Bingo and Theater

While our village’s team would not be playing, our village was selected as host site for the regional soccer championship. Everyone, including us, gathered at the shaded edges of the soccer field – truly a field, replete with bumps and edged on one long side by dozens and dozens of rags tied together to make a rudimentary, ropy fence. Our local friends called out loudly at various plays, shaking their heads and commenting on how they likely could have done better, despite not making it to the play-offs. Boys cheered the players on from branches in the trees, and little girls chased each other on the school lawn across the dusty road.

Next to the soccer field is a brand new cocina/kitchen for the village church. This 40-ft.x20-ft. building is constructed of concrete walls that extend half way up on two sides. Iron railings extend to the metal roof. The full back wall anchors the kitchen, where tiled counters have three deep squares cut in them, also tiled, that hold small wood fires under iron grates. A sink stands at one side to allow the cooks to throw kitchen scraps through the iron railings and into the nearby jungle. In front of the kitchen is a long counter for ordering food and casual loitering.

At the far end there is a small stage. In between the kitchen and stage are a dozen or so rustic tables and chairs, with the chairs, as in most restaurants here, about the size of those in an elementary school classroom. It is comical to see Pecos sit at one of these tables, knees up. The tables come just below our chins when seated at these little chairs.

During this past year, the 50 or so persons of our village got together and built this new kitchen, truly a point of pride for the community. The cost was $6,000 for materials and it was raised over several years. Local wages are $1.75-$2.50 per hour, thus the fundraising effort was significant.

Following the day’s soccer tournament, there would be bingo and a small theater production. We purchased bingo tickets a few days ahead of time for 500 colones (approx. $1) each. Grand prize would be the equivalent of $40. I hoped to win in order to turn the money back to the church.

Entering the cocina near the hour of bingo, the seats were already full and there was barely standing room. Every horizontal surface – floor, cooking area, grassy entrance – had a person patiently waiting with bingo cards ready. It looked as if every single person we’d met in Costa Rica had come. We turned in our bingo tickets and were given two very faded and frayed cardboard bingo cards.

One of the village men walked around dropping handfuls or dried corn in front of everyone; apparently, these were the bingo markers. A loud cheer went up when Francisco stepped up to the table on the stage, ready to call the first game. He held a battered, plastic bleach jug filled with metal chips. For each number, he’d rattle the jug loudly while everyone held their breath, and then he’d shake a chip out on the table.

“BAY OCHO!” Francisco shouted and the entire crowd yelled “OY!!!” in response, then silence as everyone studied their cards. B-8; so far, so good for me. Pecos was standing across the cocina, and I could see an elderly woman, her head barely up to his chest, point to his card for him and place a withered corn kernel on it. “EEE [QUATORZE? QUARENZIA? QUARANTE-SOMETHING-UNINTELLIGIBLE?]” shouted Francisco. “OY!” screamed the crowd. Oh lord, I was already lost. Was that forty-something? Fourteen? Or something-four? A smiling man who’d I seen walking a few villages over, elbowed my arm and pointed to I-34 on my card. Ah yes, triente-quattro.

More numbers, mas rapido, and soon I was completely lost. I pushed my bingo card over to the helpful man, whose elbows leaned on the kitchen counter nearly against mine. He smiled and placed a corn kernel on my card on whatever-was-that-number that Francisco had just called. The loud “Oy!”s continued through each number of each game – played just like bingo in the U.S. with the diagonals, the squares, the X, the four corners, the full card.

Each time a person won, he or she would simply jump on the nearest chair and wave wildly. Francisco would mumble something and the entire crowd would groan loudly. This was a serious game. Children played as attentively as their parents. My 10-year-old grand-daughter, sitting across the room in a group of Tico children, won 2nd prize – 10,000 colones ($20) which she later tried to give to her papa as she said “he works so hard, he deserves it.”

Then it was time for the theater production. A few sheets with holes and a worn blanket with faded rockets on it were clothes-pinned to a rope stretched in front of the stage. There was much commotion behind the makeshift curtains as the scene was set and much friendly visiting by the crowd who all stayed for the theater. Babies were passed around, person to person, like little footballs –cheerful wherever they landed.

A record began playing on an old turntable and the crowd hushed. The curtains were pulled back and two of the local students, about 14 years old, began dancing to flamenco music. The boy was dressed in a man’s suit that had its sleeves and pants rolled back. He wore a black paper mustache and a bolero tie and a dandy cap. The girl wore a long purple satin skirt, fishnet stockings, high heels and a lacy blouse. Her hair was pinned up and a long black feather was stuck in it. They danced elegantly and swiftly, back and forth across the stage floor and the crowd cheered loudly.

Wait! They weren’t dancing! This was a pantomime of flamenco – no actual dance steps, but rather, quick steps and pseudo-sweeps to the floor, to which the men blew whistles while the crowd cheered and applauded.

Now up on a chair, now sashaying back and forth, and then the grand finale where the young man pretended to swirl the girl in the air as she gracefully jumped up and over a chair. The music stopped, the performers bowed deeply and the crowd cheered wildly, nearly everyone had leapt to his or her feet.

The curtains closed and a few moments three little girls came out and bowed. The curtains opened and the three sat at a table, dressed in Sunday best with their lacy socks and shiny shoes dangling from the chairs. An older girl came out and poured tea, and the three little girls looked at the audience and giggled. Ah, this was a restaurant! Elegantly dressed waiters came out and the girls placed their orders and giggled some more.

At this point Pecos and I had to leave. It was getting dark and we had borrowed my son’s car that day. For this year, the ever-troublesome vehicle had only intermittent headlights – sometimes working and sometimes not.

We decided not to chance getting stuck on the winding road as we hadn’t brought flashlights. At two points between our casa and the village, there are creeks to cross where the road narrows considerably above the crumbling culverts, barely allowing all four wheels to touch ground at the same time. 

A Walk With Ta-li'

We made arrangements to stop by and visit Ta-li’, the village woodcarver, musician and holy man who leads the services at the Catholic church. When we arrived, Ta-li took us in his workshop and showed us some of his latest carvings – birds of prey, and a four-foot shrimp cut from a twisted vine, this latter piece to be sold to a restaurant in the city. His great-niece, three year old Alejandra, was visiting and proudly showed us a three-foot wooden doll Ta-li’ had carved, bearing pointed beak and raggedy clothes and named Pinocchio.

A four-foot wooden mortar and pestle carved from a tree trunk stood in a corner. Ta-li’ told us it belonged to his grandfather and that the family uses it to grind the coffee beans – ‘oro de grano’ or grains of gold – from their trees.

Ta-li asked us to take a walk with him. We hiked far into his finca over rolling hills and past his orchard of fruit trees grown on a few steep acres. The slopes were so steep that we had to hold onto trunks of the trees above us while catching a toe-hold below. Many of the tree trunks had been braided into intricate forms by Ta-li’ years ago.

Far below, we entered the dark jungle. Ta-li’ stepped briskly ahead and we walked gingerly behind him, watching for any sudden movement of slithering creature potentially aside or above us. Liana vines as thick as Pecos rose from jungle floor to the tall treetops, many bearing large flowers in red and yellow. Floral fragrances wafted through the dappled sunlight that broke through the thick flora. We climbed over thigh-high spreading bases of banyon trees and down dank ravines where we weren’t sure if we were stepping on spongy soil or layers of plants. We were sweating and panting and could hear water rushing ahead of us.

Ta-li’ kept up a springy pace ahead of us. We traveled a distance without speaking. This elderly man must be part mountain goat, I thought. Just then he turned around with a smile and said, “Si, soy como cabra de montana.” Mountain goat. I turned mystified to Pecos who confirmed that I hadn’t spoken aloud.

We hiked down yet another steep cliff where one slip could land one about fifty feet below. Finally, we reached the river Platanares that flows through Ta-li’s finca. Surrounded on both sides by dense jungle, we hiked along the river’s edge, jumping from rock to rock. Ta-li’ stopped suddenly, saying “algo.” Something. None of us moved for a few minutes and then Ta-li’ said, “serpiente” and moved forward. Vines dangled from tall tree tops to down over the water and the air was cool.

We came to a series of waterfalls that bounced over huge boulders bigger than us. We climbed upward and soon the river flattened out again. The jungle came to its edge and trees formed tunnels over the quiet pools of water. We clawed through vines at the edge and pushed on. Soon the river roared noisily ahead of us and soon we came to another series of waterfalls that rose about thirty feet.

On one of the boulders Ta-li’ had placed a wooden cross in cement. We rested on the rocks and he told us that he comes alone to this secluded place to meditate and pray. This place is pure life, he said, pointing to the waterfall that sprang from his land.

Mist from the waterfalls shimmered sparks of color in the air and the rushing clear waters formed chains of smaller waterfalls that linked together and ran over the rocks and around a bend in the river. A soft light seemed to glow around Ta-li’ as he stepped from rock to rock and I believed at that moment, and still, that he is a shaman.

Back at the house, Ta-li’s wife and daughter had sautéed platanos and made coffee for us. We sat with Ta-li’ and discussed medicinal plants in his garden and mine, describing flowers and foliage in our own languages and comparing our different names for chamomile, lavender, hyssop, soapwort, the balms.

I realize my long-ago herb farm in the Midwest with its few hundred varieties would seem inconsequential to Ta-li’, who had pointed out numerous vines, trees and plants in the plentiful jungle as we’d hiked, telling us the medicinal uses for each. His finca is more beautiful and rich with fauna than any national park I’ve ever visited in the U.S. 

Puntarenas

We rented a car and traveled up the Pacific coast to explore the narrow peninsula of Puntarenas. This narrow strip of land juts out into the ocean and is the departure point for ferries to the Nicoya Peninsula, a tourist area known for its resorts and beaches.

From San Isidro de El General we crossed the coastal range to the town of Dominical, then turned north toward Quepos. We stopped at a rustic roadside stand shaded by cut banana leaves for cold paper cups of ceviche. The two small boys who sat on the coolers that comprised their stand leaped to their feet when we stopped and served us with big smiles. They counted the change carefully -- $1 for a cup of fresh minced fish, shrimp and calamari that was icy cold, swimming in acido (a perfumed citrus that puts lemon and lime to shame) and seasoned deliciously with garlic, cilantro and a touch of habanero. A few tortillas rounded out this lovely meal. For the next two days I insisted that Pecos stop at nearly every ceviche stand that we passed.

At Matapalo, we pulled in to the broad, shaded beach. A few Tico families were picnicking under the trees, about 15 people who apparently had traveled to the beach in the back of a panel truck. The rusty vehicle’s doors were open and the interior was packed with blankets and pillows. The tide was low and Pecos gathered shells while I played in the waves.

Heading north again, we came to the town of La Parita, a small center of commerce in the heart of palm plantations. As we neared the town, a few large carts laden with palm heads were pulled by oxen toward the oil processing plant. We stopped at the city park to stretch our legs. Parrots chattered noisily overhead, apparently responsible for giving this town its name.

We passed the fishing town of Quepos and then the tourist city of Jacos, winding north to the highway that leads west from San Jose to Puntarenas. Near Orotino we walked out onto the bridge, renowned for its views of alligators in the river below. It was extremely windy and I imagined being blown over the skinny, knee-high railing to the few dozen six-foot alligators who smacked their tails around as they waited patiently on the shore directly under us.

Five hours from home, we approached Puntarenas. Ten kilometers (six miles) long and three meters (10 feet) wide at its narrowest point, this rambling fishing town of a few thousand people was a jumble of tin-shacked homes and stores thrown up against each other and sometimes braced against twisty, weathered trees. The remains of wrecked fishing boats were everywhere.

Where the peninsula narrows to just the graveled road with ocean lapping on both shoulders, whichever driver entered most fast and ferociously has the right of way. I closed my eyes as Pecos wielded his ever-improving, wild Tico-driving skills. At the far end of Puntarenas, we drove through an attractive downtown and then arrived at a busy beach edged by 1950s-era hotels. We checked into La Tioga, rather expensive at $94 per night, taxes and breakfast included, a luxurious room with a balcony overlooking the beach and a magnificent view of the mountainous Nicoya Peninsula across the wide bay. Fishing boats plied the waters and the ferries carried vehicles and passengers far out to sea. Vendors and tiny restaurants lined the street alongside the beach.

We swam at the beach and had a most relaxing two days exploring the town. A beautiful stone cathedral with stained glass windows stood at one end of the city park and a cultural center at the other. We entered the center through a side door and found ourselves in the small municipal library. The director came over and for a while in his broken English and my infantile Espanol we compared library services in our countries. In Costa Rica, too, services are dependent upon graciones – private donations and grants.

From the library we entered the maritime museum. Exhibits included ancient pottery, 19th C. musical instruments, and wooden boats and fishing equipment depicting Puntarenas’s dependence upon the sea. A rehearsal was underway in a small auditorium; the actors were glad to see us and said that in two weeks they would perform [something, something, something en espanol] “sevilla” for the community. “Ah, si, ‘The Barber of Seville!’” I shouted and they all shouted back, “Si, si, si!” as they posed dramatically for several pictures and encouraged us to stay for the full rehearsal. The final area in the cultural center was an art gallery. Richly colored paintings by a local folk artist depicted the harvests of the sea, most unfortunately not for sale.

Along the beachfront, we meandered around the vendors’ stalls – all seemingly alike with wood carvings, shell art and colorful saris – and ate at the sodas (ceviche again). Independent businesspersons of all ages plied these little restaurants with various wares. A man carried a bunch of toothbrushes in his hand and extolled the virtues of brushing at each table as diners patiently looked away. Women carried lottery tickets (how would we know if we won?); children hawked shoelaces. One boy carried a large, fresh fish by its gills, eyeballs popping, table to table. A clown mime wandered by and gave a brief performance at our table; Pecos paid him 200 colones (40-cents). He bowed expansively and called persistently to all other nearby diners to follow our example, but he was ignored.

Heading south again we stopped at Playa Estrella – Star Beach – and stayed from mid-afternoon toward sunset. This most beautiful setting with its stone mermaid statue set far out in the sea is so tranquil; nearly deserted, the only sounds were the crashing of the waves and the occasional calls of scarlet macaws in the trees bending over the sandy beach.

We stopped again in La Parit, this time after after dark. Turning the corner near the park, the chattering of parrots was so loud that we couldn’t hear each other talk. We stepped out of the car and the din was almost unbearable. Noisy parrots filled the trees. Families strolled by, seemingly oblivious to the racket above them. We drove on to Dominical for a quiet evening before heading home to our mountaintop the next day, a place where the quiet is broken sometimes by clusters of colorful parrots that burst from the trees with their chippering conversations and then fly on to other locations. 

One-Year Fiesta

Marcos and Maria have invited us to the fiesta for the first birthday of their son, Jorhan. This event is cause for great celebration in Costa Rica, Marcos tells us, as when one reaches their first year then the worry of infant death is over. He is insistent that we come.

We arrive at 4 p.m. along with dozens of other guests who walk over hills or along the road, coming from all directions. A few, like us, have brought gifts for Jorhan. We are all dressed in Sunday best.

Marcos’s father sees us right away and rushes over. He envelopes us in his strong arms, kisses my cheek and pounds Pecos’s back. He escorts us around the yard, introducing us to those we don’t know, and all the while he talks nonstop, telling us about his family and finca. We shake hands repeatedly and there are many “Mucho gustos!” all around.

Maria and Marcos have set up an altar at one side of the yard. The table is covered in white lace and fresh ferns and a nativity scene stands center. At each side there are candles and vases of huge flowers with colorful leaves and moss. A small framed photo of Jorhan is placed next to the infant Jesus. A plastic flag proclaiming “Vive Mexico!” sticks out from one of the vases. Marcos shows us each item on the table and we admire all of it.

Marcos’s uncle, Tio Tali, serves as priest, or perhaps he is a priest? He calls for the prayer and everyone gathers in the yard, either sitting on plastic chairs or standing. Little girls dressed in organdy and lace play tag with little boys dressed in their school uniforms of dark pants and white shirts. Mothers hold their babies. Men gather under nearby trees and the elderly sit on the porch.

A slender, unassuming man of nearly seventy years, Tali smiles gently and picks up his acoustic guitar. He is suddenly extremely animated, pounding out a song with deep rhythm on his guitar while singing in loud, rich tones. His entire body moves with each note as he rolls his shoulders and steps lively to his music. His guitar swings up and down as it plays to the grass, to the trees, to the sky.

When he is done, Marcos’s mother steps forward with a wooden rosary to recite a lengthy prayer. She pauses after each sentence or two, and everyone repeats what she has said. When she is done, Tali picks up his guitar again and sings “Ave Maria” solo. When the song ends, he repeats it again, this time joined by his two brothers – one on another guitar and one on accordion. For this repetition, everyone joins in, each person singing loudly.

Then it’s on to the next wooden bead on the rosary and the entire process is repeated. The rosary is passed among the women – first Marcos’s mother, then Maria’s mother, then each of Marcos’s six sisters.

Bead by bead, the prayers and music and songs follow the path of rosary. The sun sinks in the sky as the voices of the crowd and the guitars and accordion carry “Ave Maria” over and over down the mountain, surely heard great distances away. The service lasts more than an hour and a half. By the time it is over, Memo and I have learned the prayers and words to the song and join in. There is such a strong sense of family here that I am saddened that the lives of my family in the U.S. are so separate.

As soon as the service ends, older children bring out trays holding small paper cups filled with the drink that Marcos has told us is made solely for special occasions. There are several toasts to Jorhan, to his health and longevity, to his parents. The drink tastes like vanilla eggnog and it is laced strongly with liquor. Everyone has a cupful, from oldest relatives to youngest children. Jorhan is beloved by all and he is passed from person to person so that all can wish him well. He is cheerful with everyone, although shy with us.

Tali and his brothers pick up their instruments again and stand at one side of the porch to play lively tunes throughout the rest of the evening. A few people dance on the lawn, the children continue chasing around, and Marcos’s sisters bring out plates heavy with seasoned black beans, a rice mixture with chicken and vegetables, and salads of yuca and beets. Everything is delicious.

As we walk later to our finca, we can hear the music drifting over the hills, adding tranquility and depth to the dark and putting all night creatures to rest. We turn off our lights and walk by moonlight over the hills to home. 

Bus Ride

That 110-lb. man with nerves of steel – our bus driver – seemed genuinely surprised and happy to see us again. All smiles, he greeted us heartily and shook our hands as he took our 700 colones for the bus ride to town. We’d hiked just over a mile to the village to catch the 1 p.m. bus to San Isidro.

Our village is at the top of the mountain and thus lies at the end of the bus line. The morning bus leaves for the city at 5:30 a.m. and returns here about noon. The driver pulls the bus to the side of the road and rests under a tree until 1 p.m. when it is time for the afternoon trip back to town. The bus leaves the city again at 5:50 p.m. for our route back up the mountains.

As the bus engine sputters and spurts to regain its strength for the return trip, adult and child vendors step aboard before departure to loudly cruise the aisle, selling zip-lock baggies of colored beverages, deep-fried plantains and chicaronnes (pork rinds). Our same driver steps aboard and shouts for them to leave, then wrenches the bus backward from the huge station. We will arrive back at the village at 7:30, already very dark since the sun sets at 6 p.m. each day .

Either way, morning or afternoon bus, we walk in the dark wearing headlamps to scan the road for snakes.

Two stops down, our former landlord, Luis, and two of his friends stepped aboard. Luis greeted me warmly – perhaps too warmly, depositing two sloppy kisses on each side of my lips – and, ignoring Pecos, asked me if Pecos was still my novio. Why yes, I said, thinking that the facts that the man travels to Costa Rica with me each year, that we’ve built a house together, and that here we were, shoulder-to-shoulder en bus should be evidence enough.

Our bus is still the 1950s-era, rusty school bus as last year. Our driver leans forward to wrench the steering wheel as he maneuvers hairpin turns. His soda bottle swings wildly on the wire above his head and he yells out, “Yo!” to everyone we pass. The bus grinds painstakingly slow uphill and rumbles wildly down the steep slopes just inches from treacherous drop-offs at the edges of the crumbling dirt road.

There are a few dozen stops en route to San Isidro. At each and every one Luis, lecherous as ever, leans far into the aisle to admire the women coming aboard or departing. In between these diversions he brags to me about his horse and his cows and all that he can offer.

I’m tempted to carry a chair and my computer to the high point of his empty rental house on sunny afternoons for a decent internet connection, but then again Luis is often there tending his many flowers. I would hate to distract the man from his work. 

Rain

It rains nearly every day – very unusual for this time of year, we are told. This is the time of the first coffee harvest and most of the crop has been ruined. The second harvest takes place in about eight weeks and there is much hope that the entire year’s work will not be lost.

Mornings are sunny and then mid-day the clouds roll in and build through the afternoon. Rainstorms can be seen rolling our way across the valley below and we are quick to put things under cover. Sometimes it pours rain on one side of our house but not the other.

Hard rains thunder on our metal roof and we cannot hear each other without speaking loudly. Playing music is impossible. We haven’t experienced such rain before. We measure 4” overnight in the buckets – sometimes for a few nights in a row – one-fourth the annual rainfall in Fossil.

Pecos stays busy with a shovel, maintaining the shallow trenches that carry rainwater away from our house. This process is common as there are no gutters here. Our house perches inside a shallow moat all of three inches across. Wearing knee-high rubber boots, Pecos removes dams of sticks and leaves along the deeper, wider trenches by the driveway and up at the road. He is Michener’s Potato Brumbaugh, moving the waters of Costa Rica rather than Colorado. 

Neighbor

We have two beautiful mango trees growing near our house, gifts from Jesus, the ancient man who is our closest neighbor. We stopped by his place to say hello, but for once he didn’t come out as we approached on the road.

Later villagers told us that he is in a place for the elderly, several kilometers away, as his legs have given out. Aside from missing the primitive home he’s lived in for decades, Jesus may have found that he enjoys being around people, which is something he didn’t have all that often before.

Whenever we’d walk by, he’d rush out and talk nonstop at his fence for several minutes, keeping up a steady stream of solo conversation, all in Spanish as we nodded our heads and tried to insert a word here and there. There is no certainty to Jesus’s return home. We hope he is content.

Arrival

A few days ago we arrived safely at the little village of Aguas Buenas, and another season in Costa Rica has begun for us! We are so happy to be here and in many ways it seems as if we’d never left. It doesn’t take long to fall into the gentle rhythm of this beautiful place.

Arriving at the Santa Maria International Airport after the overnight flight, we quickly took a taxi across San Jose –winding through narrow, tin-shacked alleys – to the main bus station. What luck! A bus would leave for San Isidro de El General, three hours away, in 20 minutes.

As we neared San Isidro, workers with heavy equipment were busy clearing away a mudslide that had covered the highway. A long line of vehicles was stopped in both directions. Looking up from our bus windows, the mountainside had been scraped clean and uprooted trees were strewn here and there, balancing precariously on the bare slopes. It was windy and we watched as branches blew and uprooted trees shifted position on the steep mountainside high above us. We were thankful when 20 minutes later we were again on our way.

The vehicle of my son, The Kid, had been left in San Isidro for us. We stopped only to purchase a few groceries and continued on our way. As we wound our way up the mountains to the village, people called out greetings as we passed: Bienvenido! Welcome! We marveled at new blacktop that now covered a short but previously-treacherous graveled stretch of road and admired the many flowers in bloom.

At last, we arrived at our finca!

Our caretaker Marcos has planted a vegetable garden and our fruit trees. All are thriving. He and his wife Maria planted a bed of two dozen roses, now in full bloom, as a housewarming present for us. The herbs I planted last year have grown more in one season than my several-year perennials in Oregon.

Iridescent green and blue hummingbirds stay busy in our flower beds all day. Toucans, as yet unseen, whistle in our trees in the afternoons. Hawks circle overhead calling “scree” in long, slow notes and at night an owl near the house calls “wah-wooh” over and over. About mid-day thin clouds slowly roll in over the slopes above us and engulf our mountainside, giving a gentle haze to the vista for an hour or two.

Construction on our new home had been delayed due to torrential rains in recent months, but no matter, it is livable and we can work around the final construction. This lovely place is mango-colored with terra-cotta tile inside and out on our outside living room/patio, and has more windows than walls – all jalousied and arched at the top like the doors. Decorative glass double-doors swing out from kitchen and living room areas to the patio. We have indoor plumbing and- unlike most Tico houses - hot water in the shower.

The roof rises to 15-ft and is suspended on posts about two feet above the walls, where wrought iron scrolls edge the entire house. They remind me of waves or musical scales, just right for La Musica de la Montana. We had expected only a sink in the kitchen, but workers had also built makeshift counters and covered them with slabs of cement, perfectly suitable for now.

During the day, our doors swing wide and we live in our open-air house. At night, we close the doors and windows tight, more for an illusion of safety than anything else, as the area above the walls is unfinished and open to creatures that slither, crawl or climb the walls or the wood posts that support our patio.

We’d just gone to bed on our first night here, when suddenly a noise came from under the sink. Pecos grabbed his machete kept next to the bed and, most fearsome in his underwear and skinny legs, took a few hesitant steps in that direction. I aimed the flashlight toward the kitchen. Something was thrashing inside the plastic bag that held other bags, knocking it around on the floor as it tried to kick its way out.

Pecos tiptoed closer, telling me to stay back as he brandished his machete. I edged toward the door and estimated how many jumps it would take for me to open it and leap out. Suddenly a moth the size of a hummingbird flew up from the bag and fluttered around the kitchen. Its patterned brown wings whooshed like paper as we shoo-ed it outside.

Having braved the wilds on our first night here, each evening since has become much less worrisome. In a week or two, or perhaps four or five, our casa will be enclosed and we will sleep snugly and securely. 

Tumbling Weeds

Fossil weather has taken a tailspin over the past few weeks, with bouts of hail, sunshine, snow, high winds, frigid temperatures and warm spells crashing through the area – each weather pattern lasting a few hours before the next set spins in. It feels more like March than early May. After months of balmy, sun-soaking warmth in Costa Rica, this topsy-turvy weather at Fossil is unnerving. When it’s cold outside, it seems to penetrate to the inside of our bones, as if we are structured of metal.

On a drive to The Dalles a few days ago, tumbleweeds the size of large boulders bounced rapidly at us from across high, stubbled wheat fields. Jumping ditches and slopes, these scraggly, three-ft. balls of densely-packed thistle were escaping, dashing in all directions to freedom. A tumbleweed the size of a Volkwagen bug bounded toward us from a great distance and leaped across the highway right in front of us. I slowed our vehicle to avoid having the briar-like branches get stuck in the radiator.

Pecos and I marveled at how the high winds had blown smaller tumbleweeds against miles of wire fencing; in places the fences were now a solid mass of pointy weeds that clung together to form a thick knotted edge to the fields. Farmers would not be able to untangle the prickly, grey-brown clumps. The fencerows would have to be burned.

In Costa Rica, jungle plants leap up wildly, needing to be kept in check constantly with machete, yet always their roots are kept in the ground. Families remain in the same village for generations; coffee trees produce beans for forty years. In rural Oregon, it’s different. Crops change; people migrate.

Here on the high prairies, brittle Russian thistle plants break loose to ride gusty winds toward distant horizons – striking free of place of origin. Pecos and I are the same age and we’re both from western New York, yet our separate tumultuous lives brought us each to Fossil – one aged tumbleweed coming to rest happily against another in a place where change can blow in when you least expect it. 

Farewell, Natty

One of my first social outings on returning to Fossil from three months of travel was to attend the funeral of one of the town’s noted characters, a true cowboy. This skinny-legged, weather-worn cowboy with sky-blue squinty eyes seemed older than his middle years. In poor health, his death was not entirely unexpected, but it did hit the community hard.

A few hundred persons came from far and near to attend this funeral – a staggering amount when one considers that Natty rarely left Fossil and was not exactly the outgoing type. His death seemed to be recognized as the end of an era as well as the loss of a quiet friend who truly reflected a more simple time, one that required saddling up for the day’s work.

Natty was well known to all and was one of the familiar faces of Fossil. His ancestors had founded the town. It was taken for granted that Natty would show up at all fundraisers, sports events, and other community gatherings. Natty always stood quietly off to the side, black cowboy hat in hand, snap-front shirt and Wrangler jeans freshly pressed, nodding politely to those who greeted him. He was noted for his refusal to sit down or to stay for very long.

Natty spent most of his life outdoors and had the manners of the Old West: extremely polite to women, most comfortable with horses and dog, and impatient with errant cattle and humans. He never married and while several women had tried to catch his attention, he had not dated anyone in the past few decades.

Partisan in life as well as in politics, he carried a strong sense of right from wrong that put him always in the right. When he did talk, his voice was surprisingly loud with an echo behind it, as if he had to muster it up from the depths of his being. One could tell just from listening to him that he didn’t use his voice all that often with people but instead put it to use primarily to call cow dogs and horses.

Although he lived in town and over the years had accumulated enough wealth from his cattle business to not have to work, Natty maintained a rigid schedule of tending his horses and cattle for most of each day and of taking care of routine errands in the afternoon. His unassuming house was situated on a side street, its furnishing austere. He dined on simple meals at the same hour each day, picked up his mail at the post office at an exact time, and stopped by the office of a local business each afternoon to sit quietly while the owner worked. Natty would look quietly over Main Street.

Natty had always been polite to me and had often said to call him if I needed a hand with anything. He sometimes stopped to exchange pleasantries for a few minutes on his routine walks around town if I was out in the yard, and seemed to eye me warily as an independent woman who could fly off the handle at any moment.

He had happened by last year right after I’d learned that I’d been accepted into a cultural exchange program and excitedly told him I would be traveling with a group throughout Iran for two weeks. This would be my first trip overseas.

“That’s downright foolish,” he stated loudly. “Why on earth would anyone want to do something like that?”

At the funeral service a few old-timers told stories of Natty’s accomplished handling of horses. They reminisced over Natty’s deep affection for his dog that had preceded him in death and would share his grave. Another friend remembered how Natty had declined taking a trip with him to the ocean, recounting how Natty had told him he’d seen the Pacific once years before and that was good enough.

A guitarist played a few mournful cowboy songs, which brought tears to many eyes. The mayor, also a friend to Natty, read a poem written by a local rancher. The words lamented the end of day when there was still much ranch work to be done in the fading light. Natty would have liked that.
He also would have liked the simple decorations in the century-old church, left over from recent Easter services. A cloth banner that hung on the pulpit had the words “He is Risen” embroidered on it. A similar banner hung on the railing close to Natty’s coffin and read “He is Dead” – direct and to the point, just as Natty lived his life. 

Fossil, Home Yet Different

My return to Oregon and then Fossil was wrought with culture shock, a condition I hadn’t anticipated. I came home alone as Pecos would be staying another three weeks to oversee completion of a storage building on our finca and to finalize building permits. After more than three months of constant togetherness, I would miss him.

Has anyone ever noticed how incredibly huge Portland International Airport really is? The ceilings alone are magnificent, and that paved highway out front – so smooth! I watched the other drivers actually stay in their lanes and abide within reasonable call of the speed limits. How orderly this seemed. Nonetheless, even as a passenger I kept turning from side to side and checking the mirrors to see who would cut us off or dart from the side to force us out of our lane. No one did such a thing.

Traffic was more dense and fast-paced than I remembered. I was happy to be chauffeured around for the few days I spent in Portland with my kids and grandkids. The restaurants were noisy; the stores crowded. It seemed best to just relax at my daughter’s house, perusing all of her books and movies – a seemingly vast selection, and all in English. Her family’s TV was overwhelming. I moved my chair to the rear of the room as the onslaught of large screen and turned-up volume seemed too much.

My drive to Fossil seemed endless. I edged along the Columbia Gorge for two hours, admiring the stunningly-beautiful National Scenic Area, yet I was surprised at the moderate heights of mountains that previously had seemed much taller. Turning off the interstate, only 70 miles remained to reach Fossil. I wound up and down the rolling foothills east of the Cascades. Never-ending wheatfields rolled to horizons, cleft by deep canyons. I drove on and on. I felt as if I had entered Idaho, then Montana, then the Great Plains. Perhaps Fossil had shifted east.

Dozens, or was it hundreds, of gigantic new windmills had been plunked on hilltops while we were gone. Their huge white blades whirred in the sunlight and it seemed as if these hills would rise up and float away. The highways to Fossil were pristine, as if they were brand new. How did the State of Oregon ever afford to construct and maintain such lovely roads? These roads surely are thoroughfares to another land, as no houses or squatters were setting near them. The wide open spaces of north central Oregon are truly vast.

I would need time to gather myself and rest at Fossil before seeing friends. That was my plan. Upon turning the corner to my house – how embarrassingly and unnecessarily large it seemed – a friend and her baby were strolling by. I was invited to dinner, to come in an hour. Since my teeth began chattering uncontrollably while talking to her – it was bone-chilling cold – I quickly said yes. Perhaps her house would be warm.

I managed to turn on the heat. Nonetheless, my house was c-o-l-d. I doubted it would warm up by summer. I emptied two laundry baskets full of sheets and towels on top of the quilts on my bed and spread two more quilts on top of that heap. Later that night, I crawled between the sheets wearing leg warmers and two cotton shirts, and dreamed of Pecos, who was probably sleeping peacefully under the mosquito net 3,000 miles away.

Each of my first days home brought friends to my door who were eager to hear of our Costa Rican experience and to see pictures. Many meals were shared, both here and at their homes. I couldn’t walk to the post office without townspeople stopping their vehicles on the middle of the main street and calling out greetings, blocking any potential traffic – all one or two cars that might have approached in the 15 minutes on Main Street.

Entering the Fossil Mercantile, I was taken aback by the grandness of the store and its dazzling displays and full shelves. I stood in front of the rows of freezers, surprised that there were so many different foods available. Why had I ever thought that selections were limited? Cheeses ranged from gorgonzola to brie – and there were no flattened insects inside the wrappers.

I thought of our village pulperia in Costa Rica and wondered what our local friends there would have thought to come in the Merc. The taxidermy and quilts hanging overhead would have likely fascinated them, and the grocery offerings would seem rather lavish. Why, even in this tiny Oregon town there are more choices of mayonnaise or ice cream than it seems that any one family would need to consider.

The few potholes in our streets are really nothing at all. Store facades are well kept; residents all have shoes and wear clothes of the right size.

Pecos has now arrived home safely and marvels too at the over-capacity of yards and dwellings and how our small town no longer seems quite so small or sparsely-populated. Fossil is a glorious place to be. Nonetheless, our sense of place has changed, and this town will never seem quite the same as before. 

Adios

I’d looked forward to a planned fiesta here in the village just before leaving Costa Rica, but sadly it was not to be. Within two days, three local deaths – two elderly aunts, beloved by all and related to many, suddenly passed away, and a young man one village over, known by all, was killed as he fell off a roof. The village is in mourning; the pulperia is closed and no one worked in the coffee fields these last two days.

We had seen two funeral processions near the city these past few months. The deceased is taken by hearse to the funeral home where cremation takes place the same day as the death, we are told. As in the U.S., traffic pulls to the side for the hearse to pass. A coffee truck packed with closest relatives and friends, sobbing and clearly grieving as they stand in the bed of the truck, follows the hearse and then individual cars and motorcycles follow in formation.

Here in the village, the body is laid out at home for one day, then cremated in the city for burial of the ashes at the nearby cemetery that serves a few villages. Obituaries of all Costa Ricans who have passed are given each day on the nightly news, bringing a halt of a few minutes to most activities as many watch to learn of the day’s deaths.

Cemeteries hold vaults for family ashes. These structures are constructed of tile in pastel shades and stand a few feet tall. Most are surrounded with plantings of colorful flowers, carefully tended.

For this Lenten pre-Easter season, nearly every local house has placed a small wooden cross out front and draped it with a purple cloth – a visual reminder of the intensely-Catholicism of nearly all persons in our village. The crosses seem to mourn all who have suddenly passed away.

I am sad to leave Costa Rica and my return to the U.S. is comforting only in the thought of joining family and closest friends again. Finally I am sometimes able to speak Espanol in simple yet complete sentences, and now it is time to leave. I have promised to return next year with much improved Spanish as a few persons in our village have asked me to teach them English.

Construction of our casa will continue this next month while Pecos is still here and will be completed in the coming months before our return next winter. I will miss watching Carlos, Jose and Alejandro mix cement by hand – first placing the dry ingredients of sand, stone and cement mix in a pile on clay-baked ground, then adding water a little at a time, much as their mothers and wives mix the masa for tortillas and as my grandmother made her pasta.

I’ll miss getting up early to see if the dawn’s clouds cover the distant mountain range or if the majestic dome-cap of Mt. Chirripo can be seen above the clouds, rising above all else in this country.

Most of all, I’ll miss the symphony of birds early in the morning and toward evening, when they sing in duets and finish each other’s chorus. I like to lay in bed at night and listen to the toucans trill back and forth. As I write, a noisy clatter of bright green parrots, at least a dozen, soar low past the porch – their wings rustling like noisy papers. Purple and green hummingbirds on nearby 10-inch spikes of Brazilian flowers send a soft hum with their tiny wings.

Pecos will continue feeding the birds, being careful to let any fruits from the refrigerator first come to room temperature. Tropical birds will not touch fruit that is cold but will hop up and down impatiently on the post while it warms.

Friends have come to say goodbye. Carlos brought orange juice and beer; Marcos brought a special drink, much like eggnog, that he says is only for special occasions such as weddings or births. His mother sent over sweet tamale cake.

For now, adios, Costa Rica. I will remember that adios is also hello. 

Vivero

After a full day of sightseeing and swimming in the ocean and at a mountain waterfall, we stopped at a vivero - plant nursery, literally 'place of life' - on our way home to buy a few fruit trees.

I’d worked up a careful list with Marcos as to what would grow best on our finca. Since I leave in a few days for Oregon, Pecos will take care of the potted trees for now. Marcos will plant them in mid-April, about the same time that Pecos returns to the U.S.

Oh my, the prices! I’d planned to buy just a few trees, in order to give our finca orchard a head start this year. Sweet orange, grapefruit or lemon trees, five feet tall, just $2. Avocado trees, one dollar and a little change. And acidos, a tart lemon-lime, even less than that. We bought two or three of each of these: sweet orange, oranges for juice, avocados, mangos, acidos, water apples, guava, guanabana, starfruit. Marcos has papaya trees and yucca shrub-trees for us and starts of sugar cane and flowering bushes. The Kid has given us ginger roots.

This open-air vivero lies along the highway and encompasses the equivalent of one city block. No greenhouses are needed as overhead palms and flowering trees provide shade in some areas. Like many other businesses, the office of the vivero is three-sided with a tin roof.

We walked under huge fronds of tree-size ferns and appropriately-named umbrella trees. Ten-inch orange flowers jutted out from ginger shrubs that were taller than us, and 3-ft. strands of bright red helonia flowers dangled from overhead vines. Orchids in all colors sprang from moss-filled baskets and hanging baskets of ferns had fronds four to six-ft. across.

Our fruit trees were loaded in wheel barrows and brought to our vehicle where each was carefully fitted in – somehow. Pecos and my daughter were up front and I squeezed into the back seat, surrounded by a jungle-tangle of foliage. I was elated, having waited until just before my departure for the U.S. to purchase our trees of fruit.

Marcos has cleared a gentle slope for the fruit trees and an area for a small garden. Flowers and herbs will later fill an area about 20-ft. wide that curves around our porch and from there will cascade down a six-ft. slope in two tiers.

All of this is envisioned and will take at least a few years to come to fruition as imagined – where meandering paths take one past colorful flowers that bloom overhead and under and on the branches of small trees and shrubs. Each planting and improvement to our finca increases its worth – to us and to whoever has it after we are gone. 

Vanilla Farm

We’d stopped at a vanilla farm previously, but it had been closed, so we went there again with my daughter who is visiting. This time the gate was open. The lane took us through an orchard-like setting, past neat rows of trees that were draped with thick vines. As we stopped, a farm worker signaled for us to follow him into the large gift shop – or was this someone’s living room? He went down a hall, then came back and indicated that we were to follow him. I was last, and when I entered the far room, Pecos and my daughter were standing over a woman who was lying in bed. Welcome, sit here, she said, patting the bed. Pecos looked extremely uncomfortable with this idea, so she told us to pull up a few chairs.

This finca owner, Charlotte, had fallen a few days ago and fractured her hip. She seemed glad to have company and talked nonstop, telling us that she lives six months in her Canadian home and six in Costa Rica. She raises vanilla, pepper, hibiscus and cocoa, which she sells at farmers’ markets in both countries.

I asked, would she have any vanilla plants for sale? Charlotte said that she was not offering plants for sale this year. We visited for a little while and learned that her friends live five kilometers away from our finca. She asked us about our experiences in Costa Rica and then suddenly said she would sell me a few vanilla vines. But first, she insisted, I must learn how to hand-pollinate the vanilla orchid correctly, as she had been taught years ago from an old man in Mexico. Charlotte had bought thirty vanilla plants from him after he was satisfied that had mastered this time-honored skill.

I had announced months ago that I intend to have cultivated plantings of the vanilla orchid and other spices on our finca – perhaps to generate later income – and here was the opportunity for a firsthand demonstration!

Charlotte called to her worker to bring a few vanilla flowers and a long needle to the bedroom. She then carefully opened the long white petals to reveal the pollen sac, which resembles a tiny closed purse with yellow dust on it, barely visible. She took the needle and gently lifted up a tiny flap on it. She then touched the underside of a folded-over stamen located under this sac. The stamen sprang up and touched the open purse. Charlotte then gently pressed the tiny purse closed with her finger tips.

I was enchanted! Without assisted pollination, the orchids would continue to grow large flowers but few fruits would form in her vanilla vineyard.

True vanilla comes from the specially cured fruit, or bean, of this particular orchid vine. The fruits, or vanilla beans, are long, thin fleshy pods with thousands of tiny fragrant seeds embedded in the pulp. The traditional process for vanilla beans requires a series of steps that take months. The pods must be picked before fully ripe, then put in the sun. For one month the sun baths are alternated with a process called sweating, where pods are bundled up in blankets and put in dark closets or boxes to seal out all light. After another month of drying out of the sun, the pods are then stored for a few more months to develop. This procedure produces the fine flavor of real vanilla and explains why vanilla beans are so expensive. Artificial vanillin, vastly inferior, is made from wood pulp.

I practiced the pollination process on a few flowers. Satisfied that I’d learned correctly, Charlotte called to her worker to cut five vanilla and five peppercorn vines for me. She would also sell me 10 vanilla beans. She hauled herself into a wheelchair and rolled to her kitchen, fragrant with freshly-processed pure cocoa, where she asked me to take a large jar of vanilla beans from the cupboard. The sweet scent of vanilla mixed with the chocolate – both scents stronger than any I’d ever experienced from either, and very heady.

Charlotte wished us well for our upcoming return to the U.S., and we promised to visit when we return to Costa Rica next year. She insisted that we tour her vineyard before leaving. Thick-leaved, large vanilla vines with shiny round leaves sent out roots from the stems to cling to tree trunk supports. Pepper vines curled thickly around and around their supports and dangling beads of peppercorns hung just over our heads. Ten-inch cream and purple trumpet flowers – reina de la noche, or angel of the night – hung from eight-foot shrubs, and hibiscus, camellia and bougainvillea flowers were buzzing with blue, green and purple hummingbirds. It was a true paradise of exotic tropical spices and flowers.

Coming home, the scent of vanilla filled our vehicle. Marcos will plant the vines on our finca and tend them for us. When we return next year, our vanilla plants will be in bloom, ready for pollination. 

Travel, La Negrita, Beaches

My daughter has come to visit before leaving soon for her Peace Corps duty in Kenya! We arranged for a rental car to be picked up in San Isidro late in the day on Saturday, in order to meet her at the airport in San Jose on Sunday. At the pulperia early Saturday morning, Pecos mentioned our plans to Juan, the proprietor, who promptly informed him that the bus schedule has just changed. There is now only one bus to the city from our village on Saturdays, and it had already left at dawn. No problem, The Kid’s vehicle, after three weeks, was finally repaired and ready. A complete engine re-build had been necessary. He was taking my grandkids along with his friend and her son who were visiting to the beach where B and her son would catch a small plane to San Jose. They would give us a ride to San Isidro.

At the appointed hour all seven of us piled in the four-seater vehicle, and we were off. About seven kilometers from the village, The Kid’s vehicle simply stopped running and would not restart. We weren’t near anything and it was blazing hot. While the rest of us huddled under a few banana trees, The Kid and Pecos worked on the engine, to no avail. The Kid used his cell phone to call the mechanic, who said he would come right up the mountain and take a look.

An hour later a very aged van appeared over the hill, preceded by noisy chugs and spits and halts. It stopped near us and three mechanics jumped out, carrying their tools in plastic bags. Another hour passed as they patiently tried various fixes. Finally, all 10 of us piled in the van. At the repair shop the mechanics jumped out and insisted that The Kid take the van for a few days while they re-repair the engine. An old man with a rusty, aged tractor with no fenders and the engine hood held on by pieces of barbed wire, overheard the conversation and said that for a few colones he would take the tractor and tow the vehicle down the mountain to the repair shop. Done, said The Kid.

Thus, we were dropped off in San Isidro and obtained the rental car with no problem. This was a great relief as the agent had refused to take our name or credit card info over the phone, saying just to come in at the appointed hour and he would open up and have a vehicle for us.

On to San Jose! Again we traveled on the rugged Inter-American Highway over the Mountain of Death, marveling at how in three months there had been no repairs at all to the places where an entire lane had crumbled down the mountain side. The road was as treacherous as before, with the added charm of Pecos now driving on this mountain like a Tico instead of a terrified U.S. citizen.

We had a few hours to spare, so turned off just east of San Jose to see Cartago, the oldest city in Costa Rica, founded in 1563 by Coronado, and the famed Basilica de Nuestra Senora de los Angeles (Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels). The magnificent cathedral anchors a large central square and is impressive with its soaring ceilings, columns, tall glass windows, ornate gilded altar, and various shrines. A spring with reputed healing powers emanates from under one corner of the basilica.

The cathedral is home to Costa Rica’s patron saint, La Negrita. According to legend, in 1635 near a large rock a mulatto girl found a small stone statue of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ child. Twice the girl brought the statue home and put it in a wooden box, and twice it mysteriously reappeared at the spot where it had been discovered. A cathedral was then built where the statue was found. Today’s cathedral replaces an earlier one that had been destroyed by an earthquake in 1926.

The cathedral was humbling, and Mass was being conducted at the altar and throughout the cathedral via loudspeakers, while many tourists moved up and down the side aisles with cameras and camcorders. The eight-inch stone statue itself is embedded in a gold and jewel-encrusted shrine above the main altar. Even from the back of the cathedral, light seems to emanate from this glass shrine. Going closer, one can clearly see this black stone carving, now dressed in a white and gold gown and an elaborate gold crown.

Those who entered the wide center aisle at the main entrance at the rear of the cathedral quickly fell to their knees and began a leg-wrenching, slow knee-crawl to the front of the church. Old persons holding rosaries or bibles or canes, adults from all walks of life, well dressed or in rags; older and younger children, and persons of all ages carrying babies and small children, edged forward on their knees, slowly, step by step and inch by inch, with heads bowed, going toward the front to receive Communion and oblivious to their pain or the chaos around them.

We were stunned. Even more surprising was to read later that every August 2nd hundreds of pilgrims walk on their knees from throughout Costa Rica and other Central American countries to Cartago to pay homage to La Negrita. At that time others walk hundreds of miles carrying large wooden crosses. The devout crawl down the aisle every day.

One day in San Jose with its crowded streets and diesel fumes was enough. We visited the maze-like Central Market and walked in the downtown area, taking a peek into the National Theater and enjoying the restaurant courtyard of the Gran Hotel. We stopped to watch street musicians and various vendors.

Taking a shortcut west from San Jose to the coast, we became hopelessly lost in the country as paved roads gave way to gravel and the many villages we passed were not on the map. We stopped at a soda for lunch and enjoyed the good company of the proprietors who gave us directions to the main road and jokingly insisted they would come with us to the beach.

Finally, the Pacific! It would soon be dark. We followed the coastal road past the touristy town of Jaco and turned in at a remote location where there was a sign for Playa Esterillos. This white sand beach was beautiful, edged by tall trees and a small cluster of sodas and open-air bars with thatched roofs. A life-sized sculpture of a mermaid looking out to sea was perched on a rock outcrop at one end of the beach, not too far from shore.

As we waded, a loud squawking broke out above the trees along the shore. We looked up and there were eight or ten scarlet macaws flying in pairs and coming in for a landing. These 3-ft. red parrots with blue and yellow wings danced along the branches and played in the trees the entire time we were there.

The next morning we continued south to a secluded beach near Uvita, where we swam for a few hours while watching for riptides in the pounding surf. Strings of pelicans flew past us over the turquoise water. Later, already sunburned, we met up with The Kid and my grandkids at the beach at Dominical and enjoyed this touristy town before heading up the mountain toward home. It should be noted here that burying one’s car keys in the sand under a blanket to prevent any possible theft, is not a good idea, especially if that blanket gets moved, thus requiring much digging before departure! 

A Shot In the Dark, Or Arm

Two days ago Pecos cut his finger on a rusty strand of barbed wire. This cut, while small, was a little deep and completely distracted him from a usual litany of other perceived ailments. He could not recall his last tetanus shot and did not seem to appreciate occasionally being asked if his jaw was yet locking up. He was worried.

Yesterday morning, as if bidden, an official-looking young man on a motorcycle appeared in our driveway. He dismounted from his motorcycle and untied two plastic file boxes with handles. He wore a uniform with Ministeria de Salud sewn on it. He introduced himself as Henry and asked if we were having a house built down the road. Si, we replied, thinking this would be yet another construction permit.

Henry explained that he is a government health practitioner who makes house calls to give various vaccinations to rural residents. His territory covers several villages high in these mountains and takes in more than 800 families. Were we interested in receiving any shots?

Pecos could hardly contain himself. Salvation was at hand! He showed Henry his finger and immediately invited him inside. Henry would give Pecos a diphtheria-tetanus shot; was I interested as well? No, thank you, I am already protected. Henry opened one of his cases, jotted a quick note, and then took a sterilized needle from its paper covering and quickly injected Pecos. This went well. Pecos did not even flinch.

We visited for a half hour; Henry practiced his English while Pecos plied him with health questions. Pecos mentioned hearing rumors of two people several villages away who were bitten by a certain mosquito last year with the resulting bite growing larger and larger under the skin, finally treated but leaving a wide hole, one reportedly golf-ball sized. He asked if this was possible. I have had this same thing, Henry exclaimed, and he showed us a nickel-sized hole in his arm that he said required 20 anti-venom injections to finally heal. At this news, Pecos did become pale. Henry was also interested to hear about my daughter who will soon be engaged in public health in Kenya.

There was no cost for Pecos’s DT shot. Vaccinations are free to all persons here, Henry said, and practitioners try to reach all corners of the country. He will look for us next year.

Hmmm, I said to Pecos after Henry left, such a pleasant man, yet I’m surprised that you let him give you a shot without first checking his identification.

Pecos rubbed his arm and didn’t answer. I think he was weighing lockjaw versus unknown injection and didn’t care to pursue the conversation further. 

Cana India

Sometimes it seems as if things move incredibly slow in Costa Rica, and then suddenly it all comes together. We’d been talking with Marcos about plantings for privacy along the part of our property that edges the road. He kept telling us the time wasn’t right, but that when the proper week for such planting comes, he would let us know. This seemed as if it would get complicated.

Meanwhile Pecos and I studied my botanical book to consider various options but could not decide exactly what we wanted. Besides a living fence, we desire some fruit trees and perennial roots. We would have to find a nursery –a vivero, literally, place of life – bring the book (English) and painstakingly look at pictures to cross-reference names of nursery plants named in Espanol. We would have to borrow a vehicle to haul whatever we would end up with, and hope we could stay within budget.
Then yesterday Marcos arrived unexpectedly on his dirt bike and asked us to bring The Kid’s still-brakeless and clutch-less jeep (parked at our place) to the finca of his pa-pa’. They had cut cana india for our farm, Marcos said, as he hauled himself into the jeep.

First we stopped at Marcos’s house. He walked us through his yard and around his house, pointing out roses in every imaginable color, richly scented camellia shrubs, 10-ft. hibiscus shrubs blooming in apricot, crimson, white and pink; and blue and white flowering hydrangea with heads larger than basketballs. Maria will take cuttings for us. A parrot squawked at us from a cage hanging on their open back porch. This bird, less than a year old, was found injured on the road and Maria nursed it back to health. Marcos said when Maria was in the hospital for a few days, the parrot laid on the floor of the cage and languished for her. It would not eat or drink. As soon as she returned, all was well.

A little further down the road we turned on a narrow lane to the finca of Marcos’s parents. Pa-pa’ came out and shook hands with both of us and then insisted on showing us his orchids behind the house. Such beauty! Several orchids in full bloom and as much as three feet wide were suspended from the branches of larger trees. White flowers with purple blotches covered these orchids. He will give us starts of these plants. We thank him profusely. He laughs heartily each time that, like Marcos, I call him Pa-pa’.

Ma-ma’ brought out a plate with pieces of dense cornmeal pudding cut in large squares and then returned to the kitchen to bring us each a cup of tamarind fresco. This drink requires soaking tamarind seeds in hot water to extract the sticky, flavorful pulp in which they sit. This concentrate is then mixed with a little hot water and a copious amount of sugar for serving. We sat on a concrete wall in the shade next to the house and visited for a half hour.

Ma-ma’ and Pa-pa’ seem to forget that we know very little Spanish and kept up a steady conversation. At equal disadvantage, Marcos and I scramble to try and translate what they and we would say. Pecos of course just smiles and seems to fit in without saying much. Pa-pa’ pounds him on the back and laughs and admonishes him for not coming to visit last Sunday at 2 o’clock as they’d planned when running into each other earlier that day at the pulperia. Pecos says that he thought Pa-pa’ had only been discussing the day’s weather.

A poinsettia shrub about six feet high was in full bloom next to the house. I told them how this plant is available only at Christmas time in the U.S., and what it sells for. Marcos and his parents were stunned. Why would short versions of this common plant be used for decoration, why so popular and so expensive, and why would people buy it only to discard it a few weeks later? This story was so amazing that they had me repeat it two more times.

We drove the jeep deep into the finca along a narrow rutted path, brushing six to nine-foot coffee trees on both sides and also edged here and there by eight to 10-ft. cana india plants. Some of the coffee trees had small white flowers but most were loaded with ½” bright red fruits (two coffee seeds, or beans, inside each). Once established, coffee trees can produce for up to 40 years. Rows were staggered on these very steep slopes to allow pickers to stand on the trunks of the coffee trees below each row being picked. Coffee trees were interspersed here and there with taller banana trees, which in turn were shaded by taller, nitrogen-fixing mountain immortelle trees covered with orange flowers.

As we came around a sharp switchback Marcos told us to stop. Just ahead the path was criss-crossed with dozens of cana india plants that he’d cut earlier into six to eight foot lengths. These plants, common as a house plant up north, resemble a single green cornstalk with yellow stripes. We loaded these into the backseat of the jeep and tied more on top, then hauled these to our finca, chugging along the road with Pecos and Marcos, who rode on top, both yelling a loud “Yo!” to everyone we passed.

Back to the finca of Ma-ma’ and Pa-pa’, where this process was repeated several times. Marcos will cut these stalks into a few hundred foot-long pieces and will stick each in the ground about 10-12” apart, where they will immediately take root and grow three feet per year. We’ll let the cana india grow tall along the roadside and along our finca boundaries, providing a permanent living fence. The corners of our finca will be marked with plantings of red cana india, which will be obtained elsewhere. Marcos shook his head as we talked about U.S. fences being constructed of metal or wood. But those can be changed or taken away, he says. Without permanent trees, how can anyone be sure of property limits?

Pa-pa’ met us deep in the coffee farm for the last few loads of cana india. He wore his usual nautical cloth hat and like Marcos had his machete tied to his waist with twine. He admired Pecos’s yellow and black stretch motorcycle gloves, which for some reason Pecos is wearing today instead of his usual work gloves. Pecos took off the gloves and insisted that Pa-pa’ keep them, as he has another pair at our rental house. Pa-pa’ was very pleased, but even more so, it seemed, when I took his smiling picture and showed him the result. He asked to see it a few more times. Just then his keen eye saw movement in the jeep. Among the plants, a grey hairy beast with eight legs – knocked to the ground, immediately killed and so fearsome that I shall not go further here.

Be sure to write down the cost of all of these canas india and we will pay you, I told Pa-pa’ the best I can. He laughed deeply, clapped me on the shoulder and said no, no cuesta, and chuckled to himself as he headed back to his house. These plants would have been shortened this year anyway, Marcos tells us.

As we were hauling the last load out, Marcos called for Pecos to stop the jeep. He jumped down from the top and asked if I’d like a cutting from the beautiful tulip tree that grows along the path. This would be bonita circa the house, he said. Yes, I say. Marcos pulled out his machete and instead of cutting the end of a low branch, he quickly stepped near the trunk and hacked off a limb five inches thick with one amazing swipe. The branch crashed to the ground. Marcos, I said, what are you doing!? He ignored me and hacked off another and another, machete swishing in the air and more thick branches tumble down. Yes, this is a light wood like pine, but still..

The 2-ft. thick trunk of this tree was divided into two parts and as Marcos started hacking angled cuts in one of the trunks, thus intending to sever this old tree in half, I yelled: Stop! Marcos, usted necessito permission de Pa-pa’? Marcos halted his work, smiled and told me that it is fine, that he and his pa-pa’ are one. A few minutes later Pa-pa himself emerged again from between coffee trees, all smiles, and helped load six pieces of this tree – thick limbs and lengths of the halved trunk itself, trimmed into tidy 6-ft. long pieces that will be pounded several inches into the ground to quickly take root.

Back at the village, we all stop for a cold drink. One of Marcos’s uncles stepped from a coffee field near the pulperia. He led a horse with pack saddle loaded with sacks of coffee fruits. At least 80 years old, he wore a cap with white cloth hanging underneath for protection from the sun. He called to us, Cana India! Bueno!

Costa Rica Cuisine

The Kid and Marcos, caretaker of the family farm, had lunch with us the other day. This wasn’t planned in advance, so I heated up leftover rice and black beans, scrambled a few eggs on the side, cut up some homemade cheese we’d purchased in the village, made a tomato-avocado-onion salad, and mixed masa with water to make a quick griddle-stack of tortillas. Your ma-ma’ cooks like a Tica, Marcos told The Kid approvingly.

Marcos will clear a garden spot on our own finca later this week. We stood on the hillside and I waved my arms over the slope and flat area in front of our half-finished casa, telling him the planting area must be large as we would have fruit trees on the slope and garden rows below. I would plant green vegetables in tiers in this area, assorted roots over there, tomatoes and herbs over here.

Marcos thought for a few minutes and then said that the garden doesn’t need to be so large. It is different in Costa Rica, he explained. Here plantings are made primarily for beauty – many flowers – and vegetables in volume are left to the ‘producers of commerce.’ This was enlightening! I thought of the many organic growers at the market and their ridiculously low prices, and realize now that we can grow vegetables that are just enough for us, not the entire countryside. Instead of rows of tomatoes, we can grow just a plant or two and instead have curved, meandering paths close to the casa with beautiful flowering plants, vines and shrubs for which this country is so well known.

Unlike some other Central American countries, Costa Rican cuisine is not known for spicy hot flavors – although delicious tongue-lashing sauces are available in restaurants if one asks. Rice and tortillas are served with every meal. Chicken and chunks of pork are served either sautéed in a light tomato-garlic sauce or deep-fried. Beef, called bistec, is not so common and when offered on a menu is served in the aforementioned sauce. Fish of all types is plentiful and served lightly breaded, either filets or whole. Beans are also a staple, served separately on the plate or mixed with rice and then called pinto gallo (literally, speckled rooster). Cabbage is cut thin and used as lettuce to make fresh salads, often with tomatoes, avocados and cilantro. A mound of cooked yampi or yucca root or a boiled banana often accompanies a lunch or dinner offering. This former root is peeled, cut and cooked like potatoes. When mashed, the root actually flakes and resembles fish in translucent texture while retaining its earthy flavor.

Fruits in all sizes and textures are abundant and often just cut open and eaten from hand or with a spoon – flavors from almond-guanabana to citrusy-mango to candy-like papaya. Street vendors hack the tops off coconuts and stick a straw in for the sweet, watery milk. Ice cream shops are everywhere – perhaps so abundant due to the warm climate and the common practice of favoring foods to highest octane sugar levels. Common desserts include caramel flans, jelly-filled sugar cookies, custards and soft, sticky fudge.

Ethnic diversity in dining is easily accomplished as a little different seasoning can change an entire dish. After all, tortillas, naan and pitas are not so different; pilaf, paella and pinto gallo are cousins, as are polenta, masa and stove-top cornbreads.

This country’s cuisine has strong influences of the Caribbean, South Pacific, and central and south American fare. With essential ingredients such as olive oil and garlic, an assortment of herbs and spices, a few staples and such abundance of fresh food, a kitchen in Costa Rica easily becomes internationale.

La Dentista

Costa Rica is well known for having exceptional medical care at lower costs than in the U.S. Since it was time for my regular dentist visit and such offices are plentiful in San Isidro, I picked what looked like one of the nicest dental offices and went in last week to make an appointment.

A pleasant receptionist was deeply engrossed in a book. The waiting room, which was empty, was immaculate. I pointed at the calendar to make an appointment for today, which is market day. She took my name and phone number and scheduled me for 9 a.m. Today we got up at 4:30 in order to hike to the village to catch the 5:30 bus for the two-hour ride into town.

We did a few errands together and then Pecos went off – alone, unfettered, cash-heavy – to the market, where he would cajole with vendors, sample wares, give coins to beggars who now look for him, and visit with the Amish man who makes superb fruit wines.

I entered the dentist’s office and the waiting room was empty again. The receptionist stopped reading her newspaper and gave me a form to fill out, which I mostly understood, checking “no” by each box that seemed to ask if I had medical problems or was allergic to anything.

I suddenly realized that the reception area and its bathroom seemed to be all that there was – no hallway to offices of dentist and hygienists, no consultation rooms. Just then a narrow door that I had thought was a closet off to the side and behind the reception station opened. There was the dentist, a pleasant-looking 40-ish man wearing a waiter’s jacket.

We shook hands as was customary and I followed him back to what must have been a store at one time. The spacious room held a dentist chair and a few pieces of dental equipment in the far corner. The receptionist came along. I sat in the chair and was glad to notice advanced degree diplomas from Universidad de Costa Rica on the wall.

Unfortunately, this dentist did not speak English. I repeated “routine cleaning” a few times, to no avail. Then I said, lavanderia de las ropas! Lavador para los carros! Laundromat and car wash he understood, but still seemed perplexed until I repeated the phrases while knocking on my teeth. If this dentist cannot understand charades and direct references, how good could he be at cleaning teeth and later repairing two chips?

Finally ready for action, he lowered the chair until I was almost standing on my head. He tore two paper towels from a roll and tucked one under my chin and handed me the other. He worked on my teeth for an hour and a half and the receptionist stood by, inches away, never moving. The phone never rang and no one else came in. I memorized every inverted word on the diplomas, just in case anything went wrong. The dentist was very gentle and spoke quietly; he wore latex gloves and his tools were sterilized. This was a good thing as the basic tools were all that he had, other than the spit thing like my childhood dentist had half a century ago.

When done he gave me a small hand mirror to approve of his work – a job well done. We shook hands again and I thanked him for putting me upright. I made an appointment for Pecos to have a cleaning next week and another for myself for repair of the two chips/fracturas.

I shopped leisurely for an hour, dined at a soda, and caught up with Pecos at the bus station for the trip home. He carried a knapsack and two large bags loaded with fruits and vegetables, and just one bag of candy.

How was the dentist, did everything seem modern and clean, was it like in the States? Pecos asked. You’re going to love it, I told him. He’ll at least appreciate the price, which was $30. 

Mysterious Stone Balls

We’ve now seen perfectly round stone balls at least a meter in diameter at four locations – at the National Museum in San Jose, in front of a church in a nearby village, near the cathedral on the main square of San Isidro de El General, and at the remote indigenous village of Boruca.

These stone spheres are a mystery of Costa Rica. More than 300 have been found to date, ranging in size from a few centimeters to over two meters in diameter, and weighing up to 16 tons. The stones are believed to have been hand-carved between 200 BC and 1500 AD and are shaped as geometrically-perfect spheres.

I read that the stones are formed from a unique type of granite found in one specific area here in the Talamanca Mountains. They were first discovered in the southwest corner of Costa Rica, more than 50 miles away from the quarry, in the 1930s when the United Fruit Company began clearing the dense jungle for banana plantations. Workmen bulldozed many and blew others apart with dynamite to see if gold or other treasures were hidden inside, before authorities intervened. Archaeological excavations undertaken at sites with stone balls in the 1950s found them to be associated with pottery and other materials typical of the Pre-Columbian cultures of southern Costa Rica.

The stone balls were moved distances of over 300 kilometers north in ancient times, as well as being relocated in recent decades for display throughout the country. Stratigraphy is used for dating but since the carved stones are no longer in their original locations, exact dating has been impossible. Similar stone balls have been found on an island off the coast of Chile.
Numerous myths surround the stones, such as they came from Atlantis. Erich Von Daniken wrote about them in Chariots of the Gods and presumed that they were extraterrestrial. Some local legends state that the native inhabitants had access to a potion able to soften the rock. Another claim is that at the center of each sphere is a single coffee bean or nugget of gold. Interesting, especially since coffee beans are known here as los oros de grano, or grains of gold. 

Babies Everywhere

Population explosion is upon Costa Rica. Unlike our aging little Oregon town where a newborn is a rarity and a community-wide informational event, here babies are seen everywhere we go. Evidence of this explosion is clear in mainstream advertising where TV and billboard ads feature various infant formulas and even pregnant bellies being rubbed with the best lotions to avoid stretch marks.

Strollers are rarely seen – due to either persistent poverty, most sidewalks either crumbling away or having bottomless pits, or both. Mothers and fathers carry their infants everywhere they go, tucking them in close under chin. No hand-held infant seats for this population; no hauling babies around in a contraption that looks like an oversized purse or putting them atop grocery carts. Both parents cuddle their babies close at all times and mothers nurse them openly in restaurants, parks and while shopping. Older children stop what they’re doing to frequently kiss or sing to an infant sibling. Grandmothers and grandfathers dote on their infant grandchildren, often walking with an arm around their daughter-mother or son-father. I cannot recall hearing a Costa Rican baby cry.

Costa Ricans have a strong sense of family and each moment with a baby is cherished. Surely constant close physical contact until babies are at least a year and a half old has enriched this sense of belonging.

Our caretaker Marcos and his wife Maria have a new baby boy. Marcos proudly carries updated pictures of his son in a plastic ziplock baggie that he keeps in his rubber boot. We stopped by the other day and Maria and her 12-year-old niece and nephew were there. Maria held her baby close and coo’ed to him the whole time we talked, while the older children leaned in and repeatedly kissed the baby’s forehead and sang to him. Such open affection in front of strangers by older children for baby cousins is uncommon up North, and that’s a shame. 

Los Toros, Tranquilo

At the Wheeler County Fair in Oregon, real cowboys ride fearsome, stomping, raging bulls as the crowd cheers wildly. In Costa Rica, los toros – like the people – are more on the calm side.

We’d been looking forward to the annual festival civica and bullfight at La Suiza, a neighboring village named for its Switzerland-like setting. The brakeless jeep has not yet had its brakes fixed and its clutch also no longer works. No problemo, The Kid urged us to borrow it, knowing how excited we were to see a real Central American bullfight.

We left in the late afternoon and traveled in first gear the entire way, coasting on the down slopes. Once we arrived at La Suiza, we parked and walked downhill on a narrow dirt lane between two houses. We came to the festival grounds, which consisted of a concrete community hall with kitchen and a small arena tightly edged with upright sheets of rusty metal roofing. A soccer game was in full swing on a well-maintained field far below. A crowd of Ticos sat at the edge of a cliff overlooking the field, many perched at the edge as they sat on short pieces of planks that they carried to the site – much as our county rodeo-goers carry soft cushions.

We watched the soccer match for an hour. The game was halted for a few minutes each time that the ball was inadvertently kicked over a steep slope at the far edge of the field. Several teams were lined up to play and soccer would continue until it was too dark to see.

We sampled the various foods that were cooked over open fires in the kitchen – each full plate costing about one dollar – fried chicken, pork stew or tamales, all served with yucca root, boiled bananas, cabbage salad and a small plate of acidos, a sweet citrus fruit that tastes like a lemon-lime touched with perfume. At home we season with acidos at nearly every meal.

A beer/liquor booth was in full swing, planks serving as a makeshift bar. Cases and cases of Imperial beer were stacked high; liquor bottles were lined up on the ground. Pecos ordered rum and asked for ice, drawing much attention for ruining a good shot of liquor this unusual way.

An ambulance arrived from San Isidro to stand by. Two coffee trucks loaded with brahaman bulls arrived shortly thereafter and several men helped unload them as the truck backed up to a ramped corral edging the bullfight arena. The bulls stomped and bawled as they were unloaded. None of them had horns and all were rather small and a few were downright skinny. A few young men donned various pieces of arena attire – red matador shirts, chaps, sombreros or cowboy hats – and finally it was time for the bullfight!

A piece of metal roofing was pulled away to serve as an entrance. We bought our tickets (equivalent $2), received stamps on our arms for the event, and entered. Inside, the small arena was ringed with planks and seating curved on a steep hill around half of it. Four levels of dirt steps a foot or two wide held rough-planked seats set on short posts. We chose precarious seating on the highest level, about 30 feet up. Music blasted from the announcer’s wooden platform where he kept up a rapid dialogue about the event and its sponsors.

The announcer called for audience members to come down and join the line-up of contestants. The crowd cheered each time a Tico climbed down to the arena. The line-up resembled what it was, an impromptu gathering of would-be cowboys, some of whom had stayed at the beer booth too long.

Just like at our county fair, the first bull entered a small wooden stall and a rider perched above it. The bull snorted and jumped, banging the wood gate as it tried to break its way out. Several men held onto it with ropes and suddenly the rider nodded his head, jumped down on the bull’s back, the gate swung open and this angry, bucking animal broke loose and high-kicked its way across the arena before tossing the rider in the dirt.

The crowd went wild and the announcer was yelling loudly, clearly beside himself at this extravaganza of performance. Two young men holding red flags ran out and taunted the bull, which ran wildly at them as the flags swung upward and the men scattered. This fearsome bull crashed into the planks that walled the arena and shook its head wildly while running frantically back and forth. Finally the bull calmed down and stood in place. Two men on horseback entered the arena, looped ropes in hand, and tried to rope it a dozen times before one of the loops finally fell over the bull’s head and it was pulled from the arena.

This would be a great event! The crowd was primed and ready for the next bull.

The next bull, however, did not intend to leave its stall. This animal laid down on the dirt, stuck its head out from under the wooden gate and quietly moo-ed to the crowd. Several men poked it and struck it but it would not get up. They finally gave up and shoved another bull into another gated stall. The same thing happened. Back and forth they went, trying to get one or the other to get angry, rise and charge out of the stall. Finally one of the bulls stood up and snorted a little. A rider leaped on its back, the gate swung open, and the bull quietly walked out to the center of the ring. No amount of prodding would get him to jump and buck. It seemed that the first bull was the only one with energy. The rest of the ‘bullfights’ consisted mostly of young men running and charging the animals that did enter the ring, rather than the other way around.

To add more excitement, bulls were let loose one at a time into the arena and a small group of men would chase the animal and push it against the wall, where one of them would jump on its back for a short ride in the arena before falling off or having the animal come to a calm stop.

The crowd loved these performances. Pecos decided the beer booth was more interesting, where even over here several persons knew who we are and attempted conversation with him. I watched the arena antics for another hour but no real bull-riding action took place. Back at home a little later, we could hear the bass beat of the DJ in the dance hall at La Suiza, the sound carrying the distance of a few miles to our village. The festival civica would last well into the night.

I have a new appreciation for the county fair of Wheeler County, Oregon. This true West is where tough cowboys – not gentle coffee farmers – courageously ride untamed bulls and put on an exciting, high-flying, dust-biting show. 