October Break Entry III - finally this is done

This is getting old. Can you tell? Does my writing seem a little less passionate? Work started up again today and I’m supposed to be planning for math and science and pre-meeting and social studies. I am distracted. I am sitting in my pajamas eating leftover soup and listening to the rain and wishing lots of different things. The soup, by the way, is delicious.

Phase IV: The border by ourselves (continued)

With my unhappy tummy I wandered into the back of the restaurant to find a restroom, but quickly wandered back out again. Sometimes it is just not that serious. I found Ji perched outside the restaurant doing a stupendous job of ignoring the man who had earlier tried to sell us half a carbon copy. We were directed to a little booth to pay a few dollars to exit the country. We were directed to a large gate and showed our passports to a man in a uniform. We trekked through mud and around semi trucks to find a line to stand in. We were directed to a different line to stand in. A new man tried to give us papers to fill out and asked only for a voluntary fee. We declined. We got our passports stamped and paid four dollars and received a hand written receipt of payment. We trekked through more mud and gave our passports to more uniforms and started to sweat. We were passed by an elderly man with a huge smile riding a small pink bicycle, his knees up next to his ears. We arrived at the Costa Rican border. We stood on another line. A man looked at my passport and super looked at Ji’s, but we were let through. We found the bus station, we bought tickets to San Jose, we waited again.

Phase V: The bus from the border to Chomes

I will skip the details but it was now 12:30 p.m. and we were in a line on the sidewalk waiting to get our bags checked by customs. The bag revision process consisted of a man glancing at us and then waving us on towards our bus. The plan – take the bus part way to San Jose, get off at Chomes, hop on the bus to Monteverde. Well, that is sort of what happened. After getting mocked by our bus driver (I told Ji, “I can’t tell if he’s joking or just an asshole” and Ji replied, “Then he’s an asshole”) we arrived in Chomes at 3:30 and asked at a restaurant where the bus to Monteverde stopped. We were directed across the street to find out that the bus had just passed but that another would pass at 4. At 4:30 we asked again, “What time does the bus to Monteverde come?” We got blank stares. Monteverde? There is no bus to Monteverde that passes by here after 3:30. Our options? Pay $10 for a cab to Sardinal where a bus may or may not pass at 5:00, or pay $60 for a cab to Monteverde. It is now 4:40 and Sardinal is 10 minutes away. We have to decide quickly.

Phase VI: Taxi from Chomes to Sardinal.
That is what we decided to do.

Phase VII: Bus from Sardinal to Monteverde
The bus to Monteverde did pass by the Sardinal gas station a few minutes after 5:00. We saved tons of money. We sat in the growing darkness in the back of the bus to Monteverde and talked about the economic history of South Korea and I was happy. As we stood on the side of the road, next to the telephone, in front of the gas station, waiting for the Monteverde bus, I had apologized again and again to Ji.
“I’m sorry that I don’t know about the bus schedule.”
“I’m sorry that we almost had to pay $60.”
“I’m sorry that this is so hectic and random and last minute.”
He laughed and hugged me and assured me that he was having a great time and that he loves to travel by “winging it”. I remembered a conversation we had weeks ago about where to stay in Nicaragua. I had started talking about hotels and he said, “Can we walk around and decide when we get there?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“That’s a little more my style.” So chill.

On the cozy bus to Monteverde I was experiencing this strange sensation that I was not prepared for. I was excited because…well….I was going home. We were so close. We were, for all intents and purposes, home. Until we saw the flashers on the road. Three cars, lined up ahead of us, not moving. Our bus stopped. In the darkness people craned their heads to see what was causing the delay. The little girl two rows ahead of us slid out of her mother’s lap and lay down in the aisle. A few minutes passed. Our bus drivers opened the door, stepped off of the bus, ran up the road and disappeared into the darkness. This had the potential to make me extrememly cranky. We were in our twelvth hour of travel, less than an hour away, and now we were stopped on a dark mountain road with an A.W.O.L. driver.

When the driver returned to the bus, closed the door and started backing down the dark, windy, muddy mountain road I did not feel better. I have been doing a lot of hard work on keeping my nerves and anxiety about travel under control. When we were groaning and rolling uphill I was feeling great. This was pushing my limits. Just for clarification, just to paint you a clear picture, just so you really understand, there was no back window to the bus and there were no streetlights to light the way. I don’t care how many mirrors the driver had, you can’t see what’s behind you in the dark.

Maybe I started to cover my ears and moan and rock back and forth because Ji said, “I have utmost faith in our driver.” I felt a little better.

Phase VIII: Taxi from Santa Elena to my house

I had never been happier to be in Santa Elena. Usually, for me, Santa Elena is a sweaty chore, but not on Wednesday night. I wanted to bend down and kiss the ground, but Ji was hungry again so instead we walked around looking for a restaurant. We ate casados, watched a bit of international soccer, hopped in a cab, went home and fell asleep.

The Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve

Thursday morning I somehow convinced Ji to get up early and go running with me. I believe Ji when he told me that he had a good time as he borded the bus to the airport on Sunday morning, but as I retell the story now, I wonder how that could have been possible. Running, showers, laundry, bacon and eggs and toast. I learned quickly that running the washing machine and the hot water heat and the coffee machine and the toaster and the electric stove will blow my circuit. Ji came out of the shower in a towel. “Um, I don’t think you have power.” He explained later with a laugh, “I had just gotten into the shower when the power went out. I thought, ‘I’m tough, I can do this.’ But I’m not that tough.” The exciting part is that now I know where my circuit breaker is and just about how far I can push my little cabin’s capacity. I also know how delicious local organic bacon and eggs can taste.

I don’t remember a lot about the next few days because I stopped being sick and we were not as sweaty or in danger of being ripped off or robbed. The reserve was fantastic. We stood and watched a family of four or five playful howler monkeys until our necks hurt. We saw hummingbirds and spiders and centipedes. We stood on the continental divide and looked out at mile after mile of protected cloud forest. The one time I had been before it had been covered in clouds and battered by winds. Thursday it was clear and calm and sunny. We walked over the hanging bridge and Ji did not cry or soil himself, which was more than we had hoped. We checked our email at the café where we got dinner only to find out that the world did not miss us and we did not mind. Ji seems to think that no one from work has even noticed that he had been gone and I had an email from my mom telling me to get offline and go hang out with Ji.

And Beyond

We slept in. I made Ji coffee. We cooked pasta and veggies and had Jonathan and Heather over for dinner and cards. We washed dishes. We watched No Reservations the New Jersey episode. We listed to Eryka Badu and Ji played me Common songs and we talked about his musical transformation after meeting Eryka and how he can’t sell albums anymore. Saturday morning we went to the farmer’s market and bought local veggies and ate fried cheese. We played Frisbee in the afternoon and then moaned and groaned around the kitchen that evening as we tried to use our tired bodies to make pineapple juice and adobo(the adobo was delicious, the pineapple juice would have been better if I had remembered to rinse the cutting board after chopping onions and before slicing pineapple).

And then, at 6:30 a.m. on Sunday, I said good-bye to Ji as he climbed aboard the bus to the airport. And I walked home trying not to cry because this is a small town and people know you and if they see you crying on the side of the road early in the morning they would probably stop and ask you what was wrong and if you tried to say “Nothing” they would know you were lying and if you tried to tell them the truth you would just start crying harder and probably get snot all over yourself or, much worse, them.

And now break is over and I have work to do.

October Break Entry II

Upgrading

I should take this opportunity to mention that the accommodations that our travel weary selves hastily fell into that night were less than ideal. The floor looked wet with what Ji guess was insect repellent similar to what he had witnessed in Thailand. The room smelled like mothballs. The bathroom was dingy, the shower stall stained and a wall of mildew was creeping up the shower curtain from the bottom. We decided at dawn to upgrade, but first we had to eat.

I have known Ji-Soo for seven months and he has been very honest about one thing from the start: if he gets hungry, he gets cranky. I had never seen this fully manifest itself and was beginning to doubt the truth of it, until that morning in Moyogalpa. I’m sure spending the night in a hot, stinky, mildewed hotel room did not help the matter, but Ji was intent on one thing: getting food in his belly. NOW.

The first place we stumbled upon was a little sign outside a gate advertising rooms for rent and a restaurant. We looked inside. There was a short path between two buildings that let to a covered area with plastic tables and chairs. Beyond that was an outdoor kitchen and beyond that a large dirt courtyard with chickens running around and a pigpen in the corner. Did I mention that Moyogalpa is one of the two main towns on Ometepe Island, and that we were on one of the central streets in the town? Welcome to Nicaragua.

We paused, looking into the courtyard, deciding whether or not to enter, when a voice from the kitchen called. “Come in, come in! Have a seat!” So we did. And we ate. And it was awesome. Gallo pinto (rice and beans) with scrambled eggs, fried cheese and ham. Ji had coffee and I had some sort of delicious, freshly made juice. Chickens ran around our feet as we ate. In the kitchen behind us a woman was cooking a huge pot of something on an open stove. By huge I mean I could have taken a bath in it with little trouble. The pigs happily squealed in their pen. We wanted to ask if we could take pictures, and I wanted to ask if we could check out the pigpen, but I got shy and so we just paid and left.


(Ji with his instant coffee at breakfast)

We sat and digested awhile in the park, grabbed our belongings, checked out of our dingy hotel and hopped on the 10:20 bus to Playa Santo Domingo, which, according to our guidebooks, has the nicest beaches and accommodations on the island.


(Ji with his belly full in the dilapidated town park in front of the church)

Playa Santo Domingo

Up to this point Ji’s “vacation” had consisted of early mornings, long hot bus rides, sweat and mildew. Playa Santo Domingo was a change of pace. We spent that first day, Monday, just relaxing. We found a comfortable lavender colored hotel room with a screened window open to the lake, which gave a steady, cool breeze. After that I don’t remember much since it was such an uneventful, pleasant day. I think we ate lunch and then sat on the patio for another hour, enjoying the breeze. I’m sure a nap found it’s way in there, and I know that instead of renting bikes late in the afternoon we went for a walk. We ate dinner and sat around reading the Smithsonian magazines that Ji brought me and he started on a new novel. After dinner we sat on the steps leading to the beach and watched the stars come out and then fell asleep in our lavender room with a sweet lake breeze and gentle, continuous roar of waves breaking on the black sand beach.

(Ji in our lavender room)


(Uracas)


(our evening walk)


(laundry drying in the lake breeze)

When we almost killed ourselves

The next day we got a relatively late start, and were at breakfast enjoying translation errors in the menu before nine in the morning.

We decided to rent bikes and bike around the smaller of the two volcanoes. We estimated that this would be about a twenty mile ride, which is rigorous, but we are both in pretty solid shape and we calculated that if we biked four miles an hour, this would take us five hours. It was before ten in the morning and we had plenty of time.

The hotel we were staying in did not rent bikes, so we went next door. Bike rental prices there were $2/hr or $10 for the entire day. Not bad. After a lot of butt sitting we were eager to get some exercise and be out in the sun.

First of all, bike quality was not just bad, but dangerous. Both of our bikes were missing cables and could not shift correctly and my bike had minimal braking capacity. We thought: “$2/hr, how bad could it be?” and headed out. The road, in case it is not clear from the photos, was in crummy condition. The paved section of the road on Ometepe Island was completed about two years ago, and had not yet reached Playa Santo Domingo. Monteverde has a dirt road, but it is a well-maintained dirt road. There was a noticeable difference. Going was bouncy, our bums were sore, we were soaked in sweat, but we were having fun. I know this because I checked in with Ji as I began to suspect that our relaxed beach getaway might soon get a little less relaxing.
After a few minutes of bumping along on broken dirt road Ji looked ahead and exclaimed, “Finally, a paved road.” Unfortunately this paved road went straight uphill and neither he nor I could shift down to make our work any easier. Ji, a pretty avid biker, soon passed me. This was hard! I stood up on my pedals and was glad to notice that Ji too, had to stand. Halfway up the hill I reminded myself that biking was supposed to be fun and this was not, so I got off and walked. I was relieved to see that Ji, too, had gotten off his bike and started walking the last few feet up the hill. At least I wasn’t the only one who was struggling with this. After another minute caught up to Ji at the top of the hill.

“Wow. That was hard. I had to walk”, I gasped, as I got closer.
“Yeah.”
“How are you?”
“Um. I feel a little lightheaded.” And then he sat down. This was not part of the plan. As the day progressed and Ji recovered bit-by-bit, more of the true story came out. He had not just been light headed. He was also sweating more than usual, a cold sweat, and had started to see yellow. He suspected that if he had not sat down in that moment, he probably would have passed out. This is when I suddenly realized that I don’t know what to do if someone passes out. Ji said, “Put my feet up, make sure I’m breathing, and then rub my belly.” I wonder what course he learned that in.

Not knowing the full severity of the situation in that moment, I thought it was a great idea to continue with our ride. We walked the bikes up the rest of the hill and then hopped on again. After a few more uphill’s that we have to walk, a few more downhill’s that freaked me out because it took all of my strength to brake, a few more gallons of sweat and more dizziness, we decided that this is no longer fun and we wanted to go back to the hotel.

On the way back we stopped by a hotel restaurant to get Cokes, dry off and relax a bit. I am eternally grateful for the clean and comfortable bathroom at this restaurant because the combination of physical exertion, intense heat, stress of Ji being sick and sugar from the Coke was a recipe for disaster.


(My savior)
When we got back to the hotel we took a quick dip in the lake. It was not until then that I realized why the sound of the waves breaking was continuous. The water stays shallow for a ways out, which means the waves break and then keep breaking, rolling in noisily towards shore. I counted one wave that rolled, white and bubbly, into shore for seventeen seconds. It was a loud beach.

We dried off in the sun, showered, and then did nothing else for the rest of the day. I was careful to not eat much and be gentle with my stomach because we knew we had a long day of travel ahead of us. The goal was to be back in Monteverde by Wednesday night.

From Ometepe to Monteverde (an experience that could have been straight-up hell if it were not for my relaxed and calm travel companion, which actually applies to the entire Nicaragua experience)

Phase I: Bus from Playa Santo Domingo to Moyogalpa.
The waiter at the hotel told us that there were morning buses at 4:30, 5:00 and 5:30. The next one was not until 9:30. We paid our bill Tuesday night, woke at 5:00 Wednesday morning and crept out, leaving our key in the door as we had been instructed. This was yet another early morning for poor Ji, who loves to sleep in.

I had not eaten dinner the night before and did not eat breakfast, hoping that fasting for the day would guarantee an problem-free stomach situation. I grabbed a sip of water as we headed out the door to wait for the bus. Unfortunately, by this point, Ji was fully tuned into all of my bodily functions. That morning he came to the conclusion that my stomach problems are all emotionally triggered as my stomach lurched and clenched with only water in it. We had no idea if this bus would actually come, at what time it would come or if we would make it to Monteverde in one day.

The bus came at 5:29 a.m. How is it that a beat up bus on a busted up road can be so punctual? Greyhound should take notes.

As the bus filled up Ji gave his seat to an older woman with whom I chatted with for the remaining hour of the ride. She had lived outside of Los Angeles for over forty years. When she was twenty-three she had left Ometepe with no electricity and no running water and headed for California. There she met a Peruvian man, they married and had three kids. Her husband wanted to live on the island, and they returned two years ago. She misses the convenience of the southern California suburbs and the decorative cabbage plants she saw everywhere, but her husband is content and she is on the island to stay.

Phase II: Ferry from Moyogalpa to San Jorge
A few minutes after seven we were on a much smaller ferry then the one that took us to Moyogalpa. To board we filed one at a time thru a door in the gate while a man with a clipboard took down everyone’s name, age and nationality. Ji and I were about fifty or sixty people down the list and the first foreigners. I don’t know what this data is for. We were passengers with an old woman with failing health who spent the entire trip with her head on someone’s lap and a bright red towel over her head. When we got off the boat she moaned and groaned and was let off first, clutching the elbow of the young woman who accompanied her. We were also with two Spanish speaking but not Nicaraguan backpackers who were very affectionate with each other and, Ji is convinced, a little malnourished, and a group of eleven school kids with a blanket covered building model. The school group leader was a wide woman in a denim jacket who looked like a truck diver. Ji and I immediately liked her based solely on her thickness and sailor’s gait.

We got to San Jorge almost exactly one hour after we pulled away from Moyogalpa. How do they do that?

Phase III: Taxi from San Jorge to the border
Once again, taxi drivers approached us as soon as we got off the boat. One man agreed to take us from San Jorge to the Ticabus agency in Rivas for three dollars, which is the same as we paid last time. On the way to the car he mentioned gently that you have to buy your Ticabus tickets one day in advance. Shoot - we had forgotten that. He offered to take us to the Nicaragua – Costa Rica border for $20. From there, he explained, you can buy cheaper tickets to San Jose on a bus that leaves more frequently. We agreed.

The ride to the border was interesting. Our driver played a wide range of great American love song classics from the 80’s and 90’s. He, much like the other people we met in Nicaragua, was very patient with my questions. We drove past a wind field that he said was put in recently by an American company. They produce electricity and then export it to other countries like Costa Rica. He admitted that there is some resentment on the part of Nicaraguans that a foreign country has come in to export energy. He showed us the old Nicaraguan border and explained that all of the trucks were waiting to be inspected. He offered, for an added fee, to contact a friend of his that works in immigration who could expedite the process for us. We said thanks but no thanks. We’re going to try to navigate the border by ourselves this time. He smiled, pointed us in the direction of the immigration offices and dropped us in front of a place to eat breakfast.

Phase IV: The border by ourselves
As soon as we stepped out of the car we were swarmed by people trying to “help” us cross the border. Ok, maybe “swarmed” is a bit of an exaggeration. There were only two men, but it was still a big overwhelming. They were trying to sell us the papers we needed to fill out to go through immigration, but they had only the yellow copy of a carbon copy. I’m not sure what their plan was.

We “No gracias”ed them and sat down to eat. My stomach had been solid for hours and I was hungry. The food was mediocre and expensive. Needless to say, little time passed before my stomach started to flip. The entire operation was a little skeezy. I brought down a can of Pringles for snacks later that was labeled 35 cordovas. The lady, who seemed like the owner of the place, went to ring me the purchase as 45 cordovas, but the waiter corrected her.
“It’s 35 cordovas.”
“No, it’s 45.”
“Well, it says 35 right here”, he said, pointing to the price tag.
“What? 35? No! What kind of crazy person put that? It’s 45.” Looking at me: “I’ll give it to you for 40.” I agreed because I wanted to leave and it was a twenty-five cent difference. I paid and as I walked out I told her,
“The other can of Pringles is also labeled as 35, in case you’d like to change it.”

(real time update: there are many more pictures but they are taking a long time to load on the slow school connection. The will be added some time in the future.)

October Break Entry I

Tomorrow October break will be over and I will go back to work. This morning Ji-Soo and I woke at 4:30 to walk him to his 6:30 bus to the airport. We walked down the mountain as the sun rose and heard howler monkeys in the trees behind us. We saw a coyote cross the street in front of us in Cerro Plano. It was big and lanky and shiny and nimble. We thought that maybe this is why there are not chickens everywhere like there were in Nicaragua. I realized that I live in a very special place and am very lucky to be here.

October break was exciting and wonderful and I will present it to those of you who are interested in chapters (a la Ernesto Guevara in The Motorcycle Diaries) but first, this:

Dear Ji-Soo,
This is what you missed on the walk home: I saw that lady running again. It really was her this time, not some old man. The view by the gas station was amazing - steel blues and grays layered on each other and melting into the clouds. As I passed in front of the school I heard noise in the trees and looked up to see a group of ten or twelve white-faced monkeys crossing the road, way up in the branches. They crossed one at a time, and then were gone. This was particularly exciting because I have not seen white-faced monkeys in Monteverde before. I saw a bright red bird but did not get a good look at it before it flew away. I got home at 7:35, which is interesting because I walked slowly and uphill and it only took twenty minutes longer than it did for us to walk quickly downhill. When I walked in I was pretty sure that you had never been here at all, but then I changed out of my sweaty clothes, took a deep breath and sat down on the couch. I saw the coffee maker in the kitchen and your towel hung out to dry on the porch and I knew that you had been here, but were now gone, and I was sad. Then I ate the curry chicken and the banana bread, but did not drink the coffee.
Love,
Ginna

Meeting Ji in San Jose

This was pretty uneventful. I left my house last Saturday (10.10.09) at 5 a.m., walked to Santa Elena and got on the 6:30 San Jose bus. I was at the airport by 10 a.m., which was…early. Ji’s flight got in at 1:30. I had a book recommended from a student that lasted me about an hour. The remaining three hours I spent wandering around and trying to avoid the taxi drivers who kept wanting to talk to me. My favorite part was the American family who sat next to me on the bench while they waited for the Budget rental van to arrive and kept commenting on the make of the cars.
“Paul, I haven’t seen a single American made car.” Pause. Pause.
“They are all Toyotas.” Pause. Pause.
“Well, there’s a Chevy.”
Ji-Soo got in around 2, we hopped a cab to the hotel, dropped our bags and headed out to get bus tickets to Nicaragua. Why Nicarauga? Because I am horrible at paper work and had not jumped through the proper hoops in time to get my working visa, which expires at the end of the month. I had to leave the country. We made a stop at El Mercado Central for casados con chuleta, “typical” Costa Rican food (rice and beans, salad, veggies, pork chop). We got soaked in the rain even though we broke down and bought an umbrella, and the market food started me on a days long bout of tummy problems. Here we were, Ji had been in the country for less than 12 hours and already we are wandering around down town San Jose in the dark trying to find the bus station, soaking wet, with me dragging him into gas stations to find a toilet RIGHT NOW. I began to wonder – was he having fun yet?

Travel to Nicaragua

Our TicaBus bus left for Rivas, Nicaragua at 7:30 a.m. on Sunday. We had to be there one hour early and left the hotel a little after six a.m. This was now the second day of his “vacation” that Ji had gotten up before six. Maybe he thought this was fun? Doubtful.

Let me pause here to mention that I had never traveled across boarders by bus in Central America, and had no idea how to do it. I had heard from multiple sources that TicaBus and other international bus lines (TransNica) were professional and trustworthy and I should not hesitate to fork over my passport to a stranger and let him walk off the bus and into a building with it, but I was still a little unsure. Thankfully, Ji is completely comfortable traveling in foreign countries in which he barely speaks the language and has no idea what is going on. More on that later.

The first international bus tidbit that we learned was how to check our bags. Luggage theft on buses is quite a large problem and this process was very organized. As you hand in your bag they attach a paper tag to it with a number. This tag has a detachable section with a matching number which is ripped off and given to the bag owner to be used when they claim their bags at the end of their journey. I was beginning to feel more relaxed. I should not leave out that it was Ji who figured this system out. I didn’t even know that we could check our bags. Checking our bags was also nice because the man who did it for us mentioned that we had to actually check in with our ticket at the counter. Good to know.

We hopped on the bus and travel was clean and comfortable. Except for the gasoline fumes. I found them quite overwhelming and was a little worried about the fact that our bus reeked of gas, but Ji seemed pretty calm and I tried to follow his lead. I was worried at first about the state of my stomach, but am getting quite good, out of necessity, at willing my stomach into submission. With no stomach clenches to distract me, I was able to enjoy our trip. The ride to Rivas would take six or seven hours we were told, and that gave us plenty of time to chat, nap, listen to music and smile at the three year old boy who stood quietly on his mom’s knees and looked out the window for hours at a time. We watched an episode of No Reservations on Ji’s iPod (isn’t it interesting as I type this on my Mac that “iPod” is not recognized by spell check?). No Reservations is this hilarious and interesting show on the food network. Anthony Bordain is an ex-chef who travels the world and eats. Ji brought his two favorite episodes that interestingly enough correspond to the two places he considers home: Korea and New Jersey. On this bus ride we watched the Korea episode, and I loved it. Anthony Bordain is a grumpy old man, which is hilarious, especially when he gets dragged to karaoke in Seoul by a young, upbeat, cheerful Korean co-worker.

How to Cross the Border in a Bus

We arrived at the Costa Rica – Nicaragua border what seemed to be two hours ahead of schedule, until we spent two hours at the border standing in lines.

Step One: Get off the bus
This seems simple, but there were no directions given. We suspected that we were nearing the border when we started passing miles of semi-trucks waiting on the side of the road for inspection. (Ji says, “Um, I think we are at the boarder.”) The bus stopped and everyone got off, so we got off also. There were no signs explaining what to do or where to go, so we just followed the other people who had been on our bus, hoping that they knew what was going on. It was hot and I had to pee.

Step Two: Some guy stamps your passport
After about twenty minutes in a line we were allowed inside to stand on another line. There were two lines in this room, one labeled “Entrada” and one labeled “Salida”. We were not the only ones confused. Were we leaving Costa Rica or entering Nicaragua? This was the Costa Rican border and we were leaving the country, but I still don’t remember what line we were in. It was the line next to the windows, does that help?

Step Three: Get back on the bus
Seems simple, huh? Not when you are traveling with an Asian. We waited in another, shorter line to get back onto our bus. This line, however, was in the midday sun, which made it quite uncomfortable. I boarded the bus first and showed my passport and customs form to a man from the bus company who was seated in the driver’s seat. He informed me that when we entered Nicaragua I would have to pay $8 and that I had to redo my customs forms with a specific address. I had put “Ometepe”, the name of the island we were going to, but this was not good enough. When I explained that we still did not know where we would be spending the night he told me, “Put Hotel Ometepe, even though there is no such place. At least you’ll have something.” I ended up putting a random name from the guidebook. As I moved onto the bus and headed back to my seat, the man called me back. He had Ji’s passport in hand.
“You need to go inside and make some photocopies of this passport. “ He showed me three pages to copy – 1) the first page with the picture 2) the page with the stamp when Ji entered Costa Rica the day before and 3) the page with the stamp when Ji had visited Guatemala in 2003.
“What? Why?”
“We have to have photocopies of anyone who is Chinese, Japanese or Korean.”
“But why do you need a copy of when he went to Guatemala? That was in 2003.”
“This is what they ask for.”
“Even though he is a citizen of the United States?”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if they have a north american passport, that is what they ask for from anyone with a Chinese last name.” This is funny, because Ji is not Chinese and it clearly says so on his passport. Also, his last name is Park. But, we had no choice. The man assured us that the bus would not leave without us and gave us directions to where to get photocopies. I looked at Ji. He did look mighty suspicious.

Now is a good time to mention that I was having a lot of difficulty understanding the Spanish spoken at the boarder. So when we went back into the immigration building to try to get photocopies made and the lady at the photocopier had no idea what I was talking about I was doubly lost. The following is a rough guess of what happened.
“Do you need to make photocopies?”
“Yes.”
“Is it for your car?”
“No, they told us that we needed to make three copies from this passport.”
“Oh, you’ll have to ask over there.” I walked over to the counter but she called me back. “What do you need the copies of?”
“His passport.”
“Oh. You have to go to the room down the hall to get your passport stamped.”
“We already got them stamped. Then, when we went to get back on the bus-“
“The buses are out that door.”
“But the man on the bus told us…” I paused here looking for correct conjugation. She laughed, exasperated.
“I don’t know who the man on the bus is!” This was not working.
“Since he is Korean, (pointing at Ji) we need copies.” I guess these were the magic words.
“Oh! Ok.” She took the passport and made the copies. We paid and headed back to the bus. We got on the bus. We drove to Nicaragua.

Step Four: Give up your passport
Yup. He worked for the bus line. He charged us $8, shoved our passports in a small plastic bag and walked away.

Step Five: Nicaragua customs
The Nicaraguan border is about half a mile from the Costa Rican border. Once again we got off the bus only because this is what everyone else was doing. This time there were directions: we were to take everything with us off the bus and claim our luggage from the belly of the bus. People filed off the bus and into a disorganized mass, waiting to see and grab their luggage. Remember that organized system of matching numbers and tags? It did not go into affect here. It was a free for all. Anyone could have grabbed our stuff and ran, but no one did. Once we got our luggage we waited in line, again, to have our bags checked by Nicaraguan customs. I left my bags with Ji for a bit to find and chat with an American exchange student from my school that we had run into at the Costa Rican boarder. She and her mom were running into some passport/visa issues, but all seemed to be working out well so I returned to where I left Ji standing. The line moved slowly and brought us to a man at a worn, rickety wooden desk outside. I handed him my customs form, he looked at me and waved me back towards the bus. Ji, next in line, handed the customs official his form. The man turned to me and asked, “Are those his bags?” I replied that they were and we were both waved back to the bus. I’m not quite sure where the confusion came in since Ji was wearing his backpack and shoulder bag, but I guess that man could not be too sure.

Step Six: Get back on the bus
The TicaBus man with our passports had not yet emerged from the office where he was hopefully not losing my passport, so we hung out around the bus with the other passengers. I couldn’t help myself and bought fried chicken, cabbage salad and fried plantains in a plastic bag for 35 cordovas (US$1.75 US$1 = 20 cordovas). Ji looked at me, astonished. All day I have been trying my best to keep my tummy calm. “If you get sick, you get no sympathy from me.” I can’t say that I blame him. I nibbled a bit and then tossed it in the trashcan, feeling spoiled and guilty to throw away food in such an impoverished nation.
The man with the passports returned and started calling out our names, checking us with our passports, handing back the passports and letting us back on the bus. When he got to Ji’s he didn’t even attempt his first name, just calling out “Park”. We got on the bus. Thirty minutes later we were in Rivas.

Our First Night In Nicaragua

We got off the bus in Rivas, Nicaragua and had to show our numbered tabs to get our luggage out of the belly of the bus. The man who gave us out luggage spent a long time checking the numbers, too, which makes me wonder if I could have gotten my bag without the tag. We had planned to take a cab to the neighboring town of San Jorge, where we would hop the ferry to Ometepe Island. As soon as we had bags in hand a taxi driver approached us.
“Taxi?”
“Yes. We’d like to go to San Jorge.”
“Ok. Five dollars.”
“Really? We were told that it would be $1.50.” This is true. This is what it said in the two Nicaragua travel guides we brought with us. I do not like to barter, but I also do not like to be ripped off.
“Hm…I can give it to you for four dollars. Two dollars a person.” I looked at Ji. I don’t like having to do this. Ji suggested three dollars, $1.50 per person and the driver agreed. I asked how far it is to the San Jorge port and the driver told us 15-20 minutes. This is roughly what the guidebook says. In reality, it took less than ten minutes. Hm.

When we arrived in San Jorge we walked towards the port and passed the two chained up monkeys in a tree that I had been warned about. It was 3:30. A man approached us as we poked around the gate to the port. He said the ferry to Ometepe left already, at 3:30, but there was another one leaving at 4:30. I looked at the four-foot high ferry schedule next to him and didn’t see a 4:30 departure. “There is a ferry that leaves at 4:30 even though it doesn’t say it here on the schedule?” I asked, obviously skeptical. He looked at me for a second and then spoke to me slowly, as if I would have trouble understanding the complexity of his answer: the 4:30 ferry is from another company. When I learned that we didn’t have to pay until we are on the ferry I felt less defensive and forked over two dollars for an island entrance fee. Or something. Ji looked at me as we walked away and asked about the validity of the little Ometepe tourism tickets we now held in our hands. We were one hour away from leaving for Ometepe and had a solid day of successful travel behind us and I was in a good mood. “Well, they looked official enough”, I said.

We ducked into a small restaurant to sweat uncomfortably and kill an hour. Ji was excited to have a grape Fanta until he decided that the bottle was reused and had been washed in gasoline.
The ferry ride was pretty uneventful. Did I mention how unpleasantly hot it was? I get cranky when I’m hot and sweaty and Ji gets cranky when he’s hungry and we were both pushing the limits. Ji had purposefully dehydrated himself so as to not have to pee on the bus and was now parched. Luckily the ferry sold cold bottles of water for 11 cordovas. The trip had magnificent views of Ometepe Island, which is an island of two volcanoes and got much better when we mustered the energy to lug ourselves up to the top deck and sit in the breeze.

(Ji-Soo being sweaty and gross at the restaurant. I only post this picture because Ji said it was his favorite one.)


(Ji-Soo being insanely cute with his gasoline Fanta)


(waiting for the ferry)

Almost exactly an hour after pulling away from the dock in San Jorge we arrived in Moyogalpa, Ometepe. We dropped our stuff at a hotel and went out to grab a bite to eat. The waitress where we ended up was patient and kind and answered all my questions. She said they had pitaya juice, and I didn’t know what that was. After much guessing and an obvious hint that I missed but Ji got, (some people call it fruta de dragon) I ordered dragon fruit juice and ate and played with the puppies and went back to the hotel and fell asleep.


(jugo de pitaya - yum yum yum)

(real time update - I have not slept since 4 a.m. and am tired and hungry and going home. The rest of the story will come later)

No hubo invierno

So, I've been away for a bit. Last Saturday a student's father, who is a naturalist, invited all of the teachers on an overnight. Sunday internet wasn't working so blog updates did not happen. So here I am. Two weeks later. And here is my favorite story: This morning my landlady knocked on my door. I thought, as I always do, that I was in trouble. Was I washing clothes too early in the morning? Was there a leak somewhere? Was I making too much noise with the blender? Nope. She just wanted to show me the hummingbird that had crashed into her window. It was too dazed to fly away, so it sat quietly on her finger with it's thread like tongue (is it even a tongue?) flicking in and out. I took some pictures, but they will not appear here for awhile. This made me extremely content for two reasons:
1. Hummingbirds are beautiful and I am glad to have them in my daily life.
2. My landlady is wonderful and thoughtful. I was touched that she would bring me such a treat. Sometimes she brings me cookies or fruit. I am lucky to live where I do.

My trip to San Gerardo, which was amazing, told in photos:
We drove about 30 minutes to the Santa Elena Reserve and then had to hike down to the station. What kind of station? I don't know, it seemed like a hotel to me, but they call it the station. Our guide, Mark, is wonderful and patient and kind and took his time to explain plants along the way in a useful, clear way. This is the first plant he showed us:


He taught with questions, which I really like. Knowledge sticks better for me this way. He asked: What kind of animal do you think feeds off this flower? We were silent. What do we notice about this flower? We were silent. Is it wide or skinny? Does it have bright colors? We determined that this flower gave food to a bat. Wide for a big bat with a wide face and not brightly colored because it doesn't need to grab attention during the day. This flower is in the African violet family. I think.


The walk down on the main road. About halfway down we took a trail that looked more like, well, a trail.


And this is where I realize that some pieces have fallen out of my head in the last two weeks. This is an orchid. You can tell orchids are orchids because they all have these two bulbs at the base. The word "orchid" in Greek translates to "testicle". Orchids are testicle plants. The woman next to me leans over and whispers, "That's funny, because orchids look like vaginas."


This is the only carniverous plant in the area.The top part is a flower and this is a bulb in the roots. Somehow, it convinces ants to burrow into it (the promise of food?) and then it keeps the ant in the bulb and digests it to get nutrients.


How do they do this without rulers???



Dark and foggy in the afternoon forest.


Arrival at the station was magical.


Our view from the balcony that evening. Can you see Lake Arenal? Volcano Arenal?



Chillin' before dinner.


The view the next morning. You can just make out Lake Arenal on the left.


Yummy breakast.



This horrendous beast was there to share food with us. You could watch him munch away on the fly. I did not gag, or vomit, or cry, even though I thought about doing all three. At the same time. I just took some pictures and then walked away.


Monkeys up in the tree.



Seed packet.


Blue morpho butterfly.



Hibiscus fruit tastes like...nothing.



Blue morpho wings on my knee.




Butterfly that didn't fly away.



The cool thing about this little dude is the bright orange patch of skin he has under his throat. We also learned that most lizards need to move according to climate to survive, but this guy can stay in one place and regulate himself to different temperatures. This means he can have territory that other lizards like himself will not occupy. The trade off is he can't move as quickly or as agilely as others.



At last, right before we left, we got to see the volcano! You can see it smoking. It lay dormant for hundreds of years and then in July 1968 erupted and has been active ever since. There were changes in the land in the years leading up to the 1968 eruption. The lake on the top of the volcano dried up and all the fish died. Cows would not drink out of streams that they had been using for decades.


Little boy boots.

Ant Attack

Yesterday I talked with Raquel online. I asked her my moth question, but in different words. She said, “What kind of liberated woman are you if you are trying to fulfill someone else’s idea of what a liberated woman is?” but in different words. And then she cursed me out, which was refreshing, because no one here in Monteverde uses curse words, and I’ve come to miss them. In Frisbee, when I miss a catch or make a bad throw and say, “Shoot!” I feel like some sort of morally corrupt person. Plus, Raquel curses like a sailor, and it’s wonderful. We had this agreement last year: I strung together the nastiest, most vulgar curse words I could find and put them on the fridge. If I started to stress out about work Raquel was to use those words on me. She only had to use the system once, and it was a wonderful wake up call. I love work, but not enough to stress continuously about it.

Another thing that happened yesterday: I did laundry. As I brought in my dry clothes I noticed a swarm of ants on the wall of the porch. I leaned closer to see what they were so excited about and I noticed that the swarm was slowly leaking across the railing of my porch and onto the floor next to my feet. This was new. I carefully sneaked a peak down the wall of the balcony. There were ants everywhere, swarming from the grass, up the landlady’s wall and towards me. I shut the door and went inside. As I readied to leave I peeked outside for an ant swarm update. They were all over the floor of my porch now. I shoved a towel in the crack of the door and left the house.

I asked later, at the yoga place (I was there to drop off a reading group book for Daniel, who works with us in the classroom on Wednesday) what was up. I think I said, “Should I be worried about the swarm of ants that were taking over my house when I left?” Daniel said they had been doing the same thing there. Both he and Rise agreed that having ants swarm your house was a great thing to happen since they will clean out all of the carcasses. Yes, they used the word “carcasses”. “Do they bite?” I asked. “They bite HARD”, Daniel replied. Cool. I remembered feet so swollen from ant bites in Nicaragua that my puffy skin pushed on the sides of my sandals. “It’s best to just let them be”, he added. “Yeah”, Rise agreed. “You’re lucky you won’t be home until later tonight.”

And then I left and on the way out I got bitten by one of these ants and it turned bright red, but did not swell.

This makes me think of two things:

1. Mutant Message Down Under. A woman is crossing the outback in Australia and some kind of insect swarms them. She, naturally, freaks out until her guides tell her to just relax and let the bugs do their work. She closes her eyes and tries to remain calm as they work their way into her ears and nose, cleaning and eating. And then they are gone and she feels like she has gone to a spa.

2. Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. An American family is living somewhere in Africa and ants swarm the village and leave nothing in their path – only skeletons. They have to run and submerge themselves in the river to save their lives.

When I got home last night there were no ants anywhere on the porch. I know because I turned on the outside light and checked. There was one tired and lost ant on my bedroom floor. I gave it two feet of space as I put on my PJs.

A few more pictures from Independence day:



This was towards the end of the parade. These kids had been marching and standing in the sun for a few hours and got tired, so they sat down. Maybe my favorite part of parade was the kids dressed up with green crosses who went around giving water to parade participants who looked hot and tired.



I already have a picture of this kid in yesterday’s post, but he was adorable. His sunglasses where so huge they stuck out from his face on both sides and he is wearing those super cool cut off gloves. He saw me trying to take his picture and turned and looked right at me. I think this is my favorite picture from the entire day.


A beautiful flower on the walk home, which was 5km uphill in the hot sun. This flower makes me think of skin. I think if I could choose any skin color, it would be this, but then I’m sure the bees and humming birds would be a real bother.



This cow had slipped out of the fence at my favorite spot on my walk home from work. My father has passed on to me an obsession with cows and I simply had to take some pictures. This picture does not do this munching lady justice. Her dark brown faded to light brown further down her back. She made a surprising amount of noise ripping up roots, grinding and swallowing. She was beautiful.



These are the flowers at the gate to my house, and my house. See that corner there? That is my kitchen. See my corrugated tin roof? That is why the rain sounds so lovely. No, the rain would sound lovely regardless. The roof is why the rain sounds especially lovely.


Something interesting about life in Monteverde: It has not rained here in at least a week, even though we are in the middle of the rainy season. This means there is no water in the streams and that sometimes there is not water at the school and if you have to use the restroom you have to use the out house with the spiders. I wonder whose job it is to get rid of the spiders in the out house but don’t want to ask because I fear the answer will be “yours.”

Apparently, during the dry season, sometimes there won’t be water for two days at a time and people can’t shower. This is on my List of Things I Wish They Had Mentioned in the Interview, right next to “There are spiders and scorpions everywhere”. I still would have taken the job - I don’t like to shower.

Costa Rican Independence Day

9/15/09

Costa Rican Independence Day, no school, one of the best days yet.

The parade started at 8. Well, it was supposed to. I was at the school a little after seven to help load the truck and get a ride into Cerro Plan, the small town before Santa Elena, where the parade was to start from. The family who owns the truck has two kids at the school, one in my class and one in kindergarten. They were in the front seat as the truck pulled up wearing matching lime green school t-shirts. They had pen marks all over their legs. I asked the younger one, a boy, “Who drew on your legs?” He looked up at me, very business-like and answered, “I drew on my legs.” I looked at his sister, a third grader in my class. “And who drew on your legs?” She smiles a sneaky smile, “I drew on my legs.”

We arrive in Cerro Plano, help set up the truck and the waiting begins. The Monteverde Friends School lead the parade with kids dressed up like local birds – quetzlas, motmots – and banner presentations and dances. I’m pretty sure that every school in the area was present in the parade. We gathered in a field in Cerro Plano and listened to music and talking. I spoke with a woman who’s grand children are in my class. I thanked her for the peanut butter she had made and sold me the week before. She buys peanuts from a man in San Jose who imports them from Nicaragua. I had mentioned to her one evening that I’d like to buy some peanut butter from her and the next morning her grandson delivered it to me. I gave him the money, checked in with him the next day – “Did you give your grandmother the money?” “Yeah” and marveled at small town life. Until today when she mentions that she never got the payment. Huh.

I watched the parade seated between two teachers and two families with sons under seven years old. The six year old, who I know because he is in my quilting mini-course on Thursday afternoons, sees me and immediately sits next to me and later clambered into my lap. This is why I love kids this age – when they love you, you know you have done something wonderful in the world. They do not mask their emotions.

I spent a large amount of the day today with Mike and Sally ( of nobreadcrumbs.blogspot.com) and their two almost-four-year-olds Michael and John Gustavo. Let me explain a little bit about life with these two boys. I had seen Sally with Michael this morning around 8:30. I waved and called, “Good morning!”, but Michael stared right through me. He looked exhausted, like Sally had just made him walk from San Jose. I jumped up and down a bit and waved some more but got only blank stares. This is not the norm. My “Hi Michael!” is usually returned with a huge smile and a “Hi Ginna!” from Michael and a tentative wave from John, who is much more unsure of me. Later that morning in the field I must have said something to Michael because as we sat on the curb watching the parade go by he asked me a question. I could not hear him above the drumming and music and said, “I didn’t hear what you said.” He put his mouth next to my ear, his lips covered with cracker crumbs and repeats his question: “Why did I break your heart?” Oh goodness. I have been careless with my words again. I must have told this sweet child that his lack of greeting broke my heart (which is a little bit true, but did I have to be so dramatic?). I tell him that one of my favorite things in the whole world is when he, his brother, mom or dad says hello to me. I reminded him that I had said hello to him that morning and he was too tired to respond. I worry that he will carry my words with him forever, regretting his actions. I hope he has forgotten it already. Why am I so careless with words around inquisitive minds?

After the parade I hiked back up the hill to my house. I arrived tired and covered in sweat. I had only eaten a few mandarin oranges, a handful of sesame sticks and one cracker offered up to me by Michael. I devoured a plate of pasta and hunks of bread with (unpaid for?) peanut butter and honey. I chugged three glasses of water with limon acido. I changed out of my drenched clothing and sat in my hammock reading The Time Keeper’s Daughter.

But only until 2 o’clock when I changed clothes again and ran down to Heather and Jonathan’s house. Jonathan is great at gently making sure I am always working on the edge of my limitations physically. Today we took a new route (left at Las Colinas Lodge) towards San Luis. He gave a fantastic tour and history of the land as I slipped around in the mud and stumbled over rocks. I felt great.
Come home, shower, throw away the weird worms in my shower, read, devour more food. Life is good.

I have had some images bouncing around in my head for a few days that I have wanted to share. On Sunday there is a separate Children’s Meeting that joins us about twenty minutes before the end. Last Sunday one of the children who joined us was a second grader at the school. He sat quietly next to his mother and sister for the remainder of Meeting. With a long, thin stick. That he stuck down the back of his shirt and used to gently scratch his back, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with two.
During Meeting it can get very quiet. Last Sunday there was no wind and no rain and we sat in silence. Almost. It is impossible, in this kind of calm, to ignore the incessant pounding of insect bodies against windowpanes. (are these noises then, window pains?) This is the music that started me thinking about the moths and their moon behavior. Sunday during Meeting something big flew in which caught the attention of at least four other people, besides myself. I watched their amused/concerned/curious faces before turning to see what was clanking against the windows to my left. It was a blue Morphos butterfly (please google image that so you can see for yourself how amazing they are). I watched, amazed, as this butterfly tapped into one windowpane and then the next, moving methodically in one direction, looking for a way out of the Meeting house. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. It passed by the open wooden slats – they don’t give off enough light. Finally it came to an open window and silently disappeared.

As I was typing this I looked up to find a rather large spider web above my head. Why? With all of this protected reserve surrounding me, why do they choose my little cabina? It is hard for me to relate this experience without using expletives. I might have to change my policy on killing insects. I stood on a chair and swept it away with a broom. The fibers were so strong it made a sound like cloth ripping. I’m pretty convinced that whatever made that web will crawl out of the gap between the wall and the ceiling tonight and seek revenge. Probably on my jugular.


Two of my students dressed up like Mot Mots for the parade.


Most MFS students in the parade dressed up as Morpho Butterflies and Quetzals (green) and some other bird I don't know (yellow).


A girl dressed in traditional clothing.


"Those skirts look a little short", you may be thinking. Because they were.


Cowgirls.


Little drummer boys.


I have no idea what this act was. They just walked down the street in their cute little outfits, hold these red circles.


She was my favorite, although I never saw her actually play the cymbals.





Michael the heart breaker.

Moths

Today in Meeting I thought about moths. When I first got to Costa Rica I used to watch them with confusion as they smashed relentlessly into the lights bulbs in my house. Why do they do that? What satisfaction could they possibly be gaining? Then someone explained to me that they are programmed to keep the moon at a certain position in relation to themselves for navigational reasons. I guess this helps with community and mating. When they are smashing into my light bulbs, they are confusing the light for the moon and circling closer and closer until boink they hit the “moon”. Their programming, instead of helping them, leads to their demise.

I thought today of my own programming. That alone was quite a task – how am I programmed? I think of myself as an educated, critically thinking, independent woman and, as much as I hate to admit it, a feminist. I can indentify times when this programming (for lack of a better word, but let’s just keep using it because that’s not really the point) has helped me, mostly in standing up for myself and trudging through sexual harassment at work. I am proud of my programming, but I have to wonder – if I find myself drawn to a light bulb, will I know? In a community of moths, what would happen if one thought, “Hey, this doesn’t make sense” and flew away from the light? I’m not sure if my metaphor is clear, but my worry is this: will there come a point where trying to be a free-thinking independent, confident woman will actually hinder me?

And then after Meeting the clerk spoke about what they did in children’s Meeting. They read a story about a painter who felt like his paintings were not beautiful enough, so he went out into the world to find the most beautiful thing. First he came across a couple in love and thought that this love was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and painted them. He continued on until he saw a soldier coming back from war, rejoicing in peace and thought this was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and painted the soldier’s face. Then he came across an old man saying his evening prayers with dedication and thought that this man’s faith was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and painted the old man. As he was returning home he glanced in the window before passing through his door and saw his wife reading a love letter that he had written her when they first met. On her face he saw all three of the beautiful things he encountered in the world: love, peace and faith. He realized that he has had all three right at home all along, he just hadn’t realized it.

What, is this supposed to be some sort of sign? Geesh.

Someone else shared a quote from a famous theologian about how doubt is not the absence of faith, but rather, a necessary component. That made me feel a little bit better.

And as people began to share information about flu vaccines and swine flu, my gaze was drawn to the window in the back of the Meeting room, looking out over the soccer/frisbee field. A cloud had started to move in and was slowly creeping around the corners of the school house, hiding everything in its path. Very exciting.

And then, after typing this, I walked to Stella's bakery for a snack and ran into a woman here from Texas who I had met last Sunday at the Meeting potluck. We ate together and she explained the research she is doing - Costa Rican history - and how it is having such a positive impact in a place where people only want to talk about the Quakers. We talked for a long time about her work and my experiences and culture and immigration and privlege and and and... It was all quite fascinating.