and Gap to throw up stores in the middle of one of the world's last remaining Cloud Forests.  That would, by my own study, include just about everyone else.  By everyone else, I'm not excluding the same youth and parents that are supposedly such dogged supporters of the construction.  Crazily enough, when I had my fifth and sixth graders design their own survey about mall development and environmental impact, nearly 90% of the young people interviewed showed major trepidation about the mall's impact on local business and ecosystems.  So did their mothers.  Most indicated that they are indeed often bored here (isn't that a prerequisite for adolescence?), and that the night tours to see the same tarantulas that crawl across their bathroom tile isn't exactly as exciting to them as it is to the gringoes.  However, they are also pretty sure that a mall will not alleviate said boredom, especially since it looks like the complex will not include a movie theater or video arcade, as originally promised.  This is the billboard that at one point advertised the coming of the mall. It's been like this for months...

The sign reads:
No to Parking lots!  Yes to Parks!  A mall?  What a disgrace!

The mall will not be renting space.  The lots are for purchase only.  $2000 per square meter.  That means a store the size of a Lincoln Navigator will sell for around $20,000.  Want in?  Now's the time to buy.  Financing is available (see above).  Did I mention that several of the developers work for them? 

The other fascinating piece of the mall puzzle for me is that the developers have sought the help of The Cloud Forest School to improve it's image and standing in the community.  They have asked for advice and collaboration on reforesting part of the property, and perhaps squeezing in some native plant gardens in between big box stores.  I am loathe to help on one hand, but then again, musn't one make the most of any reality, no matter how ugly it may be?  We are proposing that the mall developers take a proactive role in Monteverde's fledgeling recycling program.  We'd like to see the mall not only plant a few trees, but put standards for waste/energy management in place that could serve as a model for other businesses.  If they want our help, we will gladly give it, but that doesn't mean we will be poster children for a monster that brings more erosion and deforestation to an already fragile biosphere. 

The cold truth is that the mall is coming wherther we like it or not.  It will be completed by the end of 2009 (so it is said) and it will change the face of Monteverde forever.  All that we can hope at this point is that they take as many of our suggestions as possible, and that the people of this town see it for what it is and continue to value the local recources, locally owned businesses and diversity that makes this place such an amazing community.  Let's hope that the erosion can be contained. 

phew

The academic year has come to a close, with much pomp and circumstance.  While the past weeks have left me exhausted, I find myself feeling full.  We successfully pulled off a graduation dinner, a full day of photos and uniforming, a graduation ceremony that would have left even the Ivy league wilting,  and an end of the  year trip. 
This year we were going to go to the amusement park in San Jose, but at the last minute they decided to close due to heavy rains and low tourism.  I'm just glad we called ahead before showing up at the locked iron gate, feeling as so many children in Willy Wonka's London.  After much scramble and several rounds of phone calls, we arranged a trip to the pools in Guacimal.  it turns out that the owner of La Presa restaurant is one of my favorite Santa Elena residents, Obaldo from the Vargas market.  He went down in the morning and opened up the restaurant and pools just for us.  It was very sweet and the students all rewarded him by purchasing mountains of candy, gum and chips.  When said items are contraband, as they are at the CEC, their value on a school outing becomes grossly inflated, as do all abdomens involved, for a day of pre-teen sugar debauchery.   
     We swam, we splashed, we returned to school for pizza and movies, and then most of the class stayed the night in the classroom.  We hiked up to the new kiosk late in the evening in the rain and shared scary stories.  I told one of my favorites, a true ghost story that dates back to my time at the Putney school, and promptly learned that the one partent who was helping me chaperone this adventure, a gringo dad from Colorado, met his wife and graduated from Putney in the '70's.  Truly small world.  Needless to say we met up for a beer after the students left the following day and exchanged memories that neither of us could have imagined we'd be able to share here on the mountain.  The uncanny link between Monteverde and Vermont continues to mature the more time I spend here. 
    It was a terrific year, and I feel proud and satisfied with all that has transpired in our community.  My students are well prepared for high school, and it heartens me to know that the majority of them will be back in five short weeks to take on a new year.  I'm already looking ahead to the entering class, and will be there to welcome them with open arms when we return in July.  for the time being, I have a couple of weeks of massage work and rest ahead of me, and a trip to the states to visit Connecticut, New York and Tennessee planned.  I sincerely hope I can see as many readers of this blog as possible during this trip, and look forward to all the adventures yet to come.  My one regret is that the new Batman movie is scheduled to be released right on the day that I have to return to Central America.  Bummer.  I'll have to rent the fuzzy Spanish version, complete with silhouettes of fellow theater goers, and in theater commentary...

   

Hey, hey we're the...

Life moves in amazing spirals.  As the rains return to soak the earth and spring new leaves out of bone dry branches, my little family outstretches deeper roots and soaks up nutriment of a different sort.  Sandra and I made our love legal a few weeks ago, and we now have a document that certifies our familial intentions.  We married in the office of Don Guerin Lacayo, with Milton and Rebecca as witnesses.  Costa Rican marriage law is  mysoginistic, to put it lightly, and we both had to choke back an acidic mixture of spite and laughter as I swore to win bread and she took an oath to cook and clean.  What was clear was that neither of us needed oaths or promises to guide what our hearts had already sworn to. 
The ceremony was private, but we set out for the farmer's market afterward, announcing our new status to friends and vendors alike, and we celebrated in style with Janet and Michael the following week in a party for the record books.  It feels perfect to be sharing this time and this love with such a beautiful sagastic pair as Sandra and Bismark, and we are all excitedly awaiting the arrival of the baby, who contiunues to develop as s/he should.    We are truly blessed to have the community and friends that surround us.  Thank you to all who have wished us well and whom we wish the best and warmest lives imaginable.  We love you!  Thank you also to my sixth graders who, in the midst of their own graduation took the time to arrange a baby shower.  We are still a ways from October, but you have no idea how much it meant to walk into the classroom to your smiles and consideration. 

morphology

The morpho butterfly is one of Monteverde's flashiest icons.  They are seen encased in glass in the supermarket, resting at fruit stands in the butterfly gardens, and lilting by my bedroom window on lazy Saturday mornings.  They are sophisticated jungle denizens, experts in the culinary intricacies of rotten fruit.  A morpho, for example, will wend its way directly to the one banana in the discarded bunch that has been on the ground long enough to ferment, but not so long that the sugar has eroded away.  The wayard insect will then spend hours sipping the intoxicating syrup until it cannot fly straight.  That's right, morphos can go shot for shot with the best of them, even Peter O' Toole.

Morphos are known for their bright blue wings, but the little known secret is that their wings are not actually the deep azure they appear to be.  It is a trick of powder and sunlight.  The morphos emerge from their cocoons dusted with a blue sheen that reflects sunlight.  Get one out of the sun and its wings magically transform into a semi translucent dull brown.  The shine is all for show.  to quote my man, Sage Francis, "They're just like me and you when the smoke and cameras disappear."  Well, not exactly, but close enough.  I'm even more of a dull white when the lights are on. 

This morpho was at the end of its life cycle when it flew into my house yesterday.   It's wings worn and tattered, its swansong extending into the witching hour even as its kin rested from a had day of hard drinking.  I tried to guide it back outside to roost, but all it would do was pose and flaunt a dying beauty that I see sweep through the dense underbrush every day, and always draws the eye.  I can only imagine the effect this dashing brilliance would have if my eye were compounded.