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. 