Cedro's perfect dream

Funny little self promo

About a week ago, a friend of our development coordinator came for a Costa Rican visit and spent most of the week shooting footage of the school and interviewing teachers for a new school promo video.  She works for gearwire, a musician's tech website based in Chicago.  Somewhere in between class, Lorax rehearsals, and doing classroom observations, I did a series of interviews about caring for my instruments here in the cloud forest (during the interviews, you can hear my disgruntled students outside the room - they finished their Spanish class, and I kept them from their lunch for a few minutes while I blabbed about mold).  The video clips are mildly interesting, and those readers that have high speed connections will actually be able to view them so I figured I'd post the links here now that I'm all famous and on the interweb and all... Please let me know how they came out!

Talkin' bout:

clubs

flute

mandolin

guitar

djembe

moldy mandolin case

join in any gringo games

Picture this:  You are a mother of two, "living" in a cardboard room with a leaky, corrugated excuse for a roof, and no control over anything in your life.  Water and electricity run rampant through everything except their intended receptacles, and at twenty-nine, you find yourself the proud owner of a double bed and a television.  Okay,on second thought, you do have control over what channel you watch after 11pm.  There. The no good hijo de puta father of your children has long since become a statistic maker, running away just as your own father did in the time-honored fashion of twenty-three percent of the world's males when anything that even hints at responsibility or permanence presents itself to them.  You work ten to twelve hours a day at a cheese factory, pushing curds for just over a dollar an hour.  The rent eats three out of four weeks' salary.  The boys eat the rest, and are always hungry (the "poverty diet" should be hitting Miami any day now - look for the new how-to best seller out soon!) God knows where you come up with the money for clothes and the occasional taxi when the rain makes rivers of the roads, or you accidentally sleep until 5:10 am, but you do. 
    The blank, white faces on the other side of the factory's observation room glass, who parade curiously past like some sort of bizarre revolving collideogringoscope spend approximately two to three minutes of their vacations snapping pictures of your butt and tasting your cheese, their camera flashes washing out the color of your aching resentment.  On your day's only break, twenty minutes for lunch, you overhear them talking. 
"I can't believe that towel by the pool at (name of luxury mountainside hotel) had a spot on it! Gross"
"Yesterday I saw a cockroach. It was like...yuck!"
"Can you believe that restaurant charged thirteen percent tax?  What do they do with all that money?"
Socialized medicine and free clinics, so my boys don't keel over, thank you very much! You think to yourself, and the curds get an extra push.  At least the factory pays your social security.  This town is full of laborers who are paid less than you and who are fired and re-hired daily so employers don't have to pay this government tax.  You try not to let the thoughts poison you.  This is a tourist mecca, and everyone says that they're essential for the economy, no matter how whiney and pale they are.  When your job consists mostly of a singular cyclic arm motion, however, it is hard to banish the poison from your brain completely.  So what if they complain about the rain.  So what if they never shut up about their hotel that costs my monthly salary for one night having dirty towels.  We eat because of them.  At least I'm not back in Sonzopote, living with an alcoholic.  Gracias a dios.  Gracias, adios. 
    You have been working full time since you left school after eighth grade.  Your back, arms and hands are solid reflections of your years that would send Stallone himself right under the top.   You've never had a vacation.  Days off, yes.  Vacation?  That's something the gringoes do.  Who needs it?  There's laundry to do, and a new light plafon that you bought yourself which is not going to connect itself.  You know the so-called landlord will never do it.  Besides, the ways of gringoes are a mystery to you, and you don't have time to wonder.  Still...  They pay top dollar to watch you toil away, to stand in the rain and photograph the animals that spread your carefully wrapped garbage all over the dirt road, and to fling themselves suicidically from abandoned railroad bridges for a thrill and a good scream.  For the thousands of faces you've seen and complaints you've overheard, you still haven't the foggiest idea why these are the people that run the world.  They make no sense at all.  They think you'll understand them better if they speak their ridiculous language louder and more slowly at you.  They think you've never heard someone ask for directions to the reserve before.  Like it isn't the only thing at the end of the only road in town.  You point not to be rude or because of a lack of language skills, but because it is just that simple.  Can't they read their day's salary laminated superfluous tourist map of the town?

But let's spend another moment or two on the subject of gringo entertainment, shall we?  At a recent dinner gathering, a tica friend of mine asked me in earnest "Why is it that so many gringoes seem to use such a high percentage of their ingenuity to come up with creative, colorful ways to play around with their  own mortality? -Especially when they are so paranoid about sunburn and bug bites!"  I assumed from her word choice that she was tastefully omitting the fact that the rest of our ingenuity is usually devoted to playing with other people's mortality and standard of living...
    "A fair question.  Let me make sure I understand.  You're talking about the folks who come here to zipline, bungee jump, kite surf, sky dive, base jump, bull fight, raft the class fives, and generally put themselves in harm's way for a not-so-cheap thrill?"

"Exactly."  I couldn't tell whether the smile that accompanied this reply was a response to my acute perception or the fact that it took me a good two minutes to come up with words for all these activities in Spanish.  I still do falter when it comes to law, medicine and sports.  Just the other day I learned that a baseball pitcher is a "lanzador".  Cool word.   
    "The answer in my view is pretty simple.  It is a classic example of the over comfortable existence of the world's elite and the boredom factor that accompanies it leading to rash, illogical behavior."  I replied.  "Granted, there is no shortage of stupid thrill seeking in the developing world.  We have hordes of local zipline and bungee jumping guides, the rivers here are full of high-drop rope swings, and eager cliff divers, not to mention the fact that the world's biggest daredevils can without a doubt be found steering rickshaws in the slums of Bombay for dollars a day.  Some of it comes from having a brain that allows us to think outside of our own survival instinct and question the limits of our existence.  However, I still contend that the urge to take unnecessary risks largely is a product of the under-use of acetylcholine in the brain, which is a direct result of first world living, and subjugating all the world's threats until we have to invent them to keep things interesting."
    If you were the woman in the scenario painted above, you'd have enough to worry about between boys that are always out on the streets, working while ill so as to not use another of your fifteen days off per year, and providing a meal that consists of more than rice, beans and chips from the pulpe.  Your mind would be boggled by the way that the camera toting, sunblock smeared, direction asking loud mouths constantly seem to invite chaos to their temples and brag about the times they nearly lost their souls to the dementors of adventure. 
The worst story I've collected in this vein was recounted to me by Victor, an aged guide in Tortuguero.  He has a prosthetic left foot.  The appendage he was born with was lost in an industrial accident involving a crop duster and a company that for anonymity's sake I'll just refer to as "Schmiquita".  He told me that once he was asked about his foot during a tour and when he told the story, the young gringo asker replied "Awesome, dude!  That's a hell of a story! I'm jealous..."  Jealous....

It's enough to make me want to find that kid, strap him to a milk machine and bungee drop him out of a low flying plane after cancelling his insurance policy...    

   
 

Pipers at the gates of Dawn

    There is no way to avoid the stickiness of sand.  No matter how many times one takes that final dip in the cleansing surf, no matter how carefully feet and legs are dried and fit into sandals at water's edge, testing balance and patience, no matter how thoroughly limbs are washed at public taps after leaving the beach, a small slice of it invariably follows us home.  It spills out of bathing suit pockets, it clogs shower drains, it crunches into cracks in the polished floor that you must have swept hundreds of times...  It stays in your hair for weeks. 
    It is so soothing and comfortable when we first arrive, a brilliantly shimmering neutral zone between work and vacation that we cannot help but laugh at the sight of, and yet it is so annoyingly pervasive when we leave.  Though the sun heats it to a point beyond ordinary pain, we slip off our shoes and sink raw toes into it, allowing ourselves to melt like glass.  We entomb our bodies in it, exfoliating sins and molting sunburns.  We use it to build dream castles that last about as long as a pop star's career, and with it we measure our days both in quality and endurance.

    Gazing across the finite, restless waters of Bahia Salinas at the green hills of Nicaragua on the opposite shore, I find myself captivated far more by the respiratory movements of air and water than by the weight that years of labor struggles have put on this tenuous frontier.  Just as the Rio Grande and the Sonoran desert care little about the nationality of the tired feet that cross their rippling waves, this is a sister temple of nature and the human dramas that unfold here as Nicaraguans cross in search of work, are little more than dust in the corner of an eye that blinks mountains and cries oceans.  The tides ebb and flow like deep breath in aquamarine lungs, allowing passage only upon exhalation. 

There is a river here as well, a border of a different sort, where fresh becomes brackish, and brackish in turn gives way to the salt that stings the unsuspecting.  This river flows quickly at the tide's apex, a swirling conflict of currents, expunging trees and limbs the way a bird sheds unwanted feathers, and yet it slows to a trickle at it's opposite, leaving the shore naked and bleeding, tiny fish jumping capillaries while birds feast on what cannot escape to the awaiting jaws of the deep.

    The first dawn greets me with a double rainbow and bone dry storm clouds.  The wildly splashed colors seem to dive for the deepest rift in the bay, promising gold to those that can hold breath and handle the pressure.  These villas have seen the dry dunes of Playa Copal through twelve seasons of storms and brilliant sunsets.  The Italian owners long ago took their place among the most tranquil, helpful inhabitants of the planet.  I walk the beaches in near silence, gathering salt, shells and rock to me as a mother hen keeps her brood.  These however, are less demanding.  One ocean's trash, is a man's simple treasure, as the saying goes... 

    The beach is shared by few.  I see no sign of anyone for thirty-six blissful hours.  It's just the gentle fall of wave on sand and I.  Just the deep blue sky, the silky clouds and I.  Only the vast expanse of rocks, shells and I.  Only the loudly complaining horde of vultures and - wait a second...vultures? 

Where there are vultures there must be... a giant ray, slaughtered, gutted and left humiliated and empty among the dunes.  I'm suddenly glad I haven't seen other humans, for now my instinct is to do unto them as they have done unto this massive fallen prince of the sea.   The owner of the villas tells me this is a common practice, that the meat is succulent, and haven't I ever tried it?  Once again I am tempted to return to my old vegan ways.  If only one could get more soy products in Monteverde...

 

I wash the image of the ray from my mind and swim.  The water is cool and the salt gentle on my skin.  The hours pass slowly, as do the days and as I watch the geckos hunt, I am reminded of the long hours spent within the confines of the Mehrangargh fort in Jodhpur India, where my fellow students and I would shout after the luminescent creatures, placing bets on which one would gulp this or that insect first.  Survival of the bored in tropical climes.
    There is a movement near the gate that delineates public from private beach front.  At first I believe that I'm seeing the largest snake head I've ever seen, but as it emerges from beneath the carefully laid footpath, I see that it is instead attached to the largest Iguana that these eyes have ever laid upon. 

I watch her ascent from afar.  She surprises me by scaling the small wall and jumping to the soft earth below.  She urinates and defecates, then makes a break for her lair.  Bathroom break.  Quite the adventure.  Such is life here on the bay.  Little moves until nature calls it.  There is no reason to expend energy until one feels the pull of the moon or the coaxing fingers of whatever drives the living to live.  The water, the tide flattened stones, the creatures of the frontier, and I all are here to dance a slow dance even as the world beats wild rhythms around us.  I am glad for these vacations when they come, and though I know the lazy two step is but a respite between the hard core beats of the life awaiting me on my return, the life all those outside this tiny bubble of tranquility are pounding out as I write, I close my eyes and pretend that this one dance will last through the rest of my days.  The sand sticks to my feet.  I smile and consciously ignore it as I cross the threshold and head for home, happy now for the reminder of all this that I bring with me. 

 

                         
No beach entry is complete without a couple of sunset pics.                                                          

Other Detritus:

A sea urchin washed ashore.  Still alive, so I walked it back out.

this is a sea cockroach.  They stick to rocks and eat plankton.  I like them because they look like the trilobite fossils I've seen so often in museums.

Here are some birds (terns, perhaps?) escaping my advance.

                          

This grasshopper was just outside the villa.  It let me snap a few good head-shots before flying a few meters and allowing me a couple of good pics of its wings.

This incredible toad was just meditating in front of the villa one night.  It didn't move for over twenty minutes.  The ISO exposure on this shot was over four seconds.

 

Here's Salinas bay, taken from the mirador at La Cruz.

These sand pipers had their heads underwater during my approach.  I was able to get within a couple of meters before they took notice and retreated. 

A change of pace

Guanacaste.  La Cruz.  Sun, sweat, thirst and dust.  One time territory of Nicaragua, now an annexed Northwestern border state of the Middle income coast.  Equal parts paradise and hopeless wasteland, this is where tourists go for a quick drink before crossing the border, and where locals drink until they forget that borders exist, especially that most delicate of lines between reason and police confrontation.  Many of my friends who keep the tourist wheels of Monteverde spinning are from this state originally, and it is based on the innumerable conversations with them that I find myself here, in a village the size of the fifth grade class at the CEC. 
    The sun beats down on the Guanacaste plains the way the towel and bath slipper-clad mothers beat their children and the children in turn beat anything smaller than themselves.  Soccer balls, insects, dogs, siblings, trees... nothing is safe unless it has more muscle mass and a sharper left hook.  I sweat my way through lazy afternoons and sleep with an ancient fan shoving rancid air aggressively in my face.  This is vacation. 
    It is a land that maintains its equilibrium through a carefully choreographed dance of  opposites. The poverty is pronounced, but is counterbalanced somewhat by one of the best health care infrastructures in the country (or any country for that matter - Michael Moore could have found some great material here for Sicko...).  The lifelessness in the thick, humid air is more than compensated for in the rivers and streams that flow near and through the village of Sonzopote, named for a hard but sweet fruit that grows abundantly throughout the zone.  In lieu of the customary sidewalk and chemlawn so many of us have cornered ourselves within, the house in which I'm staying features tall scrub brush, fruit trees and a small stream that runs a meter and a half from the front entrance (I'd say door if there was one).  The stream is a far cry from the drainage ditches that line so many street in the developing world.  It is crystal clear, full of plant life, and supports populations of tiny fish, even tinier green and red frogs as well as the occasional lumbering turtle.   
    I'm learning not to say anything too optimistic or positive these days, as there seems to be a supernatural mischief present in the air here that enjoys turning such innocent comments on their heads as soon as the words escape.  This morning, for example, I awoke smiling and commented out loud that the stillness in the air, the slight breeze in the treetops, the silent meandering of the river all brought a feeling of peace that is hard to come by in this world.  As if on cue, the middle child of the family chose that moment to bang loudly on the window pane and demand that I report to the lower house to help connect the family's new DVD player.  The mother's screams immediately filled the air and two smaller children ran from the house naked, wet, crying, and quite possibly peeing as they ran.  I couldn't tell, and made a point of not looking too closely.  Instead, I made a break for the river, stopping only to throw the RCA cables into their color coded television holes.  I didn't even pause long enough for gallo pinto.
    Down at the river, the gaping hole that had been so suddenly ripped in the fabric of my tranquility rapidly closed, and even the unctuous urracas lit on upper branches to preen for awhile.  I was apparently not twice shy enough, as I let fly another comment about how the world outside the house was so much calmer than that which lay within.  It took under a minute for me to eat those perfectly salted words as well.  New screams rose from across the road, and at first I wrote them off as further bathing woes.  Then I saw the three women and the rope, taught enough behind their straining arms for a circus performer to cross with little worry. 
    A pig had escaped.  It had wandered from their farm during the night, and they had just stumbled across it in my host's garden.  There were whoops of delight, but the celebration was premature.  The pig would not return quietly.  All three women wore black shorts and loose shirts that may at one time have been white, with no bras.  Their hair spanned the spectrum from unkept and frizzy to downright other worldly, preferring to stand alone than to let gravity throw its weight around as was its custom.  Their muscular arms strained to bring the terrified sow to justice, but she refused to budge.  She let herself go limp, folding its legs beneath its swollen chest and screaming her protests as if the women were dragging her and her loved ones to the front lines of some unjust war.  The rope, however, only tightened around her already raw and blotchy neck.  The sound of her cries was enough to chase the stifling heat from my arteries, leaving an emptiness in its wake that is usually known only by deep tombs anticipating the slow procession that will arrive as soon as traffic subsides.
    A crowd gathers.  Some bow their heads and avert their eyes, seemingly in a show of solidarity for the sow.  Most are shouting advice to the women.  None offer aid to either side, preferring to wait on the sidelines to see how the drama plays out.  One of the women grabs the pig by the tail and they hoist her up by both ends, teats splaying out in every direction, both human and peccarian. They manage to carry her a few agonizing meters before gravity and fatigue retract their advantage.  Frustration sets in and the rope becomes a whip.  More precious energy is expended, but the impasse remains impassable.  The tail grabbing woman, now sweating through her shirt and creating a spectacle that even passing cars cannot resist, returns to the pulling end, and the rope is painstakingly readjusted behind the sow's front legs, over the shoulders.  Shouting, cursing, sweating, the three drag the one along the dirt road, legs still folded, scrapes and road rash staining the dirt red, voice still cutting slices of irony out of the peace I was so quick to prepare and declare ready for public consumption.   They round the bend and arrive at their own house, a wood board shack just up from the fork in the river.  The crowd loses interest and disperses, and the urracas take to the air, cawing their way to where the action is, leaving the lone gringo stunned and speechless, quiet but steeped in disquiet. 
    Two hours later, there is a knock at the door.  One of the women holds a ragged, war torn hand out in greeting.  In the other hand, she holds a list along with the stub of a pencil.  She wants to know if anyone in our house would like to buy some fresh pork.  They are all quick to sign up.  I feel bile rise in my throat as I realize that my tremulous intimations must have been true.  What was to most eyes the obstinance of a lower creature and a spectacle for the masses was in truth a shining but tragic example of the intelligence and foresight of an animal that is seldom granted such "human" traits in the minds of its captors.  It's a good thing the Sonzopotes are coming into season right now.  I'll take all of them. 
After all, everyone has to eat.

**Author's note: I did in fact photo document the above described drama, but the pictures were quite innocently lost when one of the kids was using my camera later that night. 

    Part II
The River

"What do you do for fun round these parts?"
"We either play ball, watch dubbed Disney movies on channel 6, or we go to the river."
"Hmmmm... given the options, I'll take the river."
"The current is strong, can you swim?"
"I was a lifeguard for a few summers."
"Good.  You'll need to guard just about everything you have down there."
"There's a rope swing."
"Excellent, I can't wait to hit the water."
"There are crocs."
"I've swam with worse."
"The water's a bit dirty."
"Probably can't compare with the pollution in the lakes and rivers I've braved in the states."
"True enough."
Splash.  Ahhhhhhhh....
"That was really refreshing.  Now let's go treat ourselves to some of those really strange fruits growing up by the road and an extra bubbly soft drink from that crazy parrot vendor."
"tuanis, mai!"