Down in the valley

I arrived in Potrero Grande Monday, Feb. 4. The next day I went to a nearby town called San Vito to go school-shopping with my host family. On Wednesday, I went swimming in a river with my host sisters, and on Thursday I washed my clothes and scrubbed my room. On Friday, I finally got around to writing about all that's going on here in my new town. Now it's the following Friday and I've found an Internet connection in Buenos Aires, an hour away by bus.

Friday, Feb. 8

Today I awoke at 5 a.m. to the booming sound of fireworks exploding nearby. It took a minute for reality to set in. What is that noise? Where am I? Why do I smell smoke? Soon I remembered. I live in Costa Rica now, and today is the first day of a festival in my town. For Ticos, apparently, it is never too early in the day to announce the start of a festival, and it's certainly never too early for las bombas.

Every morning I awake to the smell of smoke. There's no trash service in Potrero Grande, so the garbage is burned in the yard. The smoke wafts through the open, barred walls of the living room and is pulled into my room by my box fan. I am left with a difficult decision: toxic breeze or oppressive heat? Most days I choose the heat.

The heat is inescapable anyway. We might have hot summers in Arkansas, but we also have air conditioning. And winter. Here there is the beautiful Rio Coto Brus nearby that offers a nice respite from the heat, but on the half-mile walk back home, the burning sun erases any memory of relief. Today soccer games began at noon in the plaza. How the men play in this heat, I don't know.

In the mornings and evenings, because classes haven't started yet, I spend my time studying Spanish and sitting with my host family. I also like to take long walks down the rocky roads, exploring the town, looking at the green, green mountains and sitting in the shade by the river.

I am hungry a lot, not because I need more to eat but because I am accustomed to eating more. The food my host mother cooks is good, but I can't pig out the way I would at home. I usually feel guilty at mealtime because while I sit around doing nothing, my host mom has to take a break from her many tasks to cook for me. I've lived alone for so long, it is strange to have someone place a heaping plate of food in front of me three times a day. I always eat alone at the table, usually either rice or black beans and one other dish, plus a fresca, fresh fruit juice and water over ice.

Every afternoon, my host mom fixes a cafesito (cup of coffee) for me and always marvels that I don't take sugar or cream. With the cafesito, I get a little snack, maybe a fruit empanada or sweet bread or whatever my host mom chooses from the pulperia. At night, I hang out in the pulperia, listening and watching, trying to get the hang of how things work here. I usually feel like I'm in the way, but I'd rather be in the way than hiding in my room. My room is so hot.

Tonight the girls were allowed to leave the pulperia to play on the carnival rides at the festival. It was only my host mom and dad in the house, and they were busy. Finally, after a line began to form at the pulperia, I mustered some courage and spoke: "Que quiere?"

It took the whole line of people pointing and shouting directions for me to figure out the person wanted plaintain chips, but eventually I got it. Then I had to yell to my host dad to ask how much the plantain chips cost, then figure out the correct amount of change, which seems easy in English, but with colones it takes more than a quick glance at the coins for me. Thankfully, the people were patient with me. In Costa Rica, no one is ever in a hurry. That's good for me when I'm working at the pulperia, not so much when I'm waiting three hours in line at the bank.


Saturday, Feb. 9

I have befriended one little boy, Oscar, who has a chipped front tooth and an accent I fear I'll never understand. I remember Oscar's name from the letter I received from the previous volunteer. She said he was one of the slower students. This morning as I returned from the river, I saw a boy walking far behind me on the road up a hill. Soon I heard the sound of feet pounding the gravel and turned around to see Oscar running toward me with a big grin.

"Oscar!" I said. He asked (I think) if I'd been to the river and how high the river was. Because I've only been to the river twice, I guessed and told him the river was low. "Yeah, it's dry," he said in Spanish, talking to me casually about the weather as if we make this walk together everyday.

As we continued into town, he pointed to my shirt and said, "Red." So I quizzed him on other colors. What color are my shorts? What color are those trees? What color is that house? What color is that butterfly? He knew them all. As a truck approached, he quickly instructed me in Spanish to cover my mouth. I had no idea what he was saying, so I just kept smiling at him. After the truck passed, he explained (a little too late) that I should cover my mouth so my teeth don't get dirty.

And the former volunteer said he was slow.

Sunday, Feb. 10

I thought that with today being Sunday, things might calm down a bit. I was wrong. The festival is finally in full swing. The road in front of my house is lined with palm-covered booths and is teeming with men and boys on horses and women in cowboy hats and boots. Apparently, it's rodeo day. Music and dancing and beer drinking began before 10 a.m., and a soccer game is underway at the plaza.

The day would be a lot of fun if I had friends here and could speak Spanish. Instead, I feel especially lonely and isolated. I have made two acquaintances, a Tico carny who keeps asking me (unsuccessfully) for un beso and another guy named, about whom I was warned before I ever got here. He's harmless, I was told, but very annoying. So I can tell. Luckily, school starts tomorrow, and I will have a whole day of new challenges to keep me busy.

Tuesday, Feb. 12

Two days ago I spotted a lizard scurrying across my wall. But it wasn't just a lizard, it was a lizard with a huge cockroach in its mouth. Gross.

Yesterday at the school, the 14-year-old son of one my fellow teachers was showing off his English with me. We talked about all kinds of stuff, me in broken Spanish, him in broken English. Turns out we share the same birthday, only I have 16 more years. Anyway, we got to talking about lizards, and he told me they make a certain noise at night. So that's what that noise is! Last night I woke up twice to the awful sound of lizard lips and could barely go back to sleep. I don't like the thought of lizards near my bed. But what can I do?

School has been really great, but as I mentioned earlier, Ticos are never in a hurry for anything, even school. Maybe one-tenth of the students showed up yesterday for the first day, and maybe half were there today. First, second and fourth grades have classes in the mornings, staring at 7 a.m. Third, fifth and sixth grades have classes in the afternoon, starting at 11:30 a.m., but this week the director let them go early everyday. Fine by me.

Thursday, Feb. 14
I am learning that my name here is just teacher, or in a Spanish accent, ticher. Everybody, even the school's director calls me ticher. I hear it everywhere I go. If I'm on a walk, kids playing in their yards or in the street or on the soccer field yell, "Ticher! Hello, ticher! Goodbye, ticher!" I must hear it a thousand times during class. I've got the students raising their hands, but as soon as their hands go up, "Ticher!" comes out of their mouths.

The kids love English class. One day, some sixth grade students begged me to stay after school because I didn't get to teach their class that day. They had their notebooks out, ready to write something down in English. It occurred to me today that there is really no way for anyone to know what I am teaching them. I could be teaching them crazy slang or something.

The students always huddle around me during recess, and the little girls all want to greet me with a kiss on the cheek, the standard greeting in Costa Rica. The older kids are starting to figure out that I don't speak must Spanish, and they've started helping me out by talking slower or writing things down.

The younger kids don't get it at all. They just ask me questions over and over, never comprehending that I can't understand what they are saying. It's frusting for them and for me, but I can tell my Spanish is getting better. Everyday, I understand a little more. I've been studying like crazy with workbooks and flash cards, but just talking to people helps the most.

It's very strange to be the minority. And when I say the minority, I mean the minority. When I walk around the dirt roads of town, the people stare at me and say "There goes the teacher. She must be going to the river," or something similar. But all in all, Potrero Grande is alright. It's hot and dirty and kind of a dump, but for now, it's home. I'm hanging in and figuring things out poco a poco.

Also, as usual, I have lots of photos, but as usual, I can't get them off my camera. One of these days...