Construction

Our little casa/cabina is coming along nicely, although this seems the strangest construction process ever. Carlos, the coffee farmer turned contractor, is a cheerful person with a broad smile and steady, patient demeanor. The remainder of the crew consists of 28-year-old Alejandro, whose visa hearing is coming up soon for his hoped-for return to the U.S. where his family awaits, and Jose, a 21-year old teacher of las matematicas who is in between assigned schools. We have become friends with all of them.

Each morning Carlos drives his rickety, aged pickup to the job site from our village, surely pleased that it has made the trip one more day. Alejandro and Carlos arrive on dirt bikes, coming from several miles away. We generally walk down to our finca in the mornings, where the construction crew stops work for a few minutes to chat. They are proud of their work and each day we’re amazed at how much has been accomplished. I wonder how a farmer, a former U.S. grocery store worker and a teacher know how to build a casa.

Structural support consists of baldosas for the walls. These meter-sized concrete panels are held in place by cement columns and inserted in place much like flat building blocks. Typical Tico houses are built either from cinder blocks or baldosas, then stucco-ed over. We have seen no trailers or pre-fab houses in this country; the only exception to concrete being wood, which is more expensive. Stucco will cover our casa’s exterior walls and wood and bamboo will be used inside.

Carlos is the master welder and has spent many days perched high in the air on the metal framework, carefully cutting and welding pieces together to make a complex hip-style roof that rises 15-ft. from the future living room floor. This, too, will be covered with wood. The floor is built after the walls and roof are completed. Trees that were cleared for our building site have been cut into neat posts for the porches. The crew’s machetes have trimmed away the bark.

We are paying $2.50 to $3 per hour, which is on the high side for workers in this area. We intend a bonus for each when their work is done for this year. Carlos comes to work in raggedy clothes and his beat-up shoes look too large. He wears no socks. His coffee farm provides income for his family to get by, but this construction job has helped considerably.

For construction we purchased a generator, a ladder and some hand tools. What tools the crew is missing, they go without and improvise. They ask us for nothing. Carlos is studying English via a CD and we try to help each other learn our respective languages. Jose laments his girlfriend having moved to Spain and is earnestly seeking a teaching position so that he can save money to visit her and seek her father’s permission for them to marry. Alejandro becomes tearful, telling us of his deportation by Immigration after 10 years in the U.S. I wish to save money in the U.S. in order to help Carlos and his family each year. I wish to secure a safe place for Alejandro and his family and to help Jose reach his dreams.

The long arm of the bureaucratic Municipalidad has stepped in to demand that we hire an engineer for the necessary processing of our many building permits. This is a major setback as between engineer and permits there is now an additional cost of $1,800US. The work continues nonetheless.

Pecos and I traveled to Municipalidad headquarters in San Isidro to begin unraveling the permit process. We were first referred to an engineer who speaks English. Directions to the office were 300 metres past the bibiloteca (library) as there are no street addresses in this city. This interesting firm of a father and two sons seemed more art gallery than engineering company, and Salvador Dali was favored most. They had never heard of our village and were unfamiliar with the process as it applies to the most remote areas. They seemed in no hurry to work and we spent a pleasant hour admiring their art and discussing music.

Carlos knew of a woman engineer who has done work in this area. We agreed to have her come to the house site. She was very loud and officious, ordering our gentle crew around and firing questions nonstop. She would not give us a price for her services but insisted on taking all of our paperwork with her for review – including the certified copy of our corporation. We made an appointment for a few days later to meet in San Isidro at a restaurant.

For this meeting, we brought The Kid to serve as our interpreter, and the engineer brought her English-speaking son as well. We negotiated every permit and its process, every detail of construction, every itemized cost. I did not want to work with this woman unless she gave a little, and she would not budge. We would have to find another engineer, I told her. We are free to do so and good luck to us, she responded. Pecos, The Kid and her son tried to intervene but their mothers halted their every attempt. ‘No!’ is a word understood in all languages.

I turned to her son and told him his ma-ma’ is muy fuerte – strong, like a force. She burst out laughing and said I am the same. She suddenly agreed to drop her price and meet our expectations and I acquiesced on a few of her points. As the males at our table shook their heads, she and I exchanged information. Cinco ninos, she proudly told me. Yo? Seis, I informed her. Nietos, she asked? Cinco, I said. Ah ha, ocho!, she exclaimed, having more grandchildren than me. Florice de Lis said she was the first woman architect certified by the Costa Rican government. She will serve us well. We signed her contract and she immediately began processing our permits for design, construction, electricity, water, land use, safety and health, some of which have to be sent to distant San Jose for review.

I think of our Wheeler County courthouse and how it offers one-stop shopping for all kinds of formal documents. In Costa Rica here are different offices for any type of formal document. At each office one picks up the necessary document and then takes it to the stamp office, which is literally a place that sells stamps (the old-fashioned licking kind) for any need. The stamps and documents are then carried to the filing office – different locations, depending on which type of document one is working with, and again without street addresses – where everything is looked over and the stamps are affixed. Having a paper with stamps is equivalent to having a certified copy in the U.S.

Our little casa will not be completed by the time that I depart this country in a few weeks, and perhaps not by the time Pecos leaves in mid-April. Electricity and water will come later and a small storage shed must be built this year. We trust Carlos to carry on. Marcos, caretaker for my kids’ finca de familia, tells us he will take care of our planting and maintaining our finca while we’re in the U.S. and that we can settle up later, after our casa is completed. Carlos’s brother Francisco, our closest neighbor, will also oversee our property while we are will gone. Our Tico friends are grateful for this work and we are thankful in return.

El Rio

Today I fell in a hole in a river. This story actually began with events of yesterday.

Don’t do anything risky, you’re not as young as you two think! This was cautionary counsel from one of my daughters (you know who you are) before we came to Costa Rica. Good advice, but at our mutual advanced age we can’t remember everything – and when we do, it’s usually too late.

The Kid is off to San Jose for a few days and has conveniently left his four-wheeler (and its key!) at our place. Not having any other wheels yesterday – a sunny day that begged for exploration – on impulse we decided to take a ride. Pecos fired it up, I climbed aboard, and we set off. We had no plan other than to head down a narrow road we’d often passed a few miles away. This road crests along the mountain ridge that falls off to the Pacific. We’d never been down that road. I grabbed my hat and we were off.

Pecos has actually been a passenger on this four-wheeler – twice. A driver? Yes, but only once before. Our first few miles were reminiscent of my adolescents taking their maiden voyage with a stick shift. The four-wheeler bucked, snorted and bounced us along the gravel road – with Pecos repeatedly yelling, “Hang on!” while Yours Truly clutched him tightly, shouting, “Despacio!” in his ear. This word for slow was the closest I could come to an expletive in Spanish. Each of the occasional villagers on horseback or walking along the road stopped to watch us come closer. All grinned wildly and either gave a great wave or a loud “Ole’!” as we passed by.

Pecos slowed to just a few miles per hour when we reached the narrow lane and turned in as this is where the gravel ended. A rain-soaked farm road of clay, covered here and there with grass, meandered at dizzying height along the crest of this part of the coastal range, a death-defying, jungle-edged drop-off on one side and pastoral scenes of grazing cows and coffee and banana crops on the other.

This remote lane was deeply-rutted from recent rains. Cascades of flowers hung from shrubs and trees and the only sounds other than us were the cows and an occasional far-distant dirt bike. When the lane turned sharply downhill, we leaned back. Climbing back up steep slopes, we both leaned far forward. I looked by my foot and read the pasted warnings stating to not carry passengers, to wear helmets, to avoid steep inclines. We were in complete violation.

The four-wheeler lurched and jumped as the road became a downhill ditch of deep ruts with even deeper puddles, some several feet across. It was all Pecos could do to maintain control of the vehicle and I held on for dear life. Clumps of mud splattered both of us.

Finally, about four miles down this mountain, a few Tico houses appeared and finally, the ditch became a road again – dirt at first and then gravel. Around a bend, there was a concrete bridge and river. We stopped. A long series of small waterfalls and pools cascaded from up above, down to where we were, and continued out of sight. The setting was incredibly beautiful. We climbed down rocks to the river, washed the mud off, and hiked around for a long time. The river flowed quickly and had carved deep holes in flat expanses of staggered rocks, at a few places bubbling upward from underwater passageways. Fish swam in the clear water and some of the smaller pools held bucketsful of pollywogs. We basked in the sun and water and hated to leave.

Back on the four-wheeler, we went just a little further and came to a tiny village comprised of a few houses and a pulperia. Pecos bought us cold drinks. He didn’t have enough coins for the purchase and they couldn’t break his 5,000 colones note (equivalent $9). The proprietor insisted that we take the bottles of water regardless.

Climbing back up the mountain was more treacherous than going down, due to the steep grade. The four-wheeler leaned far to the sides as it bucked the ruts. Pecos drove it slowly. The vehicle sputtered wildly before stalling on a steep, slippery slope. Pecos shifted gears and it suddenly bolted up. The front wheels rose up to flip us over backwards. I screamed, Pecos cursed and somehow we both fell forward on the machine to knock it down on the ground again. It landed on three wheels, one still spinning mid-air over a rut. Mud now splattered us head to toe.

As we headed home ever so carefully, Pecos informed me that The Kid had told him that if we ever use the four-wheeler to be extremely careful as he has flipped this vehicle three times – once nearly toppling over the precipice to jungle far below. The Kid said that at one of these times he’d actually dangled mid-air at the very edge before pulling himself back up. It was best not to mention this to me, The Kid told Pecos.

So! I’m not supposed to know this, but unfortunately now I do. This information has been mentally filed away under “Things a Mother Should Not Be Told.”

Last night both Pecos and I ached from our hours of rough riding and wondered why anyone would have a four-wheeler when they could have a regular 4-wheel drive vehicle (not that one could have negotiated our day’s trip).

This morning, however, things looked different. Again impromptu, we decided to repeat the adventure, this time with the camera. I wanted to take photos and Pecos wanted to give the pulperia the few cents owed. I grabbed my bag and Pecos brought a few bottles of water. This time he wore riding gloves and sunglasses. We tied our hats on and took off.

Where the trees broke alongside the top of the lane, you could see the Pacific far below. Whenever I yelled, “Stop!”, Pecos either stopped or slowed down enough for me to shoot pictures. When we reached the river, two boys about 12 years old were diving – diving! – into one of the largest pools, about 15-ft. across by a three foot waterfall. They also did backwards flips and cannonballs; apparently the holes were quite deep as they would dive straight down and wouldn’t be visible in the clear water until emerging upward at the far edge of the swimming hole.

We played around by the waterfalls and climbed down sheets of rocks to further pools and falls. The river kept going, one bend more beautiful than the other.

Just as we were ready to leave, I decided to climb under the bridge to take pictures from the other side. It was dank and the water looked deep and dark. A few steps in and I lost my footing, sliding down a vertical rock to the river. Bottom was about six feet down with a tangle of weeds at my feet, and I bolted upward, afraid of snakes, and swam to the pool where the two boys looked stunned. Pecos was yelling to go back and get the camera. The camera, oh no! Pecos pulled me up from the water and then he got a long branch and fished for the camera, first pulling up my waterlogged bag and then the camera itself. Water poured from the lens. We quickly took out the disc and dried it. Back at home, today’s pictures were miraculously uploaded to my laptop.

It was a cool ride home as my clothes were soaked and my hiking boots squished when pressed. My beloved camera may never work again. This camera had accompanied me to Iran and now Costa Rica, and I had plans to bring it to Africa in a year or two. It is/was special.

The Kid has come back safely. He laughed at our tale of woe and said it was good I hadn’t gone in the river with passport or internet phone, both safely at home. Before taking his four-wheeler to his finca, however, he promised that we can borrow this all-terrain vehicle again in a few days to repeat the trip, this time with his camera if mine cannot be revived. There are some great shots I missed on the way home. 

Vegetables, unchecked

Every Thursday we shop the farmers’ market at San Isidro. We buy the usual fruits and vegetables and also bring home unfamiliar ones to try, often the two of us barely able to carry what we’ve purchased and packed into shoulder bags and backpack. With oranges less than the equivalent of one dollar for a bag with a few dozen, and fresh greens and herbs just pennies per bunch, how can we do otherwise?

Tomatoes, even the green ones, must be used within a day or two or they flatten themselves out, collapsed on the spot. The same for peppers. Avocados turn ripe overnight, as do the mangos. Herbs and spinach must be dried quickly for later use; if not used within one day, they turn black. Pieces of ginger root, used regularly, ignore kitchen politics and shoot out green from their uncut ends. The lifespan of picked potatoes, cauliflower, broccoli and cabbage seems shortened, and I wonder exactly how much vegetables purchased up north – even the organic ones – have been tampered with, and with what.

But it’s the beets, carrots, yuccas and other roots – as well as the winter squash and chayotes – that have me most worried. These veggies are put in a basket under a dry, shaded and open kitchen shelf. Within 1-2 days after the market, they start to grow! It’s eerie enough that beets are grapefruit-sized or larger, but for them to have sprouted new leaves overnight is a bit much. Ditto for the carrots. Their greens, too, grow about a half inch per day, sometimes more. Yucca, other as yet-unidentified roots and squash settle into the basket for an overnight, then start to grow new white roots that sprout quickly in all directions.

Perhaps the worst culprit is the chayote. Left alone for less than a week, this hard-skinned, cabbage-tasting vegetable splits itself open to create an escape route for inside leaves that have formed. Once it had started new life, I didn’t have the heart to cook this determined vegetable. Instead, I planted it in a pot next to a houseplant, where a few avocado pits that had been tossed on the surface had also quickly started growing trees.

Costa Rica – rich coast – is a self-perpetuating place of dense foliage and rampant growth. Forests thicken, crops rise, cut foliage sprouts again. Even its vegetables refuse to be domesticated, defying anyone with a kitchen knife to tell them otherwise.

As I write, a bird in a nearby tree cries loudly, “Uh, oh! Uh, oh!”

This place is on the move. 

Colorful Trees

What feels like a most beautiful summer to us with constant 75-degree temperatures and low humidity here in the mountains and 85-90 degrees down at the beach, is really Costa Rica’s cool winter season. The dry season extends from December to May, and it is during this tropical summer, our winter in Oregon, that the Talamanca Mountain’s few deciduous trees drop their leaves.

It is also during this season that Costa Rica’s eye-catching, tall tree species with large, brilliant blossoms are at their most showy best. The displays are dazzling. Entire trees, some of them leafless, become covered with flowers in bright red, gold, orange, pink or purple.

Groves of bare-branched, orange-flowering Poro’, also called mountain immortelle, form magnificent displays cascading down nearby mountain slopes. These trees are interplanted with coffee trees to provide shade during harvest and add nitrogen to the soil. Other flowering trees at our locale include the 40-ft. buttercup, a daintily-named, rugged-trunked tree that bursts into bright yellow bloom overnight.

An African tulip tree with bright red flowers stands near the end of our lane, appearing as if giant tulips have been lopsidedly-glued to the ends of its branches. Cascades of lavender blossoms hang from tall jacaranda trees planted as ornamentals at a few houses in the village; pink trumpet trees and powder-puff mimosas are also common. Thirty-foot yucca trees holding plumes of thick white flowers (edible flowers sold in the market, good with scrambled eggs) dot mountain slopes, as does the tree called flamboyan’, or flamboyant, with its umbrella-like crown of red-yellow flowers.

The blazes of color in the crown of a tree don’t always come from the flowers of the tree itself, however. Colorful epiphytes often perch in high branches where they get more sunlight, and vines like the brilliant-red flowering liana first root in the ground but climb to the tree tops in search of the sun. As these plants and others become larger, they become intermingled with the support tree, where only closer inspection indicates what is truly in bloom. The jungle holds a mind-boggling collection of color, foliage and texture all interdependent on each other.

Tall euculpytus trees with rainbow-streaked trunks stand here and there at the edge of the jungle and hardwood forests. Pecos has plans to make furniture from this exotic wood, not so exotic here. We draw plans for adding trees to our finca, some to protect the spring and others to add crops and color under the tall yellow-flowering amarillon hardwoods that stand on most of the property. The wide, curved area in front and siding our casa will hold smaller trees – like the traveler’s palm, named for its constant east-west orientation – to provide shade for flower and vegetable gardens.

Suess-like, stalky trees stand like sentinels at the edges of the roads and coffee fields near our village. These awkwardly-standing trees hold fence wire and create tall, bushy havens for birds that dart in and out of these trees’ clumpy heads. Poles originally set in the ground as fence posts soon sprout, much like any stick put in Costa Rican soil. Fence posts aren’t replaced; instead, they are trimmed with machetes to keep them in check. 

Panama, Sort Of ... and Home At Last

Visitors to Costa Rica who are granted a tourist visa must leave the country every 90 days. Since The Kid and my grandkids also needed to do the mandatory 72-hour exit, we traveled together to the border town of Paso Canoas, where Costa Rica meets Panama, four hours away.

I was excited to see the southernmost part of Costa Rica. As we progressed southward, the mountains fell away to the east. The bottomlands that we drove through were abundant with pineapple, oil-rich groves of palms, and wide swamps of rice. Unlike our mountain climate, the air was thick and humid. Poverty was more evident here than in the other parts of Costa Rica that we’d seen so far. Ramshackle stores, dilapidated but still operating restaurants, and rickety shacks comprised much of the small towns that we passed through.

Paso Canoas is perhaps one of the strangest places in the world – and to think, this is the main border crossing between these two Central American countries.

As we approached the parking spots at the Costa Rica immigration offices, a handful of rag-tag boys ran up to the car windows, telling us they were for hire to guide us through the departure process. No necessito, The Kid told them, as he’s done this several times. After filling out forms, we stood in line a long while. Peddlars with carts offered shaved ice or fria pipa (cold coconut milk) sold in sandwich baggies. A barefoot man carrying an empty bleach bottle turned it upside down and stood near our line, beating on this drum and singing a sorrowful tune. Several tourists gave him money. After being scrutinized by immigration officials and a few questions answered, our passports were given the necessary exit stamp and we could proceed to Panama.

This is where it got dicey. Rather than drive into this next country, as one (yours truly) would have supposed, we left our vehicle at Costa Rica immigration and walked a few hundred meters to Panama Immigration to receive our entrance stamp in the passport. Here we stood in line again to repeat the same process.

This stretch of a few hundred meters between immigration buildings for each country is technically neither Costa Rica nor Panama. It is truly a No Mans Land – and a rather unnerving one at that. Several semi-trailer trucks were parked near the tall, open stations where all vehicles entering either country are fumigated. These poison-spraying stations are located near the places where tourists must stand to get their passports stamped. A few of the trucks looked as if they’d been there a while, slung with hammocks underneath their bellies with drivers snoring loudly in them.

No fence, gate or other boundary separates these two countries. In this twilight zone the north side of the main street is Costa Rica and the south side is Panama. This street stretches about a half mile in length. It is lined with rusted-tin shacks that share walls, one junk-filled store after another offering cheap, touristy goods from Asia. Bootleg DVDs, liquor and other such goods are sold on the Panamanian side. Cheap hotels ($8 night, we’re told), houses of ill repute and sketchy restaurants are on the Costa Rican side, which offers a broken sidewalk here and there, as compared to the other side where vehicles pass within inches of stores and shoppers.

Litter was everywhere, offset by large piles of rotting, sometimes-smoldering garbage about every fifty feet along the street. Narrow alleys of more tin-shacked stores were stuck to the backs of the stores fronting the street, and more behind them, forming a honeycombed, sweltering-heat experience for any who dared to venture in. Beggars were everywhere, and so were persons of both sides of the street who looked as if they’d like to shake us down, knock us down or knock us out. The Kid warned us to move quickly and not look anyone in the eye.

Technically, you don’t have to leave the confines of this border town to wait out the 72-hours. As long as you have your Costa Rica exit stamp and your Panama entrance stamp, there is no need to actually walk through the gate into Panama. We zig-zagged down several side streets in the neutral zone, driving away from the busy, sketchy areas of immigration, vendors, streetwalkers, hustlers and all sorts of persons waiting to prey on unsuspecting tourists.

We came to a somewhat pleasant residential area that also was home to several decent hotels for persons who were in-between countries. One could almost forget we were at the same seedy, weird and wild border. We stayed at a nice hotel where The Kid has stayed before. We swam in the pool, read books, dined in the hotel restaurant and basically relaxed and hid out, biding our time in this strange twilight zone that belongs to no country.

Finally ready to leave, we stood in line again to receive our Costa Rica entry stamps. This time it was a hassle as the immigration officer insisted on seeing verification that we would indeed leave Costa Rica before the next 90 days were up. He said he would not give us the stamps unless we bought five bus tickets to Nicaragua or elsewhere, that is the law. The Kid, normally one of the calmest persons you’d ever meet, demanded angrily to be shown the law book or to be given the stamps. They argued back and forth for about thirty minutes, while we stood to the side and tried to look innocent. Once again our street musician appeared, this time belting out his tune while drumming on an empty plastic gas can with a hole in it. The immigration official left his window and ignored The Kid for a while, before returning to sullenly stamp our passports.

We were back in the country. Or had we ever really left it? Pecos and I could not have negotiated this process, and possibly this place, without the good graces and keen-eyed temper of The Kid.

We decided to take the coastal route home, knowing it hadn’t rained in days and the narrow, steep mountain climb would be do-able. A short ways up the seasonal dirt road, the vehicle over-heated. My grandkids and I decided to walk on upward, while The Kid and Pecos waited for the engine to cool. It was humid and hot down in this coastal area – too hot for a hike but also too uncomfortable to wait at the vehicle. We hiked up an exhausting ways and waited.

Finally the vehicle emerged, straining to come up the jungle road before coming to a stop near us. Smoke poured from the engine and from under it. We waited a little while but my grandkids wanted to climb higher. Another exhausting half mile upward and we were admiring the flowers and ferns at the edges of this pathway. Suddenly, a five-foot purple-brown snake slithered across the road right in front of us! We three turned and ran down the road, back to the vehicle where The Kid and Pecos were under the hood, trying to fix what was wrong. The vehicle finally started but had a loud knocking noise. It would need to cool further.

Pecos walked upward with us again, past the snake’s territory, and we waited a long time until the vehicle came near, but again it overheated and this time would not re-start. The men opted to wait at the vehicle and attempt further repairs, but my grandkids and I decided we’d go upward and they could catch up to us. We walked up and up, now too far up to climb back down, but grueling to continue.

After another hour of climbing, I figured that The Kid and Pecos must have walked back down to the coastal town. My grandkids and I had climbed so high that I doubted we could get all the way down the mountain before dark. Our best chance was to plunge ahead and hope that we could reach the top of the mountain before nightfall. We had no flashlights and no water and it would soon be dark.

On and on we trudged, my seven-year-old grandson bravely leading the way, brandishing a walking stick. Thick clouds had rolled in. My granddaughter kept up a steady conversation as we slowly stepped forward. This road was deeply rutted with overhanging foliage. Insects chirped loudly and startled birds flapped up here and there as we plodded on.

Finally, two dirt bikes approached from below! They stopped and one of the drivers held out a note from The Kid. Bring his (brakeless) jeep that was parked at our place, and pick them up. They were still at the vehicle. One of these Ticos offered a ride upward for my grandkids and they jumped on behind him. The other motorcyclist looked at me, and I climbed aboard. What a ride! These dirt bikes high-jumped ruts, swayed through jungle growth where the ruts were too deep, and bounced us along at high speed. Centrifugal force tried to pry me loose. The kids were screaming up ahead. About a quarter mile further, they stopped and said the road ahead could not accommodate passengers. No problemo, I insisted, thinking they wouldn’t have left us in the dusk if we weren’t near the top.

I was wrong. We climbed on and on. I wondered if we were truly on a 45-degree angle. There was no end to this climb. We were thirsty, covered with sweat. Our clothes clung to us and we were mud-streaked. My grandkids faces were bright red, yet they trudged on. And on and on.

Finally, just as it became almost too dark to see, we broke to the top of the mountain. The jungle fell away behind us and we were on a real gravel road surrounded by rolling farm fields. These normally-steep roads seemed easy. We picked up our pace toward the last two miles to our village and I promised the kids we would stop at the pulperia for cold drinks. A farm truck climbed up toward us and it was the owner of the pulperia who had come out looking for us. The Kid had climbed downward to finally reach cell service and had alerted him that we were coming up the mountain. He drove us home, jumped in the jeep himself, and drove down to pick up The Kid and Pecos.

A shower never felt so good. The kids were cheerful and I told them over and over how proud I am of them, that surely no other kids their ages would have climbed that mountain without complaining. When The Kid and Pecos arrived, dinner was ready. The Kid said we’d climbed up a few miles and more than 2,000 ft. in elevation – a feat I certainly could never have accomplished before our daily hikes during this stay in Costa Rica. 

Festival de San Isidro de El General

It was time for the annual agricultural festival at San Isidro de El General. Pecos and I packed up my grandkids, ages eight and seven, and headed out in The Kid’s vehicle (the one with brakes) to attend this event. We wanted to see the premier flowers, crops and livestock of our province of Puntarenas.

The festival grounds along the Inter-American Highway are comparable to the fairgrounds of Wheeler County, Oregon, whose annual county fair is the smallest in Oregon. A round stadium with seating for about 500 people (thus likely to squeeze in a few times that number) was central to the festival grounds. The exterior of this aged wood structure was rimmed with vendor stalls displaying hats, jewelry, clothing, house wares and toys. Vendors proclaimed the virtues of their goods in loud, staccato voices and sometimes blocked the narrow wooden sidewalk that curled with the stadium, trying to encourage zealous shoppers (such as Pecos, shopping aficianado) to step into their stalls. I admired oil paintings in thick, bright Costa Rican colors.

Vendors also sold shrubs and potted plants at extremely reasonable prices. I bought two bougainvillea plants with crimson blooms. Just like at our county fair, a large indoor building held floral displays, although disappointingly only a few. Orchid flowers were nearly as large as my hand.

A few hundred gray Brahaman cattle and mixed-Brahaman breeds with brands on their rumps were tied to headstalls in open-air barns, all with red rope fashioned as halters. Up close, these bulls and cows are huge! Brahaman cattle are the mainstay of cattle raised in the valley of the General, as well as throughout Costa Rica due to this hump-backed breed’s ability to stay cool in the tropics. The only other cow that we’ve seen on our many drives is the occasional Jersey, kept as a homestead provider of milk and the homemade cheese sold at nearly every local pulperia.

Other large buildings on the festival grounds held furniture, mountains of shoes, and new vehicles. A carnival at the rear of the grounds beckoned with deafening salsa music. Despite a light rain, we took my grandchildren on nearly all of the rides – or rather, they took us – including the Casa de Terror, ship ‘de Pirata’ and countless runs in the bumper cars where these usually sweet grandchildren turned into wild, road-raged drivers. Surely all Tico drivers first learned to drive on the bumper cars. Small makeshift buildings offered a house of venomous snakes (we passed on this) and the Casa de Espejos Locos (crazy mirrors).

Food? Delicioso. We ate Caribbean stew and Salvadoran turnovers.

The gentle rain was persistent. Toward the end of this long day, The Kid called on our cell phone. Bad connection? No, torrential downpour at his finca. It sounded as if he was standing next to a waterfall. It would be impossible to bring our grandchildren home as his jungle-path was likely washed out and too treacherous to attempt to get out in the storm. He’d put a bucket outside and in the past hour it had rained more than five inches – an amazing amount, considering that Fossil, Oregon receives 11 inches annually.

Since we were already wet from the continued light rain, we decided to wait out the storm and to take in the huge horse parade. Hundreds of horses and their riders had gathered in a huge empty field about a mile and a half south of the festival grounds. The milling of horses and riders had electrified the field, so plentiful with teeming animals and people that the ground seemed to shimmy and shake. Horses were pulled up into a tight canter to trot rapidly in place without going forward one step. Some of the horses were decorated with ribbons and braids; others looked as if they’d just been brought in from the fields. No matter, all did the same brisk, knee-lifting trot. Many riders resembled centuries-old Spanish conquistadors, decked out with traditional sombreros, colorful braiding and large silver studs on clothing and saddle.

We positioned ourselves at the very beginning of the parade, where horses and riders poured in a slow-stepping, trotting stream, ten or twelve abreast, from field to highway. Traffic was forced aside and finally stopped completely as drivers realized there was no end to this stream and that it would be fruitless to circle around it. Dozens upon dozens of horses and their riders kept pouring onto the highway, streaming down it as far as we could see, well over a mile – and yet the field still looked full. It seemed as if all of the horses of Costa Rica had been brought here for the festival.

Without warning the rain switched to a heavy downpour and we ran to our vehicle that was parked beyond the parade route. As we left, the horses were still entering the highway, the beginning of the parade was out of sight far down the highway, and the crowds that had gathered highway-side were still cheering.

We inched our way up the slippery mountain and spent a pleasant evening with my grandchildren. Even after the storm subsided, it rained steadily all night and finally stopped at dawn. The early sun turned all of the water cupped on shrubs, trees, flowers and grass to glittery crystal before rising high in the sky. By mid-day the deep puddles were gone and the road was dry again. 

Beautiful Jungle

A few days ago The Kid went on an impromptu deep-sea fishing trip with a few friends of his. He showed up at our place late two nights ago, clearly exhausted and wearing someone else’s shoes. No matter, he carried el dorado and a deep-colored other fish in the tuna family. I put the bag in our fridge (since he doesn’t have one) and we made arrangements for a fish fry dinner at his place for last night.

I went alone to have dinner with The Kid and my grandkids. Because it was an evening event, I would stay over. I packed up an overnight bag and a canvas cooler for the fish and drove the brakeless jeep a little over a mile to where this remote dirt road dead-ends in a jungle clearing. This required careful maneuvering in lowest gear. The road-builders had opted to create 90-degree turns in the narrow road without first giving notice or bothering to be sure that the sharpest part of these turns was as wide as, say, a jeep. All four wheels came along just fine, the rear ones alternately going airborne to hover over the few creeks and gullies that I passed.

At the dead-end, I slung the cooler over one shoulder and my overnight bag over the other. It was about 5 p.m. and the evening clouds were rolling in, right on schedule here in the cloud forest. It would be dark in an hour. I picked up a stick for protection on the half-mile hike but quickly discarded it as it was easiest to move along with both arms free for balance. Despite being strewn with leaves and stones, the steep clay path was very slippery due to the moist air. I trudged through the tunnel of jungle, carefully eyeing the dense undergrowth on both sides of the path and the overhead branches and vines and the ground for any sudden movement of reptile. That would have sent me sprinting at high speed.

Instead, all was peaceful as the clouds moved in to form a heavy, misty fog. I could see only about 20 feet ahead, where the path seemed to lead into another dimension, a lighter-shaded path-hole that kept pace just ahead of me. Behind me, dense fog. The birds and cicadas had stopped chirping when the cloud sat on us. I was completely alone in the silence. I walked my narrow path, inside a thick cloud that had settled on a high ridge in truly the middle-of-nowhere Costa Rica – this rugged ribbon of land connecting two massive continents. One slip, and I would slide down the nearly vertical mountainside on my left. I stopped to ponder this and realized it was too steep to climb back up if I fell and that the spongy undergrowth likely wouldn’t hold me up. I edged closer to the jungle on my right, brushing past giant houseplants and vines while trying not to think of snakes or spiders.

Finally the jungle fell away and I was on a grassy stretch of path. The cloud was rolling upward and now I could see further ahead. Drops of water hung from everything green. I stepped along past scents that were flowery, fruity and earthy. I kept thinking each turn would bring me to the head of The Kid’s finca – but no, the grassy path closed up and there was another shorter stretch of jungle to walk through. I felt braver this time – at least there was no drop-off here – and I could scream for help if needed. It would soon be dark. Rounding the last turn, a large mossy bell hung from a tree. I rang it hard and hiked through the avenues of fruit trees to come to the casa, the heart of this finca belonging to The Kid and his sisters and their husbands and children back in the U.S.

This casa is a beauty. Two stories tall, masterfully designed and built by The Kid with assistance from local Ticos, this unique wood structure features a large rock in the multi-leveled, high-ceilinged downstairs, which is edged with stone steps. Two large sleeping lofts are reached by hand-worked mahogany steps. The kitchen features custom-built counters and shelves. Interior walls are tiger-striped dark and light woods and window and door frames are dark natural wood. Electricity is provided by solar panels, backed up at times by the generator. The setting itself is stunning as the house is situated at the edge of pristine, mixed jungle and hardwood forests that overlook the Pacific far below.

As I entered, The Kid was reading aloud to his kids. All were in a hammock. They hadn’t heard the bell. We relaxed for a little while before dinner. A paca stepped from behind a tree twenty feet from the front doorway. By the time I grabbed my camera, it darted away. This peaceful little fruit-eater looks like a short-haired guinea pig on foot-high skinny legs.

A beautiful blue-velvet butterfly nearly as big as a dinner plate flew in through one window space, hovered around a bit, and then flew out the wide opening for the eventual double doors.

Yes, this casa does not yet have windows or doors. The Kid is deep in outdoor projects, including moving water lines around, and such securities are not an issue with him. “If I had windows or doors already up, that butterfly would not have floated through here,” he said, but also assured me this project is next on his list. I avoided discussion of potential visits by jaguars, bats and other nocturnal creatures and we had an incredible fish dinner, eating through much of the evening in the well-lit, open downstairs. Clouds drifted in and out a few times, once nearly obscuring the kitchen in a misty fog.

I was offered the daybed downstairs, set in a corner with huge windowless openings at bedside. I casually mentioned that I was willing to sleep upstairs – (after all, how many wild animals would attempt the steps?) – and my seven-year-old grandson urged his dad to let him sleep on the daybed as he sometimes does, thus giving up his bed upstairs to his dear grandmother. It was decided, and I was very grateful although admittedly guilty for leaving my fearless grandson to the wilds.

It wasn’t quite daylight when ear-splitting roars suddenly broke the silence. Lions! No – howler monkeys! – and very close by! Truly, these tree-jumpers do not howl – they ROAR. They sounded exactly like a herd of lions escaped from the circus, roaring free on a wild rampage. They bellowed over and over at the same time, seeming to shake the trees and ground with their deep bassoon tones. The roosters started crowing, including the one sleeping high in the tree just outside my windowless window in the loft. The monkeys kept up their roars for twenty minutes before subsiding.

I ran toward the jungle to see them, but by then they had moved deeper into the dense growth. The Kid said that most mornings he watches them leap from tree to tree near the house. While I looked for monkeys, a dark brown pizote emerged, looked me in the eye, and then stole some bananas from the ground by a nearby tree before running back to the forest. This sweet little thief looks like a raccoon-panda-dog.

This morning I walked up the steep path with bright sunlight rays shooting through the jungly forest. I admired the wildflowers and listened to the birds, insects and rustling leaves all sharing a wild rhythm, the pulse of this place. Dew dripped heavily from the thick jungle and a rich, deep foresty scent – almost tangible – filled the air. It seemed that for the first time ever I smelled the true scent of the Earth itself. Would anywhere else ever seem as rich, green and alive as Costa Rica? 

Presidential Election

The people of Costa Rica have elected their first woman president! Former vice president Laura Chinchilla, reportedly a liberal moderate, ran a successful campaign based on a theme that she is firme y honeste. A fierce, capable-looking woman in her 50s, she carried all seven provinces in this country, something that hadn’t happened in any presidential election here since 1925. Her main opponent, the conservative Otton, was left far behind.

As Election Day neared, campaigning became more visible. Signs and bumper stickers appeared everywhere and in San Isidro two vacant storefronts became candidate centers. Supporters for the respective candidates stood out front handing out papers and loudly proclaimed how their candidate deserved to win. Vehicles carrying banners circled the central park; loudspeakers tied on top of the cars encouraged further support.

A few weeks ago we stayed overnight in the city and watched part of an election debate on the TV. Each candidate’s campaign chairman spoke quietly but passionately and it seemed like a friendly, polite discussion. Laura’s spokesman was immaculately dressed and spoke calmly and confidently; Otton’s spokesman wore a rumpled suit, his tie askew, two shirt buttons undone and his hair stood up on one side. He too spoke quietly but also appeared rather desperate.

We didn’t watch the end of the debate as when Pecos stepped outside the room for a second he rushed back in to tell me to come and see a grasshopper on the wall across the courtyard. I’ve seen grasshoppers before and am trying to decipher this debate, I told him, but he insisted I haven’t seen one like this.

Mio Dio! Grasshopper or animal!? This creature, which looked exactly like a grasshopper only several times larger, clung to the wall about 20 feet up and next to a wooden ladder. Its length stretched to nearly fill the space between rungs – at least 10 inches, maybe more, and its body was as thick as the rungs. Its stick-up legs had to be at least six inches from wall to knee. This insect/animal turned its head whenever anyone walked below, clearly pondering whether to devour that person or wait for the next. I wanted to bar the door and barricade the windows but Pecos insisted it couldn’t leap the 50 feet to our room. The next morning I insisted that Pecos lead the way along our balcony and down the steps past the ladder, and to be sure the grasshopper was not trying to hitch a ride on our car. He carried all of our bags so that I could quickly sprint away if needed.

Villagers tell us that the day of elections is very important to the Costa Rican people. Fiercely proud of their government, even the most remotely-located citizens take part in the political process. Election Day is held on a Sunday so that all workers have a chance to vote. Up on our mountain it seems that Laura’s opponents didn’t stand a chance, as all discussion included the quiet mention of Laura and no one else. On the last few days before the election the noisy campaign vehicles could be heard plying these mountain roads.

On the appointed day, a card table for each of the two leading candidates was set up a little distance apart at one end of the village soccer field. Voters picked up their ballots from either table (no secretive voting here) and carried them across the road to the school, where most of the local residents gathered in their Sunday best near the desk where the ballots where counted. Adults stood outside the school visiting with each other for hours as children played in the school yard and chased each other on the soccer field.

The scene was festive; everyone was cheerful and the election seemed to bring everyone together in celebration and national pride. What a difference from the divisive, degrading presidential elections with argumentative candidates, stern-faced reporters and neighbor-versus-neighbor lawn signs so common in the U.S.!

Thinking further, there is one former president who I’d love to have had encounter that grasshopper, close up and face to face. 

Laundry Day

Farewell, dear laundress of a side street in San Isidro de El General; you’ve served us well. Now, however, The Kid and I have an agreement where in trade for him having brought his washing machine to our rental house, I do his laundry. This seems fair to both of us and saves us the hassle of hauling our dirty clothes to the city, and him the time-consuming process of connecting his generator and doing what he considers a dreaded chore at his finca.

Washing machines here are different than in the States and ours is typical Costaricense. The machine stands at one end of our back porch with an extension cord running in the door. A large compartment on the left holds the dirty laundry and is filled by the garden hose. The detergent is concentrated and made for use in cold water. A dial can be set to ‘normal’, ‘fuerte’ (strong) or ‘drenado’ (drain). I set it to normal and then also set the timer on top (tiempo de lavado) for the maximum time, 15 minutes, and the washer begins its agitating, accompanied by the clicking of the timer.

When done, I turn the dial to drenado and washwater pours out of a hose in the rear of the machine and runs into a little grassy trench near the porch. The washer is then refilled with clean rinse water, agitated several more minutes, then drained. This process is repeated a few times if needed. For our clothes, no. For The Kid’s clothes, yes. I believe he rolls around in the mud while working on his many outdoor projects.

The clean wet laundry is then put in the compartment on the right, a little at a time. A dial above it says tiempo de centrifugo and I set it for four minutes. As the drum spins, water pours in a little stream from the hose. When done, the clothes are only lightly damp and surprisingly completely clean. I shake them out and hang them on the clothesline.

Timing is everything. If laundry is started after 9 a.m. the clothes usually won’t dry in one day, as here in the cloud-forest climate the occasional clouds roll in most days beginning in late afternoon. We are at 10 degrees latitude and as the low sun moves from one side of the mountain to the other, I rotate the laundry on the line to its other side halfway through the drying process.

Nearly every village house has laundry of some sort hanging out every day, although most use either nearby shrubs or fences, draping them with colorful clothes. Those that do use a clothesline usually have it under a narrow eave of the house for protection from the fierce sun. A few pieces of clothing that I’ve had for years are suddenly faded; lace curtains are dried in the shade to save the threads. I seem to be the only person for miles who has clothespins, brought from the States. I like doing laundry; it has its own quiet rhythm, joining my morning with that of the other (mostly) women of Costa Rica in this everyday task. 

Chicken Shit

The Kid tells us that it’s time for the local coffee farmers to put in their annual order for chicken shit. Are we interested in having some at roughly one dollar per bag for our finca? Yes, of course, I tell him; we’ll take 10 bags, and he orders another 15 for himself. Pecos is unimpressed, not sure why we’re so excited about having some of this concentrated, nitrogen-rich, powdered, pure-gold manure for our plantings. We’re told that the truck from a poultry farm several hours away near San Jose will show up this week or next; no one is ever sure as to which day.

Then yesterday Marcos called us on the phone, saying something in an urgent tone about the pulperia and dos momentos. That much I could understand: the store in two minutes. The Kid was away but had left the brakeless jeep here for our local use, so we jumped in it and drove down to the village. Ah yes, the chicken manure had arrived. Our joint 25-bag order was dumped on a plastic tarp near the community hall. Other piles stood nearby. The scene was rather odiferous – in a good way – as local Ticos hoisted their bags on their shoulders to either carry bags home individually or to toss into a pick-up truck or on the back of a dirt bike. No problemo for us, we had the jeep with its open sides and all metal interior. I was excited; Pecos was not. He had said when I placed the order that he wasn’t keen on moving manure around and that if he had to help, he would for sure wear his work gloves and old clothes and probably a scarf tied around his face to avoid the smell. Here he was, glove-less, scarf-less and frowning.

Our bags were covered with crawling mini-centipedes, hundreds of them on each sack, and Pecos bravely brushed them off the top one with a stick. We each grabbed an end to hoist it into the back of the high-wheeled jeep – to no avail. These three-foot tall, manure-packed bags were heavy! I couldn’t lift my end higher than my chest to hoist it in and Pecos clearly was struggling with his own end. No way that he could lift a bag on his own. Our Tico friends, however, were hoisting their own bags as if they were lightweight, leaning into each insect-covered bag with their shoulders and then standing upright with the bag easily slung onboard and held lightly with one hand, smiling all the while.

Marcos came over and quickly jumped in to help us as other Ticos smiled understandingly. He slung each bag up quickly and tossed it in the back of the jeep, where Pecos tugged with all of his might to move each bag into position. First they loaded 15 bags for The Kid and took them down to his finca while I visited with a few people at the pulperia. As Pecos drove away he leaned far forward to avoid any of the creepy-crawlies that were now running all over the inside of the open jeep.

When they came back I jumped up front, too, for the hauling to our finca – and quickly regretted it. The centipedes were still in the jeep. Marcos shared my seat and nonchalantly brushed the wandering insects off while he talked. The air was thick and dusty with manure. Marcos and Pecos quickly unloaded the bags onto a few logs near our construction site and we and the centipedes gave Marcos a ride back to town. Outside the pulperia, a few locals still lingered, telling us how good the manure is for their coffee crops and how a little goes a long way. This we understood. 

Grocery Shopping

Grocery shopping in Costa Rica is A Whole Other Experience, one that I find most enjoyable except for the constant and necessary cautioning to Pecos to check out foods other than snacks. I wander the aisles and think of how the mega-store in San Isidro would compare to one not very mega at all in the U.S. I also consider the mercantile in our hometown in Oregon and know that it will be overwhelming at first to shop there again with its broad range of selections on at least a few aisles.

Our usual grocery store in the city is located on a side street and favored by Ticos. The others that are located downtown have higher prices and seem to cater more toward tourists.

Regardless of which store one shops in, the Costa Rican refrigerated dairy section is miniscule and takes diligent searching to find it. Some stores offer cold milk in half liter sizes, but most do not have any refrigerated milk other than one-serving portions in cartons. Yogurt is liquidy and comes in a plastic liter bottle.

Here the dairy department takes up nearly the entire side of a regular aisle of dry goods. Milk comes powdered or as a liquid in waxed boxes but mostly as liquid in a dazzling array of unrefrigerated plastic pouches – in all brands, sizes and levels of fat content – some labeled as excellent for babies, others recommended for children or adults. Various margarines are also available in pouches on the shelves and true butter is hard to find – usually just one brand in the refrigerated section and not much of it. Cheeses in the grocery store look old and tired, found in plastic bags with a twist tie and sometimes a flattened insect or two inside. Best to buy this at the market.

Canned goods are nearly non-existent except for about 25 feet of canned fish products from Central and South American countries, and a few from coastal Africa, Portugal, Italy or Spain. Mussels? They’re available in sauces, water, oil or wine – chopped, whole or with capers. Tuna is offered in countless ways, including with corn, beans, other vegetables and/or sauces. Squid, sardines, clams and a wide variety of white and dark fish come in small to large cans, offered with water, various oils, or with white or tinted (red) wine. Octopus is available with or without ink.

An aisle of frozen foods? No. Instead, just two refrigerator-size freezers – always in need of defrosting – that contain mostly burritos, a few whole chickens and heaps of packaged seafood in all shapes and sizes. The first time I opened the door and grabbed a package of fish, the label said Penguino! I panicked to think of eating penguin and quickly threw it back in. Another also said Penguino, as did the next. What a relief to realize that was the brand name!

There are very few canned vegetables and 99% of them are beans. Bottles of anything are few and far between. A wide selection of tomato sauces – Mexican, Italian, salsa-ed, cilantro-ed, seasoned or bean-ed are sold in plastic pouches, as are mayonnaise (lemon or plain), ketchup and other condiments. Soy sauce is known as the sauce de Chine. Spices come in plastic bags, as do soups, jams and sauces. Another aisle of pouches-plastico offers juices in all sizes made from local fruits. Flour is offered in one brand, one size only, whole wheat or regular, but expensive and it’s located on the bottom shelf. Instead, a dazzling array of masa harina fills several shelves, thus causing one (me) to most often make variations on tortillas rather than pita.

Detergents, dish soap and cleaners for all needs also come in plastic pouches; these are different from those in the U.S., with added components for cleaning and sanitizing in cold water.

A helpful young man stands at the ready in the produce area. Shoppers gather and wait patiently to be handed a plastic bag for what they may wish to buy. He carefully serves each customer. At all the grocery stores, the produce man weighs the desired items and writes down the cost on a paper to be carried to the caja. Vegetables and fruits in the grocery stores cost more than those at the market and the selection isn’t nearly as good.

Meats and fish are displayed behind glass in refrigerated cases; few, if any, are labeled. Seafood of all types are plentiful and extremely reasonable. Pork and chicken in unfamiliar cuts fill a display case; there are just a few selections of beef. If starvation is eminent there is a wide selection of organ meats.

I roll my cart to the caja station and unload the contents (no conveyor belts in these grocery stores) which are primarily pouches, and everything is put in a box. This gets stored up front in an open locker maintained by the security guard. When we’ve finished our other errands in town, we return and pick up our groceries for the trip home.

Any of the few bottles or cans that we do accumulate are recycled at the local pulperia. Papers are burned. There is no garbage pick-up except in the cities, where only the more well-to-do homes have a small raised cage out front to protect the garbage from stray animals.

Thus, during the week we wash and crush all of our pouches-plastico along with any other non-compostable garbage. Usually, a bag no larger than a shoebox or two holds everything. As directed by other rural residents, we bring this bag to the city. We walk nonchalantly down the sidewalk along the busy street by the central park, first making sure no policia are nearby and, without missing a step, fling the bag into one of the few municipal garbage cans. Pecos says I’ve developed a true Trailblazer hook shot. If anyone has a better solution, let me know. 

Connection!

Yes, it’s true – we now have internet service without the dreaded bus ride or having to haul the laptop everywhere we go, in search of wireless! Much thanks to our dear friend Marcos who kindly made the arrangements. We are so very grateful to him and also to ICE, the Costa Rican government mega-agency in charge of communications, utilities and infrastructure – and apparently, foresight and innovation. Marcos’s new government-issued cell phone has a router chip built-in. Wherever this phone is, there is wireless internet service. Our Costa Rican world has just e-x-p-a-n-d-e-d! 

La Casa

After much deliberation regarding construction budgets and funkiness, we are building a true Tico house for a few months' escape each year. We had labored for days looking at house designs in books and drawing carefully-scaled, somewhat unusual plans on graph paper – and then changing them again and again. The Kid has agreed to serve as project manager. He was patient for a while but finally took our plans away, saying gently but realistically that all we can afford to build is a Tico-style house, and a simplico one at that.

He made arrangements for us to meet Carlos, a local coffee farmer who is also well-experienced in building. His two grown nephews, Alejandro and Jose, round out the crew. While these two speak a little English, Carlos does not. No problem for him; he calls us up and fires off questions and information,followed by an in-person visit a short-time later, where we go over whatever he said. Carlos appears serious, steadfast and capable – and he smiles constantly. He is a trusted friend of The Kid’s and comes highly recommended.

The first time we met him, Carlos was wearing raggedy clothes that were mud-splattered and ripped with big holes. He was on foot and his two interpreters weren’t with him. He was quite serious as he talked about the job (we think) and the potential for us to hire him, but then he looked up to the ceiling in mid-sentence and burst out laughing at my homemade lightshade. He lost control, clutching his stomach while laughing, and nearly rolled on the floor. Pecos and I looked at each other, then at the wax paper strips dangling daintily from my homemade wire frame, and decided to hire him on the spot.

The next time we saw Carlos, he showed up on his spiffy motorcycle, cleanly dressed, carrying a cell phone and listening to an iPod. He carried professional, software-created plans for our house from our sketches, and a comparative list of costs from several building material places. He can negotiate for the true Tico price, an added feature, as costs for gringos are usually higher.

Now a series of heavy trucks have come from the city, carrying our building materials at excruciatingly slow pace up the rugged road to the finca. One driver stopped at our rental house to ask directions, and we are told that the others have stopped at the pulperia to ask if they’d already passed the site.

Like most Tico houses, ours will be constructed of concrete with a metal roof and large jalousie windows. The roof will be red corrugated metal and the stucco that covers the outside cement walls will be painted in a yet-undetermined color – but not anything in hot pink or bright yellow, like many that we see around here. The interior will be finished (next year) with a colorful tile floor and narrow bamboo on the 15-ft. vaulted ceiling. We haven’t yet decided on the material for the interior walls, but likely part bamboo and part stucco.

The dimensions of this structure are 30-ft. by 20-ft. for the casa itself, and there is also a 30x10-ft. covered porch on the side facing the view and two narrower ones on the side and back. Like other local houses, much of the cooking and all of the dining will take place on the porch end near the kitchen. The house can easily be added on to later.

This first morning, Carlos, Alejandro and Jose asked us to meet them at 6 a.m. to indicate the exact direction for the house to face. This was rather a late morning start, they said, as first they had to borrow tools from several relatives and friends. They ran a rubber hose far up the creek for good flowage to the tank for the concrete boldosas (small panels). Tico-style construction apparently means that walls are built first and afterward the gravel is spread and concrete floor is poured inside. All three were busy moving materials around when we left. Lacking electricity on site – or anywhere nearby – this house will be built via generator. We’re happy to finally see our little casa get under construction and are told the entire process will take less than two months. (!) 

Leafcutters and Us, On the March

About every other morning, we walk the half mile to our little finca. We carry water for drinking as even this little hike is strenuous. Besides the very steep up and downs, a stretch of the road has been recently cobbled with stones – not gravel – ranging in size from golf ball to small boulder. The largest have been dragged to the side by passers-by (and us) who had to stop here and there along the way when this job was first done.

For this event Pecos tucks his jeans in tall rubber boots and wears his cotton hat. He ties his machete to his belt and a bandana around his neck. He carries his walking stick. Our bottle of water gets clipped to his belt and a large folding knife is dropped in his pocket. He is prepared for anything. I wear short boots, shorts and straw hat and carry my botanical guide, a treasured gift from my daughter. We look like lost, mismatched tourists.

Halfway we come to the one-room house of the very old man who everyone in the village calls Tio Jesus. This structure is planked unevenly and horizontally and the boards stop a foot or so from the rusty tin roof. There are no windows or window openings. The small front porch holds a homemade bench and a sharpening stone for his machete. Tall banana trees provide overhead shade and a gurgling creek is just steps from the house. As we approach, Jesus is waiting near the road. His faithful dog has notified him that someone was coming. Our conversation is always the same: he talks nonstop for 10 minutes and we smile and nod and insert “si, si” here and there.

As we round the bend a parade of leafcutter ants is on the march across the road. These industrious ants have decided to take down an entire plant, shrub or tree somewhere in the jungle patch to our left and are hauling it home, which is somewhere up a steep dirt cow-path to our right. The ants select their target, climb up it, and then systematically jigsaw-cut each leaf into squares for carrying home. Each insect in the narrow line holds an inch-square piece of foliage upright over its head, much like a little broad sail, and keeps pace with the rest of the procession. The move is brisk. We watch for several minutes – this parade has no end – and then continue on our way.

Orange spikes of wild ginger flowers, five feet high, are staggered in the jungly growth at the side of the road. Red and yellow firecracker flowers hover over a little ditch. Plants I’ve previously known as seasonal or contained grow high here and bloom freely, unchecked by cold weather or indoor constraints. I read that Costa Rica has more than 10,000 plant species and that new varieties and their medicinal uses are still being discovered. The government has launched a major project to catalog this rich diversity of botanica. Our remote mountain area has new flowers appearing each day. Pecos waits patiently or walks slowly ahead as I oooh and aaah my way along the road, trying not to trip as I search through my plant book for the many unrecognizables seen along the way.

When we reach our finca, we can see that a tall buttercup tree has burst into full yellow bloom overnight. Another tree is deciduous in this Costa Rican summer and its bare branches are covered with bright orange flowers. We can smell the fruit from our few wild orange trees. The banana trees are now waist-high, having grown a foot and a half in the past eight weeks. Marcos has cleared a wide path to our bed of pineapple plants, first cutting the way through with his machete and then a weed eater.

When we first arrived a month ago, we hiked all of our finca with him. For that excursion we all wore tall boots and carried machetes. Marcos led the way, hacking plants, cottony spider webs and vines as necessary for us to pass. Hardwood amarillon trees swayed overhead and a few hawks circled. This former pasture was bumpy with occasional deep foot holes and a few animal dens in the chest-high grass. Marcos explained that boundary corners are marked not by surveyor posts or stones but by planting cana de india – a vibrant, red-hued plant that everyone recognizes for its purpose.

We searched for our spring and Marcos cleared around it. He also cut away arm-thick vines and monstrous houseplants for us to crawl through to get to the year-round creek. We stood in this dim tunnel of foliage and water and wondered what living creatures were near our feet or overhead. Later, I casually mentioned to The Kid how we hiked around through the dense grass and walked a bit in the creek, knowing he’d be impressed that we weren’t acting like city slickers. He responded, “Do you realize there could have been venomous snakes near the water or in the tall grass? I wouldn’t have done that until it was cleared.” We quickly decided that until the entire finca is mowed, to have Marcos create eight-foot walking paths through the property. Now on our morning excursions we stick to these areas.

A bulldozer was already doing some work near the village last week. This was fortunate for us as it saved the expense of bringing one in from a great distance. After nearly a full day of excavation and slightly re-routing part of a seasonal creek on our land, the new lane and plantelle are ready. This raised building spot is located near the center of our few hectares and faces a beautiful vista of the Talamanca Mountains. We stand on the lone boulder near one edge of the site, listen to the birds chirping our presence, and imagine future fruit trees and gardens.

On our return, Jesus is waiting in front of his house again. He holds out two strange, cacti-like fruits the length of footballs and points upward to the tree on which some hang from branches and a few others pop out from the trunk. Jesus gives us a rapid-fire dialogue again, presumably telling us what these are and how to prepare them. Later I read that these trees are known as soursop or guanabana. The leaves are medicinal, taken as tea for diabetes and flu and rubbed on the skin to repel insects; the seeds are toxic and are used to stun fish. The fruit is slightly acidic but also sweet and delicious. We add a soursop tree to our lengthy list of desirables for the finca. 

A Ride Like No Other

If not for needing the internet a time or two during the week for work, I would be happy to stay on our mountaintop. An occasional visitor comes by and The Kid checks in on us regularly. It is quiet and peaceful.

We break this cycle every few days by taking the bus to San Isidro de El General, where the noise, diesel smells and hectic pace cause us to appreciate our little village even more. The bus ride is arduous, to say the least.

The bus leaves the village in the dark daily at 5:30 a.m. and again at 12:30 p.m. We walk the half mile downhill to the pulperia to catch the later bus. To be sure we didn’t miss it the first time, we arrived at 12:10 and sat on the plank that serves as bench in front of the store. Shortly after one o-clock the bus was heard in the distance and finally it crested the road high above the village. It swept down past us and rolled up the hill to park under a tree for another 20 minutes while the driver had his lunch. We heard the engine start up again; a few minutes later the bus emerged, chugged down the hill and came to a stop in a cloud of dust in front of us. We greeted and paid the driver (700 colones each).

The bus is always empty at this end-of-the-line stop; it is red and white with a flat front and a battered body. I’m not sure if it is a several-decades-old passenger bus or former school bus. Windows open only at the top and one is shattered. The back windows have been boarded over.

Pecos walks down the aisle in front of me and the roof is only an inch from his head. There are no seatbelts. Seats are hard and child-size, two on one side of the aisle and three on the other. Pecos cannot fit into them without lifting his knees to his chest and therefore must sit sideways with knees in the aisle, folding them up and in whenever someone passes. He would rather sit in the very rear seat for more room, but the last two rows are missing. Heavy leather sandbags lay on the rear floor to help provide traction. A cracked plastic bucket is wired to a post at the rear door to serve as a trash receptacle.

Bus stops along the many kilometers down our mountain are marked by yellow wood stakes in the ground every so often. Our bus groans to a stop about 15 times, picking up passengers who wait under the shade of trees or in full sun under an umbrella. The brakes squeal with every stop. Everyone greets each new person who steps on. Nearly every passenger carries a small rag to first wipe off the seat.

On our most recent trip, we were sitting near the rear of the bus. At one stop as several passengers boarded up front, a young man darted from the bushes and ran behind the bus. We couldn’t see him pass the other side and assumed that he held on to the back for a free ride to hopefully somewhere close.

Our driver, a small man who looks incapable of wrenching the broad steering wheel around (let alone the vehicle) nonetheless carefully maneuvers our bus up and down steep grades, grinding gears smoothly and inching it sideways and slowly around sharp curves. He nonchalantly edges us past bottomless drop-offs. No one but me seems nervous.

The driver calls out a loud “Yo!” to people walking on the roads and nearly every house that he passes. A two-liter soft drink bottle, half full, dangles from a wire just behind his head. It swings wildly and nearly clobbers him on the sharp curves. I remind Pecos to leap into the driver’s seat to save us if our driver is knocked senseless.

The windows are all shut tight and it has to be more than 100 degrees inside the bus. I open mine for fresh air and clouds of orange dust blow in. I quickly shut it again. Passengers talk loudly to each other, whether many passengers or rows are between them or not. They ask us in a friendly way as to where we come from and what are we doing in Costa Rica. They laugh at our Spanish and I wonder what we’ve just said. I clutch my computer bag, shoulder bag and straw hat; Pecos clutches his shoulder bag, cloth hat and knees as we bounce up from our seats on the washboard road and crash against each other on every turn. I fear that my teeth will come loose.

Finally we reach blacktop and every passenger near a window jumps up to open it. Cool air blows in and suddenly the bus ride isn’t so bad, with the only worrisome part left being the aged suspension bridge over the Rio de San Isidro.

Two hours after leaving our village, we arrive at the crowded bus station in the heart of town. San Isidro is hot and muggy, always at least 10 degrees hotter than home. We have barely three hours to walk blocks away to an internet connection, buy groceries at two different places, pick up a few things at the hardware store, and get something to eat. As usual we buy two glasses of iced orange juice, freshly squeezed for each order, from a friendly Tico’s cart in front of the park. As we walk, I strategize on which restaurants or hotel lobby I’ll use this time for bootleg internet, sometimes bribing the waiter or desk clerk for the business’s pass-code and loitering until too obvious, then moving on to the next place. I avoid the internet cafes as have found these run-down places of outdated computers, usually located down an alley or over a store, are rather popular with persons who use the computers to view sites I’d rather not walk past.

Our return bus departs daily at 12:50 and 6:50 p.m. At 6:15 we walk back to the bus station, arriving just as our bus pulls into its diagonal parking spot. It is the same driver as early in the morning. I hope he was able to nap somewhere. A line of about 20 people on the sidewalk quickly board and toss shopping bags, backpacks, cardboard boxes filled with groceries, and tall sacks of coffee beans or seed onto the floor at the rear of the bus. People hold seats for others. We take a row of two seats – one with a spring sticking up – and decide to stay put. By the time the bus departs it is completely full and one man stands on the front steps near the driver.

About half a kilometer out of town, our driver pulls over to a bus stop and five people step on. They stand in the middle aisle, hanging onto seat backs and an overhead pole. A little further, we stop again and more people get on. This happens again and again and we keep asking each other how it is possible to squeeze anyone else onboard. Despite the many buses plying this highway, our driver stops for all who wait in the dark at the side of the route. The center aisle is packed with passengers who lurch and sway over those in the seats.

Several men sit on the heaped boxes and bags at the rear; others perch on the railing of the rear steps and stand in the doorways. Three burly men are seated at angles in front of us, arms layered over the back of the seat. Everyone is cheerful and nonplussed by the cramped conditions.

Passengers start departing about eight kilometers from town. By the time we turn off the highway, no one is left standing although the bus remains full. As the bus creeps up the mountain passengers get off at stop after stop. People sitting on their porches call hello to our driver as we follow the chain of infrequent street lights that curl upward far ahead.

By the time we get to our village, we are the last passengers once again. For the return trip home, the fare is paid as we depart. We gather our parcels, tell our driver buenas noches and step off to hike the last steep climb to home – first flicking on our head lamps to assure that no nocturnal creatures wait to greet us on the road. 

Scrabble, New Level

Hardscrabble, New Level

Pecos and I have both conceded the championship game(s) of Scrabble – or rather, we are both champs as The Big Game ended in an honest-to-god tie. All championships are now off and we continue to play a few times each week with the final scores always just a few points apart.

My grandson and granddaughter have spent a few days with us. We are playing with a bright orange Frisbee in the yard when Dario, a local villager, walks up our driveway to check on our landlord’s cows. My grandson throws the Frisbee to him and it lands at his feet. Dario picks it up, turns it over and looks bewildered. Pecos demonstrates how he should throw it and Dario sets down his backpack and machete. He tosses the Frisbee toward my grandson but it curves wildly and lands on the roof. Pecos hoists my grandson over his head and the toy is quickly retrieved. Dario tries again and this time throws it successfully to my granddaughter. He picks up his things and walks down the driveway shaking his head.

My grandkids have brought Swiss Family Robinson and we read aloud to them. After endless games of Go Fish and War, I teach them how to play Rummy. They catch on quick and beat me nearly every hand. It is time to show them something new, and I bring out the Scrabble game. They speak Spanish, English and French fluently – but my eight-year-old granddaughter reads and spells primarily in French and Spanish. She decides that she and I will play in all three languages. While I stick mostly to English and slip in a simple French or Spanish word here and there, she spells words like cerveza and crepes. She says that ‘scrabble’ is not a word she is familiar with in any language and that we should call this game Scramble. When we play cards, my grandson says he will shuffle and dial. I love their twists of language and treasure every moment spent with them. 

Artist Botanist

Everyone in the village, and even nearby villages, has heard that we plan to build a casa. The Kid says several men have stopped him to say they would like very much to be hired to work for us. The Kid, an experienced builder who has his own work to do this year, says he will provide part-time oversight while locals will do the actual construction. He will determine who to hire from the village, saying our timing is good as the local farmers are now in between two coffee harvests. We have a one-month window, starting next week.

We are walking past the local soccer field when our friend Marcos comes along. He is smiling and it seems he has been looking for us. We think he is inviting us to his uncle’s house, saying “Tio Ta-li” and something about ‘entrada’ and ‘casa’. He gestures for us to walk along behind his dirt bike, and we do, unsure if he is going to enter his uncle’s house, if we are to enter, or if something completely different – and misunderstood – is about to take place.

Suddenly Marcos dismounts and signals for us to follow him along a short path to a house situated in a very small clearing. It stands in the midst of a patch of tall jungle and hardwood trees. Giant tropical plants dwarf the house on all sides, many leaning over the small structure. Thick bunches of bougainvillea in several shades of crimson cascade from the roof. Underneath the trees there are dense plantings of cultivated palms, shrubs, tree ferns, flowers, vines and smaller trees of all shapes, sizes and colors. Narrow footpaths lead from the house through the plantings. The scents of orange and wild ginger fill the air. We have come to a magical place.

The house is constructed with a tin roof and the front room has horizontal planks with gaps of a few inches between each rough-cut board. Window openings have pencil-size strips of bamboo nailed up to form fancy panes but there is no glass or screening. There is a small concrete porch at the front, shaded by rusty tin. A wide plank has been carved and mounted on two rocks for comfortable seating. Tio Ta-li’ is seated by his front door on a small stool cut from the bent root of a tree. He has a warm, engaging smile and his face is worn smooth. He is wearing a brown stone rosary and an old guitar leans against him.

Marcos introduces us. Tio Ta-li’ nods as if he’s known us a long time and gestures for us to come inside.
The front room is dim. No electrico, Marcos tells us. The gaps in the wall and the open doorway let in light. We sit on a worn sofa, one of the few pieces of furniture. One corner of the room holds a homemade altar with a plaster statue of Christ set on a little wood platform decorated with candles, rocks, moss and fresh flowers and leaves. In a combination of sign language and Spanish, Marcos explains that Tio Ta-li’ is a woodcarver and that he carves what he sees around him.

From another room Ta-li’ brings in his works, each time carrying in just one piece for us to see, then after a while replacing it with another. A large wooden pitcher crafted from a tree branch – and that pours – is covered with intricately-carved vines and flowers and the initials of our village and then P.Z.C.R., for the former provincial name of Perez Zeledon in Costa Rica. Wood burls are carved into bowls and mugs. Toucans, parrots, monkeys, tanagers and hump-backed cattle are carved from twisted or curved pieces of wood. Each piece is masterfully made and some have been varnished or carefully painted, colors now faded. Ta-li’ is a true artist.

His wife is busy in their kitchen, which holds a small wood cookstove. Ta-li’ invites us to the back room – his workshop, which may also be a bedroom? Leaning against the walls are boards of all sizes, most still with bark. A wooden platform holds a large mound of clothing. Another foot-high platform of stick legs and rough-cut planks has just a worn, flattened pillow and a crumpled blanket on top of the boards.

A few planks held up by knotty posts serves as Ta-li’s workbench. It holds a few old tools and above it several small pieces of twisted sticks and knots of woods hang from rusty pieces of wire. Ta-li’ picks up interesting pieces as he walks about, to later let his imagination determine what each will be.

Marcos asks Ta-li’ to show us what he has brought us to see. From behind the workbench Ta-li’ drags out a large V-shaped piece of bent wood about six feet across and a foot thick. This interesting piece of blond tree has been worked over and over to smooth perfection. For above the entrada of our casa, Marcos explains. We like it and Pecos asks how much. Ta-li’ smiles and signals for us to wait.

He pulls out another large piece. It is a perfectly-crafted, realistic boa constrictor fashioned from a thick, curved vine. This wood creature is loosely curled and holds its head high. It is about four feet high and three feet across. Just as I feared, Pecos loves it. Now Ta-li’ will tell us the price for the snake and the entrance piece: an amount equal to $40 total. Pecos cannot pay him fast enough. I ponder where Pecos and this creature will sleep at our new house, certain it will not be indoors or near me. Ta-li’ tells us he will apply varnish to the wood and we all shake hands. I say, “No mas serpentes, por favor, Tio Ta-li!” and he laughs quietly.

Ta-li’ takes us outside to show us his gardens. Neat rows of rocks form narrow pathways among shady beds holding plants, shrubs, ferns and trees of every color. The gardens are simultaneously at foot level, eye level and above us. Nearly every tree and shrub in his yard has several other smaller plants hanging from it. While some are in planters made from old tin cans, small wood boxes, or pieces of bark sewn together, most are growing from clumps of moss fastened on small pieces of planks. The moss is tied with strips of grass or vines against flat wood pieces just a few inches in length that hang from twisted bits of wire. Bright flowers and leafy plants hang down from these homemade planters.

Brightly-colored bromeliads with variegated leaves and tinted streaks of golds, pinks and purples are rooted high to low along tree trunks and branches. Epiphytes with long dangling roots are growing from every woody crevice from ground level to high overhead. Some of the lowest tree branches have moss tied around their entire horizontal lengths, creaking under the weight with a rainbow of flowers and foliage growing along them, sometimes just a few feet from the ground. A staghorn fern, larger than a wheelbarrow, hangs from an overhead branch. Other feathery ferns tower over our heads and thin, silk-like sheets of green and gold moss hang from some of the largest trees.

I suddenly realize that many of the bright flowers from plants arching in containers or from crevices in the trees are exotic orchids of many colors and varieties, some quite large with thick stalks. Monkey-faced, polka-dotted, furred, lipsticked and bottle-shaped flowers dangle in the speckled sunlight under these trees. Ta-li’ also grows vanilla-producing orchids and shrubs of pepper. I am dazzled by all of it. I think I can feel the plants moving slightly toward him as he leads us along the paths; is this possible?

Ta-li’ shows us everything, from tiny rooted plants tucked into moss, to large specimens of panama hat palm, floor- and canopy-creeping liana vines, and multi-colored bird of paradise and shrimp flowers. He demonstrates taking root and stem cuttings and which mosses are best for certain plants. Behind the house he directs Marcos to climb a few tall trees leaning far over a steep ravine. These trees are heavy with oranges, and he points out which fruits should be picked and tossed to us for taking home. He explains through Marcos that he grafted these trees as saplings. Later we tell each other these are the sweetest, juiciest oranges either of us has ever tasted.

Tio Ta-li’ is a true botanist. His gardens, a paradise. He must hold genetic identities known only to him. He tells Marcos to let us know that after our casa is built he is willing to provide us with plants as desired for our finca. I am so excited by this that I later lay awake for the next few nights, thinking of the possibilities.

Shortly after we get home, Pecos digs through his trunk and in the very bottom is a complete set of new woodcarving tools he’d brought to Costa Rica. He takes out every other tool, ties them together with string, and walks back to the village just before dark to give the bundle to Tio Ta-li’. 