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Today Costa Rica celebrates the anniversary of the annexation of Nicoya, part of a region called Guanacaste in the northwest corner of the country. I have celebrated well the annexation all weekend at Dominical, a rural beach town on the Central Pacific coast.

The long weekend has been great, but I feel homesick for the United States and my family and friends there.

On Thursday, two of my friends from Nashville came to Potrero Grande for a visit. They'd been doing mission work in the north-central region of the country and rented a car to drive south to see me and my town and then go with me to the beach.

My friend, Rebecca, from Nashville

When they left me at the beach on Saturday, I felt a little deflated. I skipped out on an afternoon of swimming with fellow volunteers to hide in my dark little hotel room and read a depressing novel about Canadian Indians fighting in World War I.

Then someone died in the ocean's fierce riptides yesterday, and I know I'll never swim at that beach again.

And since I clearly I am no mood for telling stories and jokes, here's one from my friend Kevin, a fellow volunteer living down the highway and up the mountain from me. The story makes me laugh, even on these days that sort of suck.

Somewhere in Boruca a stock pile of Fart Bombs have been located and a street battle has broken out. The little plastic packages look harmless enough and are easy to conceal. However, when you hear the loud pop of a fart bomb that has been smacked onto the ground and the devilish chuckle of a Borucan, fading into the distance as they run away, you know that things are about to get unpleasant.

The aroma of the fart bombs is a mixture of rotten eggs and a saint bernard with serious digestive problems. The smell waifs through houses and lingers... and lingers.

Today I was in the pulperia (corner store) buying a few things for a class party. Kids were on break and filled the tiny store shouting the names of their favorite brands of fried fat-chunk snacks and sugar-coated sugar-cube treats. Suddenly there was a loud pop and everything was silent. People looked around for the source of the sound and discovered a small broken bag on the ground. Then the smell hit.

Kids started screaming and flooded into the street in a panic. The owners of the store left their counter and ran out the back door. There was a first grader in the corner dry heaving. I ran out the door with my goods. I didn’t bother waiting for my change. In the streets people gasped for air. Contorted faces stared blankly into the
mountains trying to understand what had just entered their nose.

Now one may think that adolescents are the perpetrators of these olfactory crimes. Bored teenagers looking to harrass anyone for enjoyment. One would think wrong. Middle-age men in Boruca are running into each others homes, work places, and ranchos leaving a wake of burning noses. No one knows how it started and I fear for how it is going to end. May God have mercy on our noses.

See, I feel better already. This place really is hilarious. Thanks, Kevin.