Thank you, Mr. Toyota

I just wound up a Costa Rican trip with some folks from home- my parents and Krystal, a woman who works with my Mom (who is also a friend of mine) came to Costa Rica May 18. They spent two days and two nights in the community where I am living now. I had hoped for more time for them here, but their flight was cancelled- so a half-day here was lost. Afterwards we drove to a quiet beach on the Nicoya Peninsula called Playa Junquillal and from there we moved onto Monteverde. We rendezvoused with a couple from my hometown of Paris, Kentucky in Monteverde who were heading down to Playa Blanca near Jaco.

Scenes from the trip:

Their first full day in country we ventured to San Ignacio de Acosta, the town where I lived two years ago, to meet several people there. Antonio, the owner of a 1973 Toyota Landcruiser Taxi drove us there and back. The Landcruiser, I figured, would provide a slow but steady ride back up the mountain to San Ignacio. I was afraid that the whirlwind trip to San Ignacio might prove a little overwhelming, but they were troopers--- they met everyone with great interest and energy and we even got a great photo of my parents, Gladys, Elisa, and Marcos (my host family from two years ago), and Krystal on the front porch of my host family’s house.

Our last day here where I live, my Dad, Krystal, and my friend Andreina and I went horseback riding around in the mountains. My Dad could not take enough photographs. At one point I was convinced that he was going to accidentally drop his camera from atop his mare and then curse in English as the poor horse accidentally smashed the technological wonder into useless plastic pieces. Fortunately, this did not occur. It was nice to let the horses do the walking.

We rented a car from Alamo to drive to the beach and Moteverde. In juxtaposition to the 73 Landcruiser, we were outfitted in a new Toyota Rav-4. 5 speed. Fun to drive. Air conditioned. Comfortable. Having lived without air conditioning in house or home for several years, I found it downright cold, but I am sure it was better than the blowing hot and humid air of the Nicoya Peninsula.

The beach town is tiny- and getting to it in the rainy season was a grand challenge. My father made so many comments about the potholes in the dirt road from Nicoya to Junquillal that I thought I might lose my mind. In hindsight, I may have actually lost the remaining portion of my brain at this point.

Eventually the relentless ups and downs and ins and outs required of prolific potholes provoked a yearning in my father for a urinal heretofore unknown in this hemisphere. So, bumping along the dirt road, navigating the patchwork quilt of potholes, I was also commandeered into finding the perfect spot to stop and relieve oneself. It was an absurd situation of hurry up but slow down but hurry up and find a place to pee!

Playa Junquillal is small. One gets the feeling that it is getting ready to experience a big expatriate boom. It already has plenty- my massage therapist (from the states) told me she had a steady list of regular expat customers. More are definitely on the way. There was a gated community in the works, a modern-looking Century 21 office was under construction, and there was an invitation-only cocktail party hosted at some real estate hotspot that was all the buzz one day at our hotel, Guacamaya Lodge. The little grocery closest to our hotel even stocked breads from a German Bakery in Liberia (Costa Rica) and had a reasonably good selection of wine.

Playa Junquillal played host to a wide variety of characters who could one day appear in my novel (or my mother’s that she has been threatening to write for 30 years now).

Our second night at Playa Junquillal, we headed off to a surfer’s hangout for ceviche and beer. Well, that’s what I had in mind at least. We were greeted by Santiago, a blonde Venezuelan man of the world who was a prophet of surfing. He seemed unconcerned that he was welcoming us sans shirt. And the women of the party were more than happy that this was the case, seeing as how it looked as if Michaelangelo himself had hammered out the abdominal muscles of his marble-hard stomach. His long, blond, curly hair and two day growth of beard also added to his surfer persona. He asked us where we were from, and when we replied “Kentucky,” his first statement was, “there is no ocean there!” I began to feel like some sort of alien freak for having been born and raised in a land-locked state. My very ability to survive in such an atmosphere seemed remarkable, as if I had ventured to Mars without oxygen and a spacesuit and lived to tell about it.

When Santiago first came to our table, I was quite sure that my regular hair cut appointment, tucked in shirt kind of dad would not go for Santiago’s “right-on” philosophy and body pageantry.

Ironically, Santiago and Dad hit it off. Santiago even told me as I was using the phone at the bar of the restaurant, “You’re Dad is the nicest man! I think I could talk to him all night!”

While Santiago was charming and my parent’s meals were delicious, I believe the ceviche was suspect. Exhibit one- the ceviche itself was chopped into large meaty cubes nearly the size of dice, not nice petite cubes. Exhibit two- despite the low lighting, I could see that the cubes of fish were not sufficiently cooked through by the acid of citrus that is supposed to “cook” the fish. Exhibit three- every person who tried the ceviche experienced post ceviche abdominal stress disorder.

Now, I know that I did not have to eat ceviche that I believed to be uncooked, but I was not thinking clearly at the time, as the remnants of my brain were left back on pothole number 2312 somewhere around Paraiso.

There was a cadre of real estate people staying at the hotel. Now, as my father is in real estate, I do not think all real estate people are bad, but these were the kind of real estate people who should basically hand out business cards that say, “my god I am so damn wealthy and furthermore shallow that I can think of nothing better to talk about all day than how to get even wealthier and shallower!” One of the wives of one of these men even said to me with great excitement, “you know you can have a maid here and pay her like a dollar a day!” I wanted to reply, “you know you could get a damn clue and a conscience and maybe then I would not want to rip your head off with my bare hands!” Her husband earlier had lectured Krystal about the dangers of the surf and the rocks (as if she had never before seen a beach or ocean) and then remarked to her, “You know it’s black sand,” as if black sand beaches were somehow inferior to their white or pink pebble counterparts.

So, anyway, the beach was weird, a conglomeration of rag taggy beach bums and shiny white teethed, hair gelled real estate men who wore their gold watches even though they were just sitting around a simple pool bar and restaurant.

From the beach we drove up to Monteverde. The road to Monteverde is known for being a bit tough on people, but the trusty Rav-4 with her new shocks and powerful engine made short work of the challenge. On the way up the mountain my mother remarked, “Do you think we might see some monkeys in the trees by the road?” My first thought was, “Yes, and we also might see Christ and Allah.” Imagine my surprise when about 2 minutes later we turned a corner and were met by a group of monkeys lazing about in the trees next to the road. There were at least 20 monkeys placed there by the God of Proving That Your Mother Actually is Right At Least 90 Percent of The Time. My dad, at first reluctant to get out of the car, because he was sure I had parked it in a poor spot, proved to be the toughest person to get back in the car. He and Krystal got great monkey shots, made even better by the fact that they weren’t in a zoo or being “managed” in a park somewhere. There was even a little baby monkey who momentarily made me want to go back and be a primatologist.

When we arrived at our hotel, a gringo, disenchanted, teen-aged male greeted us at the door. He exhibited the same enthusiasm to see us that I exhibit before having a cavity filled. I immediately decided that I liked him. I wanted to adopt him as my little brother and sit and talk to him about life, his endless possibilities, his need to leave his parent’s hotel and break out on his own. My mom thought he looked like a cross between Bob Dylan and someone else I can’t remember. We left him a copy of a John Irving book to read to thank him for his understated hospitality. He turned out to be the director of the hotel, so to speak, as he gave us our breakfast each day and it was to him I turned when in need of something like a DVD to watch, a need to rearrange the porch furniture, or the need to explain how I thought I found their family dog, but in the end was mistaken.

In Monteverde we met up with Pat and Laura, friends from home. They arrived on a shuttle van from San Jose as I was staging a viewing of Ray in the common area of our little hotel building and drinking beer out of a “f’oty” sized bottle. (While other people were enthralled with the possibilities of tourism and outdoor adventure, I was overcome by my new ability to go take dvds from the hotel office whenever I wanted.)
The first words out of my mother’s mouth upon their arrival were, “We saw 25 monkeys!”

The first day of Monteverde- Pat, Laura, Mom, and Dad set off for some canopy tour called “Sky Walk.” This is my own idea of hell- walking along a series of tall skinny bridges with other people to look down upon the tops of trees. I am not a fan of heights. I rock climbed a couple of times, but at least then I was harnessed in. Bridge walking ain’t my cup o tea. Krystal and I instead did the Park in record time and woke up the next morning to calves of fire and knots to remind us of our rapid hiking.

The next morning Pat and Laura moved on to their beach destination. Thomas, our 18-year-old hotel manager, hooked my parents up with a tour guide named Roberto for their second day of Monte Verde. He had just returned from Japan where he went to visit Mr. Toyota. Mr. Toyota, it seems, liked Roberto’s artwork, and brought him to Japan to surprise him by taking him to view a piece of art Mr. Toyota had purchased and then entered into the national exhibition of art. As the proud owner of Bessie, my Toyota Pick-up, the satisfied renter of the Rav-4, and the occasional taxi client in Landcruisers ranging from 1970 to present, I have to say that I think this Mr. Toyota really has his you know what together. So, let’s hear it for Mr. Toyota. He finds time to mass produce quality-engineered cars and engage in art appreciation and cross-cultural exchange. I imagine he must be quite a human being.

Anyway, Roberto showed up in the morning to get my parents. He asked if Krystal and I were coming and I responded for us that we had already been to the park. He replied in a melodramatic tone, “yes, but did you see the Quetzal?” I burst his bubble by explaining that I saw it the last time I was at the park sans park guide. It turns out, my parents did not see the Quetzal or much else in the way of animal life in the park--- the weather was nasty and all the intelligent creatures were out of the rain. They did see a tarantula in its hole. I guess that’s something. Plus, my dad got to direct all of his biology questions to someone else. It seems that he thinks I have been down here studying ecology or biology so the first two days of their time here I was fielding questions about various flora and fauna about which I had no clue. When he finally asked me a question about the history of settlement of this area, I lit up and responded, “Yes, this is something I can actually answer.”

While Mom and Dad were running around the park with the artist/nature guide known as Roberto, Krystal and I were on a private farm hiking to a waterfall. We found the farm and the trail just fine and were about halfway through it thinking, “my this is quite a walk in the park,” when the trail turned into the great whitewater crossing of 2005. At one point we felt a little squirrelly about a couple of the water/boulder crossings, but we forged ahead and were paid off with an excellent three-tiered waterfall about 200 feet tall. I had opted to wear a short hippy rust-colored skirt to hike in. It even had lace at the bottom of it. After getting rained on and sloshing through rivers to get to the waterfall, I looked rather ridiculous. But, it was a really fine waterfall to behold- made even finer by the fact that no other people were there to spoil the moment. There were no 22-year-old college dudes smoking pot and saying “dude” a lot. There were no stern-faced tourists from Europe who looked angry about having to be someplace so beautiful. There were no Costa Rican Casanovas complimenting my Spanish and proposing marriage. It was just Krystal and I and the great white water.

When we headed back to San Jose, the trip was basically over, as we were to begin what I think of as the re-acculturation process. This consists of a stay at the Hotel Irazu Best Western, a trip to Denny’s for a cheeseburger and a beer, and a dip in the pool followed by a couple of hours of HBO. Denny’s is right by the hotel, so you can get your room and a burger in record time. For me it was not really the reacculturation process but a sort of break from my cultural reality here in the country. I finally got to have a conversation with Ancho that lasted more than 10 minutes. We had barely had time to talk from the hotel phones on the road. At the Best Western we could talk as long as we wanted. I watched The Life of David Gale, which was a strange and disturbing film that, in the end, I deemed too unlikely to be provocative.

My parents and Krystal headed off the next day around noon. I used the hotel’s elliptical machine and watched a bad Spanish novella called “There Was A Time.” I ordered a heart of palm salad from the restaurant across the street that delivered room service. I watched the end of What Women Want and decided that the screenplay writers of the world are getting off way too easy.

At around 1:30, I hopped back into my reality- took a taxi to my bus, took another taxi from that bus to home, and then caught up with my peeps here in the country. So much had happened in my absence! My neighbor and favorite photo subject had fallen and hurt his leg while working with his dairy cows. He had to spend the day in San Jose at the hospital getting fluid drained off his leg and getting a cast. His two twin granddaughters had taken over milking duties for the time being. At the fiesta this weekend a fight broke out between a local and an out of pueblo-er. One of my little kid neighbors had a birthday. The bats in my roof had reproduced at least 30 times. It’s good to be back in the country.

Bye-bye Turdy

Bye-bye Turdy
Originally uploaded by ancho and lefty.

Here they are, hard at work with intestinal cleaning. Again, my apologies to those whose stomaches, although still intact, suffer from queasiness or nausea at the site of little porky's poopie.

Excuse me, but is that a pig head in your sink?

Excuse me, but is that a pig head in your sink?
Originally uploaded by ancho and lefty.

This is the pig head that stared at me while I ate parts of the back of his neck, fried in a little oil and salt. This experience has pretty much secured my identification as a carnivore. (My apologies to LL and other herbivores.

Chicharrones and Chompipes

Today (July 4) was a fun day because I got to meet another anthropologist who is doing work in this area who speaks English and is quite nice. I will give her code name Phoebe to protect the innocent, but she is from Holland and is living with a family in another town about thirty minutes from here. We had been playing phone tag for several weeks, but finally got together today. And oh what luck for me, because everyone in the extended family where she lives knows a whole great lot about automobile sales and importing and exporting. (For those of you who may not know, I am thinking of selling Bessie here.) I have to have Bessie out of here by August 14 or pay a HUGE AMOUNT of taxes on her, so I am weighing my options. Anyway, the men of this family import busses and cars and other things from the United States, where it is cheaper to purchase them. They were giving me loads of advice, and seemed genuinely interested in helping me figure out what’s the best direction to take- selling the car, paying to have it shipped back to the states, or what have you. We are in touch now, so maybe they can help me. My first quote for shipping her back to the states made my head spin.

I am happy to report however, that Ancho received better news with the guy he is working with. Bessie may be Florida-bound next week! Her own cruise experience!

Phoebe and I had quite the day. I drove her around my area, because she does not have a car and therefore has never seen the rural zone where I live. She lives about 200 meters from pavement, so she got a dose of the gravel travel experience. Has anyone noticed, by the way, the word “grave” in the word gravel. I think there’s something there, but as usual I just can’t put my finger on it.

I have been getting up at 5 a.m. lately. It’s ridiculous really. My schedule has begun matching the hens and roosters. By 8 p.m. I feel like it is midnight. They are going to show Y Tu Mama Tambien on TV, but I don’t think I can stay up late enough to enjoy it. Lord knows it would beat the other films offered by local television. The unhealthy obsession with Chuck Norris perplexes me in the same way the French obsession with Toni Braxton did when I studied abroad.

Here in Costa Rica one gets a load of interesting US syndicated television dubbed in Spanish. My personal favorites include- The A Team, The Simpsons, Small Wonder (the show about the little robot girl who is a real brat), Survivor, and lest I forget, Walker- Texas Ranger. Of all these I only actually watch the Simpsons. The Simpsons here are known as Los Simpsom. It’s still funny, but I also feel that something gets lost in translation. It’s sort of like the old guy I saw in the market the other day who was wearing the t-shirt that boasted in English, “when I am an old woman I shall wear purple.”

But it works both ways. Here, for example, the campesinos use the word “chompipe” for turkey. I think other folks refer to them as Pavo. Anyway, there is some kind of sexual innuendo in chompipe, but I have not quite gotten up the gumption to ask someone to explain it to me. Perhaps that will be my homework tomorrow.

My folks are coming in a couple of weeks and everyone wants to meet them. I am wondering how I will swing that. I am thinking of loading them on a produce truck and carting them around from house to house. We shall see. I am excited that they are coming and will have some time in the community where I live.

Yesterday when I was in the pulperia in the next town, the owner of the pulperia asked me if I were headed back home and if I would not mind hauling a few things to our pulperia for him. I said sure, and took a box or two of detergent and other what nots to our little store. I have been going to the next community frequently because I am doing some work there too. Today I delivered a few packs of cigarettes and some cooking oil. I told him he did not have to pay, just give me an interview. He said he thought that could work. I felt cool being trusted with the commodities of the area- but not as cool as when I got the bottled beer.

Today (today July 5) This post is really of two days, sorry folks for any confusion. Ooohh what a doosie- lots of running around and carting people to and fro and talking and thinking and moving and going and I am pooped. I am sorry to see Bessie go- she has been a real rapport builder for me because I can give people lifts when I am on my way to and fro. Today I carted a whole family to Acosta with me. I had to go into town to make photocopies of a questionnaire. On the way back, I picked up a woman whom I have picked up before who goes to visit her mom once a week. Later I hauled a load of little girls and their moms up to a town that is 2 kilometers and many hundreds of feet up from where I live.

I went over to my neighbor’s house for dinner. My neighbor has never seen the Pacific nor the Caribbean. I am thinking of taking her with me to Limon when I go to take Bessie to the port. Then, she can say she has at least seen Limon. Anyway, she wanted to cook me dinner and I was tired enough and bored enough with eating alone to accept with gusto. Everyone has a lot of pork right now because one of our neighbors slaughtered a pig to sell. I bought a big plastic bag of pork for about four dollars. It’s enough to last A LONG time. Anyway, I ate some pork and red beans and rice with a few slices of tomato. It was nice to eat a meal. You forget about what meals are like when you live alone and consider toast with butter a qualifier for the term “meal.”

Speaking of killing pigs, I went to a pig slaughter last week and boy what an eye opener that was. First off, I came to the realization that chicharrones, a popular fiesta finger food served with shredded cabbage, yucca, and a lime wedge, are made from the neck fat of the pig. My chicharrones were served to me at a little table out by the washing machine and wash basin. While I ate mine, the pig’s head stared back at me from the wash basin. I told my friend Brogers in an email that it was a Lord of the Flies moment. It was certainly a moment when I realized that I had developed a certain tolerance for what I might have previously perceived as unpleasant.

The rest of the pig slaughter was much like the steer slaughter of my earlier days here, and thankfully more exciting than the great chicken slaughter that occurred before the last fiesta. Killing chickens just is not as interesting. A quick slit of the throat, a lightning fast dip in boiling water, a rapid defeathering by expert hands, and there it is. The processing of beef and pork is just much more interesting. Of the pig slaughter experience, I must tell you one more thing. My friend whose family killed the pig and invited me for photo taking kept telling me that the really good part was when she carried the tripa to the river to clean it. So, I waited casually for this moment, not really knowing what I was going to witness. I am an old pro at dealing with the blood and guts stuff by now. So, what I got to witness was my friend and one of the pig butcherers cleaning out the intestines of the pig, so that they could use the intestines in soup or some other decadent creation that I , as of yet, have avoided eating. Now, I know and you know what lurks inside intestines. I am not sure if you have ever noticed this, but pigs eat a lot, and their intestines testify to this fact. So, I snapped photos of my friend happily washing the poop out of pig intestines. The little turds would slip out of one end of intestinal goo, get carried away by the swift river current, and travel on down the stream. It was a great image. I will try to upload a photo for you to appreciate it as well.

There is much more to tell you, my friends, of my days here, but I will save some for later. We are all fine here in this little neck of Costa Rica. There is one man in my community who is very ill with cancer. You might say a prayer or think a positive thought for him. I saw his wife walking to the pulperia today and she looked so forlorn. I just wanted to run up to her and give her a hug but I do not know her that well. Anyway, think good thoughts for Luis please.