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. 

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. 