Sitting at the table with Mami Vicky. I am finishing my coffee as she sits with a plate of fried plantain and chicken in front of her.
“Usted conoce Arenal?” I ask her.
“No,” she says, eyes not leaving the plantain in her hands.
“Quiere conocerlo?”
There is a long pause, during which she mashes some chicken and plantain together in her fingers. As she watches those fingers, a grin slowly spreads across her face.
“Cuando van?” she smiles at me.
Sometimes people ask us what a “typical” day looks like in our lives. The truth is, we have no typical days. We go through phases of being really busy and phases of having nothing to do. Right now, we are busy. Here is what our schedule looks like from here til next weekend:
The micro-lending project Chris is working on will start selling shares on Wednesday. Also, we will be having an art camp and hosting four other volunteers who will graciously be helping us with the camp. The camp will run for four days, from 8am til noon. In the evenings, either Chris or I have a meeting every day but Thursday. I also have dance rehearsal 3 days next week. I just planned (in great detail) a schedule for when my parents are here in March (!!!), and have been working on countless Excel spreadsheets to keep myself organized. Tomorrow, we go into town to buy all our camp supplies, as well as all the new things we’ll need for the house we’re moving into at the end of next week. Then also there’s the time I spend on the internets between Excel sessions. Oh, and I am helping another volunteer by making a video to promote one of her projects and help get it funded (a computer lab in her town… I’ll post the video when it’s done so you can help her out!).
So, all of that next week. The following week promises to be just as busy, as we are heading to the province of Limón to help out with another camp.
Woof.
I am not one to often and publicly admit my mistakes. But neither am I one who desires to remain in ignorance just to pretend that I am infallible.
Today, Chris and I met with the two active members of our Comite Tutelar (in charge of planning and implementing programs or activities for the benefit of the youth in the community), and the president of our Asociación (kind of like a city council). Previously, I had incredibly negative feelings about these two community groups, and more specifically about the president of the Asociación and the coordinator of the Tutelar. These feelings had stemmed from my perception that these two women were not working for the better interests of the community, but were instead just enjoying the power their positions gave them. I knew, it should be said, that they were in fact “working” on projects for the community; the fact that they did not seem to be even trying to include any other community members, though, really colored my view. And that was combined with the fact that, as in politics everywhere, it seemed they were all talk and no action.
Today’s meeting, though, helped me to form what I feel is a more accurate view of these two women. I got to speak openly with them about their frustrations and their sueños. I listened to them complain about their community, and then did my best to put a positive spin on it (in futility, but oh well). As I sat there, I thought about how frustrated I have been so many times in my 8ish months in 27, and then I tried to multiply that by years. I can’t imagine how infuriating it must be to be working (volunteering) to better your community, while the majority of the members in that community do nothing, or worse, accuse you of stealing or vagrancy.
While their methods might not be the best, and their attitudes are almost always negative, I can now understand a little more of why they are so.
Random, loosely related accounts about being different from the majority:
I arrive via bus in Santa Cruz, a city Stephanie and I visit often. As we approach the door there are taxistas calling out “taxi!” at each person as they walk out the door. I sense his gaze falling on me “Taxi, amigo!” he starts to walk the same direction I do “Amigo, I give you a good price! What beach you go to?” I point out impatiently that I am not going to the beach, and if I were I would much rather pay the dollar bus ride than the 30 dollar cab fare. I see his shoulders drop a little… I feel bad.
This morning I go jogging, there is a friendly neighborhood borracho or drunkard sitting on the corner, wearing the same clothes as the last few times I saw him. I have had a few conversations with him in the past, through his various stages of lucidity. Even though its 6:30 in the morning he greets me excitedly in a mash-up of english and spanish greetings, I sense the greeting as overgenerous, and so respond with a simple thumbs up and a head nod. He says something quickly of which I only catch “…deme” Give me. I have already passed by his corner at this point, but as what was said sinks in, I a shoot a quick look back and I hear him saying loudly “tienes algo… tienes algo.” I want to shout at him that I am not here to pay for him to buy more guaro nor finance his trip to the fiestas in Santa Cruz. Not like my Peace Corps stipend has much room for that kind of thing, anyway. I swallow my anger and start my jog.
I am in the house of a stranger with some of my favorite Tico family members. We are watching a rodeo, and someone says “Chris, hay un gringo… adentro” some foreigner has decided to run with the bulls. I don’t really have a response, as this seems relatively normal to me. A few moments later, he is pointed out to me “vea, en la camiseta roja… un gringo, igualito a usted.” This prompts me to exclaim “vea, una tica, igualita a usted!” This garners a generous round of laughter from everyone, and a discussion about how your can always tell when there are foreigners in the ring because they don’t fit the pattern of the other people running around (to put it gently).
A yellow chested bird swoops in under the high tin roof to scoop up a spider. She doesn’t get a good grip and the spider falls back to the cement floor of the large patio behind the school, the scene of a riotous game of volleyball only hours before. I am alone for the first time in days and everything seems so quiet. As I stand waiting for the bird to return for her lunch, a pair of butterflies floats across the space, feinting and fluttering in unison. I watch them drift over the roof of the school and for the first time begin to evaluate the week. The kids had fun, I think, and so it has to be called a success. Still reviewing the week’s events, I look up to find the bird has returned. She sits on the cord strung between two beams and watches me. She sings a few notes, turns her eye to me again, then flies across the patio to the mango tree in the playground. I follow her example and take my leave, completely satisfied with the way things have finished.
