For some days now I have known that my friend, Oscar, will sell me beer if I want it. I found this out one day when I went to his trapiche (sugar mill) to hang out with him and his wife. Although only 930 a.m. they offered me a beer. It was hot, after all. In conversation he mentioned that he could sell me cabbage and beer. If I were Eastern European this might be welcome news. I accepted the beer, but not the cabbage. I drank another one later. The funny thing about this was that we were all there that day because it was the culmination of the “Natural Resources Week” at the little elementary school here. So, the students took a field trip to the trapiche and then walked around the farms nearby. Then they returned to the trapiche to check the process of the making of the sugar. I drank my two beers in the time that the students were romping about and it was just the two hosts and myself, but nevertheless, it never dawned on my hosts to suggest that an adult not drink beer at a school function. Which leads to another memory of last weekend’s fiesta and bingo to benefit the kindergarten. The bar was replete with Johnny Walker Red, Vodka, and Beer. Not your typical PTA gathering, eh? Some things, I don’t miss about the United States.
Many folks here enthusiastically claim that cerveza aids in fighting the hot times (which occur pretty frequently, basically whenever the sun decides to assert itself). I could not agree more that beer helps in a pinch. Ancho likes a song by some roackabilly dude entitled, “I Love Beer.” In this song the troubadour imparts the fine qualities of beer, for example, it helps him relax and feel mellow.
My only problem is that I am not totally gonzo over Costa Rican beer. I like it more than Ancho, who as you read this is probably hooked up to an IV that is delivering frequent and consistent squirts of Sierra Nevada into his body. But still, it’s not the same as beer in the States. Anyhow, I have not been into the “big city” in a while, so I have not had the opportunity to purchase beer. I could, of course, waltz into the bar in the pueblo down the road and have beer a plenty (probably some even bought by someone else). But somehow, it seems that I have achieved a certain reputation here. The women don’t fear that I am out for their men. And the men don’t fear that I will hit on them. So everyone is nice and relaxed around me and that’s just the way I like it. Why walk into a bar at 7 p.m. one night and cause trouble, is what I say.
So here I am, beerless and not quite sure what to do about it aside from driving into the big city to purchase the stuff. Driving into the city is not impossible, but it zaps about 4 hours out of your day. So, today I finally got up the courage to ask Oscar about the beer. I mean, if I really could buy some from him. At first, he said, “Well it’s not cold.” As if this would deter me from my goal.
His wife, God bless her soul, interrupted, “Well Oscar she can put it on ice or put it in her refrigerator.”
Then turning to me, she asked, “You do have a refrigerator don’t you?”
“Of course,” I replied (thinking to myself how exactly could I not have a refrigerator?).
And so it was settled. We agreed on a price and about an hour later he came to my house with a bag full of 12 beers. The great surprise was that these beers were in BOTTLES! I cannot begin to impart to you the difficulty one can face trying to purchase bottles. In some markets, if you buy a soda or beer in a bottle, they pour it into a plastic bag or cup and give you a straw---- they want the deposit back on the bottle. Drinking beer out of a plastic cup reminds me too much of college to be enjoyable so I do not like this presentation tactic.
My tiny point is that I feel like I have really made it since I am sitting here in the middle of nowhere with Costa Rican beer in bottles. Of course, I have to give the bottles back when I am done, but that’s fine. The other nice service of my friend was that he put the bottles into my fridge for me, asking me with great concern if it might not be a good idea to put two up in the icebox so that they would get colder faster. Thank you Jebus for neighbors of this caliber, I thought to myself. I gave him his money, and he left. I saw him later this evening. His whole family was going to a funeral. Maybe delivering beer to the gringa down the road was a brighter part of his day.
Of course, all the young men were hanging out at the pulperia when he came to my house with a bagfull of beer, so now my reputation, though still in tact, is made richer by the realization that I am not an evangelical missionary, and that even I have weaknesses. In Russell Bernard’s classic text
Research Methods in Anthropology, he writes about doing fieldwork in an area where the residents were accustomed to giving visitors a powerfully strong liquor whenever they visited (I have some archaeology friends who might have liked this gig). Anyhow, the dilemma he faced was thus- there were many missionaries in the area trying to convince people to do stupid things like to stop practicing their traditional ways- namely to stop drinking woopy doopy strong liquor and the like. Russell Bernard did not want to be associated with these people, but he also did not want to be drunk throughout his entire fieldwork period. He did, after all, have to accomplish some research goals. So, his solution, and one I rather like, was to take gifts of beer to the households, so that they could see that he was not a teetotaler. When I read that story in his book, I remember why I study anthropology. Because anthropologists are curious, and sometimes full of it, but in the end we try to keep our self-righteousness in check. God bless Anthropology!
As I sip on my second bottle of beer, and write this blog, and also, I must admit casually watch some bad Martin Lawrence movie called
What's the Worst that Could Happen? dubbed in Spanish, I can think to myself, at least I have a beer hook-up. And at least they’re in bottles.
Yours ever truly,
Lefty
