The ants go marching

There's a bat that likes to hang out in my bathroom. Here he is hanging from a sports bra hanging from a towel rack above my toilet.

A fellow volunteer told me about how a snake bit a cow in a town near hers and killed the cow almost instantly. My friend happened to be enjoying a noontime beer with a new friend in that town when the farmer drove by the bar and invited her and her new friend to watch him burn the venom-filled dead cow. My friend bought some beer to go and hopped in the back of the truck. By the time they made it through downtown, there was a truckload full of people heading to the cow burning. A cow burning! With beer! Talk about a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

But the coolest thing I've seen is thousands of ants carrying red flower petals. The march begins at the base of the tree that has all of the red flowers. There are so many ants that they have worn away the grass and made a tiny little road -- a caminito, as they say in Spanish. I took a picture a few weeks ago, but it was already dark. The photo doesn't even come close to showing how cool the ants are with those big red petals.

What's going on

A friend sent me a package full of newspaper clippings. I picked them up at the Post Office on Friday, and on Saturday morning, I devoured them over a cup of coffee. Back in the United States, when I was stationed in front of the Internet eight hours a day, I read the news with only mild interest. I was addicted to it, no doubt, but it rarely spurred in me much emotion. But on Saturday, as I read about Army soldiers and Marines who are fleeing to Canada to escape more tours in the Iraq war, I was really sad. As I sat reflecting, for once not on my own experiences here in Costa Rica but on the rest of the world, something shiny on the table caught my eye. It was a United States of America keychain, most likely a gift from a former volunteer. The keychain has an outer silver ring, and within the ring is a round American flag that can be spun around. I flicked the flag with my finger and was thankful for the three-month diversion of culture shock and change. I miss a lot of things from the United States -- my family, my friends, my new nephew, The Hills, but I don't miss living in a country that is at war.

Tuesday I left school after two classes. I felt sick at my stomach, probably because I ate my lunch of rice and beans at 9:30 a.m., earlier even than the famous early lunches of my former managing editor. I came home early to writhe with stomachache until it got too hot to writhe. Then I started to go back to school where it is a little cooler, but when I walked around the corner of the house and saw the kids lined up at the pulperia window, my stomach started to hurt a little again; I went back inside.

The next day one of the other teachers at the school, Felix, offered to massage my arms in order to relieve the pain in my stomach. One minute I was perfectly fine and the next minute I was in the worst pain of my life. Felix searched for and found some tender spot in my arm, near my elbow, and he mashed on it with all his might. Then he did the same to the other arm. I was literally in tears. He explained the significance of all this mashing and pain, but I didn't understand much of it. Something about una pega, which he says I most definitely have in my stomach. I looked pega up in the dictionary, but it just says, "pitch; sticking, gluing. 2. coll. practical joke, trick. 3. catch question (in an examination); 4. de pega: sham, worthless."

Aside from the persistent mild illness, which may or may not have been a worthless sham, things have gotten better for me here. There've been no gooey eye infections or greedy parasites or cases of grippe bringing me down (at least not at the time of writing). I can sort of understand what's going on around me and can, at times, contribute to conversations without taking up half the day digging through a dictionary.

Also, my host mom is suddenly all friendly, maybe because the family finally got paid for the first two months of hosting me. The Costa Rican government is running a bit late on its payments, mine included, but it has more things to worry about than whether I'm getting my stipend or not. More than half of the high school teachers are on strike. My host sisters haven't had classes in more than a month. I don't really understand the reason for the strike, but I secretly wish the elementary school teachers would strike for a week or two, too, so I can sleep in like my host sisters do.

Note: Since the time of writing I have learned that there is a meeting Friday of elementary teachers to determine if they will strike or not.

The other day my host dad invited me along as he drove some hikers to Parque Internacional de Amistad, which is way far up the mountain. We almost got struck by lightning. I thought the strike and boom seemed awfully close, but no one else in the car seemed bothered by it. But when we got home, the first thing my host sister did was tell my host mom how we all almost died. I read in the newspaper (yes, in Spanish) the other day about a boy who got struck by lightning while he was riding his bike in Buenos Aires, the town where I use the Internet. I also saw on the news where a woman was eaten alive by a crocodile. One minute she was rinsing her feet off in the river, and the next minute she was fast food. What a way to go.

I almost got run over by a herd of cows. I was walking like I always do down the middle of the road on my daily run/walk. I had my headphones on, listening to music in English and pondering how while there were lots of cows and pigs and such where I lived in the United States, I never really saw many of them up close except for at the county fair. Here, I was thinking, there are always farm animals everywhere. The horses just roam around free most of the time, serving as municipal groundskeepers. Once I looked out the window of the bus on my ride home from Buenos Aires and saw a cow giving birth in a pasture near the road.

So I was walking, deep in thought about farm animals and bouncing to the American beat when I heard some frantic cries from behind me. I turned to see, as if to prove my point, a herd of cows coming straight at me. There were two vaqueros behind the herd yelling for me to get the hell out of the way. I did and the cows rambled on past me, swerving a bit when they got close to me. Two more cowboys were coming towards me with four more cows, two mamas and two calves. The two herds passed each other without incident, but I heard one cowboy yell to the other, "Watch out for the American!"

Oh, and I fell in love last week, too. This happened simultenously with getting a second job. He's a Tico named Leo and owns some sort of English institute in San Isidro, a somewhat nearby town. He teaches classes there but wants to expand to outlying towns where there are a lot of people but no access to English classes. At first he planned to teach the classes in my town himself, but later he offered the job to me, saying it is better that the students have a native English teacher. That and it's a long trip from San Isidro. I'll work for less money than it would take to pay for the gas necessary for him to drive. The reason I fell in love with him, though, is that he speaks very good English, lived in Alabama and can do a wonderful impression of rednecks.

Note: I am using the word "love" very loosely. I only met the guy once.

Things at school are still going well. There is an evolution happening, though. I used to hate, hate, hate all of my third graders, but suddenly they are my best-behaved, most lovable students. The first graders are better, too. I get them first thing in the morning now, when they are still too asleep to give me many problems. My fifth-graders, on the other hand, the ones I used to love with all my heart (again, using the term loosely), now just stare at me blankly and flunk all their tests. Oh, and I have a new student in sixth grade. She's maybe 18 years old. She dropped out of school several years ago when she had a baby. Now she's back, determined to finish grade school. She keeps a framed photo of her baby on her desk during class.

I'll be back at the Internet tomorrow, so check back for more.

These pictures are a little old -- from my trip to Montezuma for Semana Santa. I love these pictures because it shows that all we volunteers wanted to do for vacation was watch TV in English. We had just eaten our fill of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and were settling in for a few hours of mindlessness.

Pollitos!

One day last week, I walked out the back door and noticed a chicken was sitting in a funny sort of way beside the washing machine. I thought maybe something was wrong with it until it stood up and a bunch of little chicks came scurrying out from beneath it. It made my day!

The pulperia

This is where I live.

Take it to the bridge

Last weekend, on my weekly hour-long walk to the big bridge, I ran into the one student at the school whom I do not teach. His name is either Jared or Gerald, I'm not sure which, and he's in the special special-education class. He's so special that he can't attend class with the other special-ed students, so he gets what amounts to private tutoring in the afternoons. That's why I don't teach him English, except when he randomly shows up in the third-grade class giving me the sad eyes until I let him in. So far as I can tell, what makes him "special" is that he has a lot of energy and just can't sit still and be quiet long enough to be in a regular class.

Thus, he is a really good walking partner. We walked to the bridge together last weekend, where he threw in a bag of trash he found on the side of the road in hopes of proving to me that there are too crocodiles in the river. I guess he hoped the croc would mistake the pink-and-white striped bag for a something delicious to eat, but it didn't work. The bag just drifted on the down the river, ruining the view.

Jared/Gerald, 11, doesn't bother with shoes, but he can still keep up with my rapid gringo pace, even on the rocky roads that hurt my feet when I'm wearing shoes. He talks on and on, not really caring if I understand or not. That takes the pressure off me as the listener and lets me test my comprehension skills. Sometimes I ask him to explain a word, and he always does so with great patience and skill. I learn a lot of Spanish from Jared/Gerald.

A few days ago, I decided to go for a walk again. Aside from an early-morning stroll, I'd been cooped up in the house all day, cleaning and trying to find a place to be that wasn't too hot. Finally I decided outside would be the best place to look for that spot, so I strapped on my tennies and headed out. The thought passed through my mind briefly that it would be nice to run into Jared/Gerald. I'd only rounded two corners when I heard, "Ticher, venga!"

Wouldn't you just know that it was none other than Jared/Gerald with a big bag of rice on his shoulder. I jogged to catch up with him, and we set off for his house. He carried the bag of rice on his right shoulder, then his left, then his head and laughed to himself when he compared the bag to a Mexican sombrero. Finally, after I asked him several times, he let me carry the load for awhile, but when we got near his house, he took the bag back.

Jared/Gerald invited me into his house, which was constructed in the traditional ranchero style, with wooden posts and dried palm leaves. There was just one big, round room made that way, with only dirt for a floor. A couch sat against one wall and on the couch lay a guitar. My host mom told me later that the rest of the house has floors, just the ranchero doesn't. Anyway, Jared/Gerald and I went outside to sit with a shirtless man I assumed to be his father.

Just as I was noticing the mountains stretching out before me, creating what might be the most beautiful view I've seen in Costa Rica so far, a cool, cool breeze blew through. "Oh, que rico," I heard myself say, spontaneously for the first time. I had definitely found the best spot for cooling off. We sat for awhile and chatted. I complimented the family on the view, and the family asked me to translate lots of words into English. Eventually, Jared/Gerald ran inside and got the guitar and played us a few songs. He's a pretty good guitar player and singer, too. I was impressed.

I've since asked Jared/Gerald to write his name for me. First he wrote Heral, then Geraldo, so I'm still not really sure what his name is. Whatever it is, I kicked him out of class today because he just couldn't leave the other students alone. We exchanged a wave as he left the school yard, and I hope he understood the wave to mean I look forward to another walk this weekend.

Yeah, I heard that

For the first time since I landed in this hot little valley, I heard (and understood) my host family talking about me last weekend. My host mom, host sister and I were leaning on the window ledge of the pulperia, elbow to elbow, looking out at the people coming and going during one of my town's famous dances.

The salon comunal is right next door to the pulpuria-house, so a steady stream of action is viewable from the pulperia window. If you're into people-watching, it's the place to be.

"I think maybe she wants to go to the dance," my host mom said to my host sister, in not so much as a whisper.

"Why do you think that? my host sister replied.

"Because she put on jeans," my host mom said.

I figured they talked about me a lot, knowing I wouldn't understand, but it still took me by surprise when I overheard them talking. I wasn't sure if I really understood correctly, so I just kept gazing into the darkness of the town as if I were oblivious to the whole conversation. Looking back, maybe I should have explained myself and my choice of clothing. And I should probably let them know I can understand things now so they should cease the open-air chats.

I didn't confirm that what I thought I had heard was what I had actually heard until a bit later when my youngest host sister, clearly having had a similar chat from her mom, came to me and said, "Jennifer, do you want to go to the dance?"

"No," I replied. "Why?"

"Because you put on jeans," she said.

It's true, I had put on jeans, a rare occurrence in this oven of a town. It's even true that I was dolling up a bit, but it's not true that I wanted to go to the party. Far from it. It's just that there were a lot of people around, and instead of wearing my usual outfit of boxer shorts and a tank top, I thought I should represent my country in something a little more appropriate for the occasion -- jeans and a tank top.

Also, I have found that when one goes around in sundresses and running shorts all the time, one ceases to notice when one is gaining weight. So, it's important, despite the heat, to every now and again tug on the jeans as a measure of the waistline. And because I know you are curious, the pants were indeed a bit tight.

It's an unfortunate thing to be hungry and gaining weight, but that's what plateful after plateful of carbs will do to a person. I find myself daydreaming about Smuckers All-Natural Crunchy Peanut Butter, as well as tuna sandwiches and the Bentonville Butcher and Deli. Sometimes I also think about cereal with soy milk and blueberries. Also glasses of red wine and hunks of cheese. Oh, I could go on and on, but why torture myself.

Lest you fear I am hating myself for living here, let me end this post on a lighter note. I think the kids are getting better at school. Woo-hoo! This week was my most successful week with discipline, likely because I just started handing out boletas (letters to the parents) to anyone who made so much as a peep. Of course, there was one kid who burned his boleta after class, but that's a whole nother blog.

For now I am counting the days until next weekend when I head to Turrialba for two days of camping, hiking and white-water rafting. Yeah, it's alright here.