With little to do after the exams and about a month until the 6th grade graduation ceremony attention is turned to preparations for the festivities. The second graders practiced their cumbia dances, first grade practiced their songs, and the kindergarteners practiced their play. Decorations were prepared and countless balloons were inflated. The rather decrepit community center was turned into a very beautiful yet still decrepit community center.

Graduation went off without a hitch and all the student performances were spectacular. I have seen a lot of student performances and these were the best I had ever seen. The second graders did two very lively cumbia numbers which included numerous twirls a few lifts and even a between the legs pass. The first graders were quite adorable in their costumes and luckily no one set fire to themselves with the candles they were holding. The little ones had all their lines memorized for their play about farmers.

It was a rather bitter sweet ceremony for me as I knew it was the last big event I would be participating in at the school. While I was not always appreciative of it in the moment, the kids I worked with in Boruca were the all around best group of kids I have worked with in my teaching career. That’s not to say that the kids I have worked with in the past were awful or that the kids from Boruca were somehow specially gifted academically (because except for a few exceptions they are not) but something about working with those kids was just easier. It is maybe that there, the kids are just allowed to be kids and are free from so much of the pressure that weighs on children in the States.

If I was independently wealthy I might have signed on to work there another year. However, I am not and my bank account has been calling for reinforcements. Luckily, before returning to the States for Christmas break I landed a job in Heredia, a suburb of the Costa Rican capital San Jose. So while my days of “professional” volunteering are coming to a close my day abroad have not. Who knows? Maybe they are just beginning.

Despite my tiredness, I decided I should watch what was truly a historic moment and stick around for Obama’s acceptance speech. Of course, I didn’t really hear Obama as the speech was dubbed in Spanish. I probably could have understood it better had it not been for the somewhat inebriated Borucans who were congratulating me on Obama’s victory. They seem to think I was somehow single handedly responsible for his victory and I received many handshakes, pats on the back, and even a few, “You did it!”

While I was certainly aware of the importance of the moment for the United States everyone in this little hole in the wall bar in a mountain top indigenous reservation in a tiny Central American country repeatedly reiterated to me the importance of this moment for the entire world. Obama has promised to improve America’s image across the world. From my experience the world is waiting for him with open arms.

A few weekends ago was the Day of Indigenous Culture. This is a rather important day in Boruca. The main event is a feast with traditional foods. I witnessed and lent a hand in the food preporation. The main event was the pig slaughter. I had to help string it up because I was the only one tall enough to reach the rafters of the community center. I helped with the shaving as well and plucked some chicken feathers. I thought it was an important experience because I believe that anyone who eats meat should be willing to participate in the slaughter of their favorite foods. If one does not have the stomach to watch then they should be vegetarian. I found that I clearly had the stomach for it and will be enjoying bacon for years to come.

I also had the opportunity to participate in the traditional occupation of Ticos for the past 150 years, coffee picking. In the begining I was rather enjoying it. Sunshine, cool breezes, fragrant plants, bella vistas, what could be so bad. To tell the trught there is really nothing bad about it except that it is really quite boring. One is assigned a row of bushes. One enocuners the bush and examens every branch. Those berries that are red or yellow can be picked and thrown into the basket around one´s waist. The green ones are left to rippen and will be picked another day. And that is pretty much coffee picking. There is more that goes into the cultivation and maintinace of the plants but so far as harvesting, well, one can accomplish a lot of thinking.

I have also been traveling north quite a bit. I had an interview with a private school in Heredia and got the job. So once my volunteer duties in Boruca are finished I am off to Heredia to start my new job. So, I´ll be in Costa Rica until at least June 2009 and longer if I decided to stay at the school through another year. Right now I am in town for the weekend looking for apartments. My main criteria is no live chickens in the kitchen.

I am usually awoken at six o’clock in the morning to the sound of the national anthem blaring on the television. They stop programing everyday at this time to have a dose of patriotism. This peppy little tune wakes most everyone in the house and I get out of bed. I then take a few moments to realign my spine as the bed slates coming through the thin matress have done quite a number throughout the night.

Breakfast is gallo pinto (day old rice and beans prepared with special seasoning)and either bread, plantain, or my favorite fried eggs. I chase this all down with my first cup of coffee of the day while watching the news on television. Usually, I am in time for the sports report which is basically just a report on the most popular team in the country, Saprissa. Reporting on Saprissa is very in-depth and has in the past included interviews with the stadium grounds keepers. Apparentally he got a new lawn mower and there was speculation on how this might affect the grass and the movement of the ball. After I get my fill of Saprissa I wait for the opportune time to sneak into the bathroom that is currently being shared by the eight residents of my house.

Once ready and dressed I put on my black rubber boots. It is now the raining season and the streets are often mud pits. Nevertheless, the other teachers tease me for my boots because they are considered footwear for the lower classes only. At least the lower classes know that it is horribly impracticle to walk through mud in high heels. The special ed teacher then tries to explain to me that I won´t atract any girls with these sorts of boots. I remind him that Cuando tengo una cara como mio, no nesecito zapatos bonitos.

At this point the cleaning lady rings the bell and I walk over to my classroom. Usually we start class with conversational practice and the introduction of new material. Afterwards there is usually written work and I will pull kids out to work with them individually during this time. We then finish up with a game or two. Recently I have been singing more. The songs are rather repetative so we try singing in different voices. The hardcore death metal version of 10 Little Monkeys is a big hit with the first graders.

In between the eighty minute classes there is always a scheduled recess for the kids and coffee break for the teachers. Unlike the States recess is not supervised. Thusly, the most popular game among the children is what I like to call “chase and beat.” Interestingly enough no one ever gets seriously hurt.
While the kids are running around the school in circles the teachers take about thirty minutes of the twenty minute break to catch up the latest gossip. Also of enjoyment for the teachers recently is teaching Teacher bad words in Spanish and occasionally Brunka as well. This always gets a laugh among the staff.

After teaching some more I go home for lunch. It is a two hour break so I take my time. This is also the hottest part of the day so I have adopted the local custom of stripping down to a pair of shorts, sitting in a chair in the shade, and stare at people walking down the street. I then return to the school and finish up my classes for the day.

Now some teacher friends of mine may be jealous from what seems like an excessive amount of break time. Well, they probably should be. While I actually teach about an hour more in the day than I did in the States I feel lest exauhsted at the end of the work day. I contribute this to the extra downtime to destress between classes and about 5 cups of black coffee a day.

On Mondays and Wednesdays I teach English classes to adults in the community. I am working with the new Peace Corps volunteer in town. Classes are going fairly well and I have managed to meet a few new people.

After dinner I usually call my girlfriend. Despite having a phone in the house I usually go to the public phone because there is more privacy. If I speak inside my host family listens to my conversation, corrects my Spanish, and suggests sweet nothings to whisper. This of course while Nuevo Rico Nuevo Pobre is on the TV at about full volume.

At the end of the day I go into my room and lay down on my bed slates. I try to tune out Los tacones de Eva that is on the television at full volume. I’ve become rather good at sleeping through loud sounds. Telenovelas, howling dogs, roosters, and singing drunks don’t phase me too much. I have never grown accoustomed to cat sex however. It is a horrible and terrifying sound that is imposible to sleep through.

I’ve grown rather accoustomed to my life her over the past nine months and I have a new sense of normal and have stopped seeing how strange things are sometimes. So someone tell me, is making paper latterns with lit candles inside a dangerous project for kindergardeners?

After class yesterday I hitched a ride down the mountain and was just in time to catch a bus heading north. I had only planned to go half way to San Jose. However, the highway was open so I decided I better take advantage of it in case there was another storm during the night.

I was initally excited about my good fortune. As the bus started to climb into the mountains I began to wonder what my fortune really was. Darkness fell and a fog so dense rolled in that it was difficult to see much farther than the shoulder of the opposing lane. About the only thing I could make out was large piles of dirt and boulders from the previous weekends landslides that had been pushed off the road. This is when it occured to me that I was riding in a bus, piloted by a very aggresive Tico, up a curvey mountain road, at night, in the fog, with landslide debris everywhere, on a mountain called Cero de Muerte. This of course translates to “Mountain of Death.”

After a while the fog started to clear a bit and I started to relax. Then the bus stopped for a moment and I noticed everyone standing up to look out the window. There in the headlights of passing cars was a bus, exactly like mine, with its tail end on the highway and the front end wedged between trees clinging to the cliffside. I decided it best not to look.

I spend the first ten minutes of the day sweeping and kicking beetles across my room. A few, in the grips of death, will latch onto the broom. I then have to beat the broom violently against a tree to loosen their grips. Their is a stray dog that waits for this morning ritual and eats the beetles. They crunch loudly in his mouth.

Perhaps they have been poisoned by the fart bombs.

The aroma of the fart bombs is a mixture of rotten eggs and a saint bernard with seroius digestive problems. The smell waifes 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. Sudenly 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. Contourted faces stared blancly into the mountains trying to understand what had just entered their nose.

Now one may think that adolescents are the perpotraters 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.

The packed bus rolled up the Interamericana towards Granada, the oldest European settlement in the Western hemisphere. We arrived about an hour and a half later and tried to get our bearings at the gas station. We walked through street markets down to where we were planning to stay.

One of the volunteers has a friend of a friend who bought a huge Spanish Colonial mansion and is working on converting it into a hotel and spa. Construction is proceeding slowly as everything does in Latin America. (Romance being the only exception.) We were able to stay for free and enjoy what was already completed. The gardens were beautiful, rooms of palacial dimensions, and the pool very relaxing. Of course, keeping our travel experience always a touch surreal we also had to fill the toilets with water on occasion, be mindful of the bats, and walk around in the dark a lot. We are road hardened volunteers who turn our noses at the thought of too-much luxury.

I spent most of my time in Granada eating. Granada has a plethera of excelent resturants and I spent a good chunck of the Bush Economic Stimulus check I recieved on fish, burritos, waffels, and sausages. I did my part to stimulate the economy. Of course it was the Nicaraguan economy.

Kate, a fellow volunteer and photo addict, and I went on a trip to one of the untouristed and slightly seedier sections of Granada. I shot a few okay pictures but it is hard to get anything really telling when you are just passing through and can´t invest yourself in a community. Everyone we encountered was very polite. The kids were very curious about the gringos as I imagine they rarely venture into that part of town. Of course, it is these parts of town in which one actually gets a taste of a country, not in the hotel lined plazas.

After a few days in Granada I went to an organic and completely self-sutaining coffe farm called Selva Negra. The drive out was beautiful and reminded me of a green American Southwest. The actual farm was up a mountain and in a lush cloud forest. The temperature was about thirty degrees cooler which was somewhat refreshing. We were given a tour by the owner, a desedent of the original German settlers who started the farm over 100 years ago. The trip was very relaxing and the coffee was fantastic.

Upon returning to Costa Rica I felt like I had a better understaning of both countries. There is a great deal of antagonism between the two countries and down-right racism in Costa Rica. Nicaragua is one of the poorest countries in Latin America while Costa Rica is one of the most well off. (Per-capita income) As a result illegal imigrants from Nicaragua are flooding into Costa Rica. The average Costa Rican when asked will go on a long diatribe about how awful Nicagrauans are and how they cause most of the problems in the country. (Mexicans and Colombians causing the rest of the problems in their opinion.) When I told people that I was going to Nicaragua many Ticos advised me to be very careful. One told me that Nicaraguans all run around with machetes and hack at any passerby.

I came back with all my apendages in tact and found most of the Nicaraguans I met to be perfectly nice and the Tico´s horror stories unjustified. And while I certanily tire and disagree with the Tico`s prevailing aditudes towards their northen neighbors I do feel like I gained an insight into where these feelings are based.

Costa Rica is a success story in Latin America. There one and only civil war was eighty years ago and lasted for two weeks. (People started dying so they decided they should stop.) Since then they have had uninterupted democracy and a growing economy. Tico´s take great pride in this and many times it becomes downright arrogance. However, despite their somewhat snobish attitude Tico´s don´t beg. In almost seven months of living here I can count on one hand the number of times someone has begged for money from me. Tico´s have too much pride to stoup to begging. In Nicaragua on the other hand they have had thirty years of everything going wrong and an incompetent governement that bribes votes through handouts. As a result I could rarely walk more than 200 meters without someone hitting me up for money. (Which I never gave.) Given this culture difference I could start to understand where the Tico arrogance I so frequently was encountering came from.

Overall, I did enjoy my vacation in Nicaragua but was happy to come home when I did. Coming home. This was a very odd feeling. When I crossed the border into Costa Rica I had that feeling of anticipation that I always recieve when I come back from a trip abroad. This time, however, I was not returning to the United States but to another country. It is a very odd experience to feel like you are going home when you are in another counrty away from home. I still haven`t really sorted this out in my head.

Our trip started with a ten-hour bus ride from San Jose, Costa Rica to Rivas, Nicaragua. The trip was largely painless except for about a three hour wait crossing the border. Once crossing we were immediately struck buy how different Nicargua is from Costa Rica. While Costa Rica has the highest per-capita income in Latin America Nicaragua has the lowest. We immediately found ourselves surrounded by crumbling Spanish architecture, colorful buses, pushy street vendors, and streets mixed with trucks, trolleys, bicycles, motos, and horses. It was Central America as depicted in the movies. Poor, beautiful, seedy, and alive.

In Rivas we started looking for the bus to the ferry. Of course the cab drivers told us there were no buses but they could give us a ride. We went to stores to inquire about the buses and they also said there were no buses but plenty of cab drivers willing to take us. Realizing no one was going to tell us the truth we let some cabies place some bids and we rolled down to the ferry. (Where there was a waiting bus.) We waited at the dock and gazed at the two gigantic volcanoes that formed the largest lake island in the world, Isla Ometepe. This was our destination. Don’t worry, only one of the volcanoes is still active.

Upon arriving we tried to find another bus that everyone insited did not exist. However, everyone also knew a very friendly taxista. Given the fact that it was very dark and we actually did not have a place to stay yet we went ahead and jumped into a taxi that in about five minutes passed a bus that apparently did not exist.

We found a hotel that was cheap, mostly clean, and had a very friendly but cronically absent-minded staff. We ate there mostly as the price was low and the portions muy grande. Our first day was spent on the beach. It was particualarly nice to hang out on a lake beach because one does not come out of the water with salt stuck to them. However, Lago Nicaragua is the only freshwater lake with a population of sharks. Needless to say we stuck close to the shore line.

The next day we hired a tour guide who took us through an organic farm and halfway up the smaller of the two volcanaoes. The view was spectacular and the farm fields scatered with volcanic rock outcroppings very interesting. We then went to a natural pool for swimming and to be harassed by particularly mangy dogs.

Life in Ometepe is muy tranquilo and makes sleepy Costa Rica seem fast paced. We had no problems adjusting, however, and were enjoying some real quite time away from our schools. There, most people work in agriculture and after the beaches, there is little to do except hang out in the plaza infront of the old colonial cathedral.

The look of Nicaragua is very different from Costa Rica. Historically, Nicaragua was heavily developed buy the Spanish while Costa Rica was largely considered backwater and poor in natural resources. (That means it did not have much gold.) Consequently the streets of Nicaraguan towns are lined with houses dating back hundereds of years while Costa Rican streets are lined with pre-fab houses constructed during the past decades’ economic boom. Despite Nicaragua’s superior architectural beauty and equal scenic beauty to Costa Rica its economy is far poorer. A walk through the streets in Nicaragua is not complete without at least two or three people begging for money, food, or one’s watch. This is something largely abscent in Costa Rica. Costa Rica is poor but not “begging poor.” However, the poverty has also preserved the uniquely Central American culture in Nicaragua while it is being eroded in Costa Rica buy an influx of North American materialism. I suppose you can have your cake but it’s going to make your teeth rot.

Our last night in Ometepe was spent eating a candle lit dinner. It was only candle lit because the power was out for about five hours. I had an entire fish and even sampled the eyes balls which were supposed to be good for you somehow. They just tasted crunchy to me.

I started some practices but quickly grew frustrated because it was all new vocabulary for me. I could explain the drills but did not know the words to offer advice, tips, or how to say, “get your butts in gear and run or we’ll do extra laps!” (I’m a tough coach.) I was also frustrated because I felt that the team had been dumped on me so none of the other teachers would have to deal with it.

I finally went to the staff and told them that i was not going to do it if I did not have someone helping me. There were a lot of evasive looks and head scratching at this. I let my frustration show, which consequently is when my Spanish becomes most fluid, and I acquired some reluctant volunteers.

After about a week of practice we had our first tournament. All classes were cancled of course and a large number of parents and locals came out to see the game. If there is one thing that will turn out a crowd in Boruca it’s soccer. Even ten year-olds playing soccer.

The way soccer works in Costa Rica is that each school that wants to participate has a team for the entire school. They then play in a tournament against schools in their immediate area. The winners of those tournaments meet in a larger tournament. This continues for about five or six rounds until there is a national championship in San Jose. We hosted our first tournment in Boruca and we won in desisive fashion. This was a rather big deal because only a few times in the school’s history had they ever made it out of their first tourney. The kids celebrated by diving into the stream that runs by the plaza.

Our second tournament was off the mountain in Paso Real. We woke early and packed the kids into a cattle truck. I was rather nervous about this tournament as we would be facing the other indigenous school, Rey Curre, who has a good reputation in the Zona Sur futbol circuit. Luckily for us the Curre team’s executive staff was disorganized and a third of their team was unable to play do to lack of proper age identification documents. They were eliminated in the first round and we battled our way too victory.

This was an exceptionally big deal for the town as our victory represented the farthest our team had ever gone in tournament play. On our drive back our kids climbed to the top of the cattle truck and chanted the entire hour up the mountain. My favorite chant was, “¡Ticher!¡Ticher!” (Every once in a while one needs their ego shamelessly stroked.) As we pulled into town the kids chanted ga-na-mos (we won) and the locals clapped and punched the air as we rolled through town.

Our next tournament was not for a month in Buenos Aires. At this point the teachers that had been initially reluctant to help me at all were very excited and taking over. While North Americans tend to enjoy rooting for the underdog Ticos are just the opposite and only want to support a winner. Nevertheless, I viewed the coaching staff’s growing enthusiasm as a personal success. I feel like a volunteer succeds when they can start something in a town, have locals take over, and then make themselves obsolete.

Our practice schedule became more rigorous. I took on more of the role of physical trainer while the other teachers worked more on strategy. Of course, taking the kids for long distance runs around town certainly dropped me on their favorite people list.

Practice of course came with its own frustrations. Organized sports is not really part of the culture in Costa Rica and starting things on time, consistant attendance, and self-discipline were a constant struggle. For example, a value instilled in athletic training in the States is learning to dig deep and try harder when your tired or the situation is difficult. In Costa Rica fatigue means you should sit down and make whistles out of grass. Despite my frustrations in practice the kids did get serious when it came to game day.

The night before the big B.A. tournament we gathered all the kids together for dinner at the school. The other teachers had prepared a motivational seminar including a video featuring a classical guitar player who had no arms but played with his toes. I thought it a bit odd but I suppose the message was good. From this the slogan for the night was “¡se puede!” which basically means “You can do it!” The kids camped out together in the computer lab and it was good to see the team really bonding.

This tournament we had found the money for a tourist bus and were going to the tournament in relative fashion. (Though I actually prefer the cattle truck.) We were set to play first in an elimination round and then, if we won, play in a round robin tournament with two other teams. One of the teams was given a buy to enter which I thought was rather unfair but knew arguing would be futile. We won our first game 3-1 and we quickly found ourselves as the team to beat.

Our second game we played the team that had received the bye and our kids were not quite as fresh as they had been earlier in the morning. Despite the fatigue we came out with a 1-1 tie. Then things started to go downhill.

We were suddenly informed that we had about ten minutes to rest before we would play again in the 90 degree heat. I informed the tournament staff that this was ridiculoso because what it basically meant was that the team that received the bye would not have to play any back to back games while we and the other team would after playing extra games in the morning. I tried to have the schedule changed but could not help feeling that no one really wanted to cut the kids “from the reservation” any slack. Heaven forbid a bunch of “indians” would represent Zona Sur. While the staff agreed that it was not all that fair it was explained to me repeatedly that their had been a “meeting” with a representative from Boruca and this was the schedule that had been decided. I explained that their decision was a poor one based on the reality of the current situation. They replied, “yes, but, you see, there was a meeting” and for those of you unfamiliar with Costa Rican culture decisions made in a meeting are set in harder stone than the Ten Commandments. (Even if it is obvious that the decision was a poor one.) “…si, pero, tuvimos un reunion…“

After 15 minutes of this I flipped out. I dropped the Spanish and went on an extended and extremely colorful rant in English which displayed a wide variety of vulgar expressions from several regions of North America and the British Isles. To top things off I dropped kicked a ball into a nearby river. Had their been a video camera it probably could have made Sports Center and had I been an NBA a coach I would have sold my Ferrari to pay the leauge fine.

My frustration was not purely based on the stubborness of the tournament staff but that I could see three and a half months of hard work unraveling for what appeared to me, racist motives. At least the kids know I tried to make things fairer for them and I inspired a healthy amount of fear into the Zona Sur soccer community.

The kids took the field and looked completely exhausted. For some of them I worried about their health and we emptied our bench of reserves. Despite giving up a demoralizing goal early on we fought back and tied things up with a few minutes left. This reinvigorated the team and we had a few good chances to take the win. However, the whistle blew and our fate was left in the next game. If the final game was a 0-0 draw we would win the tourney on goals for. A 1-1 tie would send everyone to penalties. Anything else and we were out. When the team from Buenos Aires scored their second goal we started packing up our things.

Despite the disappointing finish I was very proud of the kids for exhibiting an incredible amount of heart and not giving up in the face of a difficult situation. Maybe a little bit of the work effort I had tried to inspire in practice rubbed off. I was also happy to see that the teachers I was working with become really invested in the kids. I was also happy that no one there understands English.

Anyway, there is no more season for us but we still finished with a
respectable tournament record of 8 wins- 0 losses- 2 ties and a goal
differential of +12.

¡Viva Boruca!