We have two beautiful mango trees growing near our house, gifts from Jesus, the ancient man who is our closest neighbor. We stopped by his place to say hello, but for once he didn’t come out as we approached on the road.
Later villagers told us that he is in a place for the elderly, several kilometers away, as his legs have given out. Aside from missing the primitive home he’s lived in for decades, Jesus may have found that he enjoys being around people, which is something he didn’t have all that often before.
Whenever we’d walk by, he’d rush out and talk nonstop at his fence for several minutes, keeping up a steady stream of solo conversation, all in Spanish as we nodded our heads and tried to insert a word here and there. There is no certainty to Jesus’s return home. We hope he is content.
Neighbor
Arrival
A few days ago we arrived safely at the little village of Aguas Buenas, and another season in Costa Rica has begun for us! We are so happy to be here and in many ways it seems as if we’d never left. It doesn’t take long to fall into the gentle rhythm of this beautiful place.
Arriving at the Santa Maria International Airport after the overnight flight, we quickly took a taxi across San Jose –winding through narrow, tin-shacked alleys – to the main bus station. What luck! A bus would leave for San Isidro de El General, three hours away, in 20 minutes.
As we neared San Isidro, workers with heavy equipment were busy clearing away a mudslide that had covered the highway. A long line of vehicles was stopped in both directions. Looking up from our bus windows, the mountainside had been scraped clean and uprooted trees were strewn here and there, balancing precariously on the bare slopes. It was windy and we watched as branches blew and uprooted trees shifted position on the steep mountainside high above us. We were thankful when 20 minutes later we were again on our way.
The vehicle of my son, The Kid, had been left in San Isidro for us. We stopped only to purchase a few groceries and continued on our way. As we wound our way up the mountains to the village, people called out greetings as we passed: Bienvenido! Welcome! We marveled at new blacktop that now covered a short but previously-treacherous graveled stretch of road and admired the many flowers in bloom.
At last, we arrived at our finca!
Our caretaker Marcos has planted a vegetable garden and our fruit trees. All are thriving. He and his wife Maria planted a bed of two dozen roses, now in full bloom, as a housewarming present for us. The herbs I planted last year have grown more in one season than my several-year perennials in Oregon.
Iridescent green and blue hummingbirds stay busy in our flower beds all day. Toucans, as yet unseen, whistle in our trees in the afternoons. Hawks circle overhead calling “scree” in long, slow notes and at night an owl near the house calls “wah-wooh” over and over. About mid-day thin clouds slowly roll in over the slopes above us and engulf our mountainside, giving a gentle haze to the vista for an hour or two.
Construction on our new home had been delayed due to torrential rains in recent months, but no matter, it is livable and we can work around the final construction. This lovely place is mango-colored with terra-cotta tile inside and out on our outside living room/patio, and has more windows than walls – all jalousied and arched at the top like the doors. Decorative glass double-doors swing out from kitchen and living room areas to the patio. We have indoor plumbing and- unlike most Tico houses - hot water in the shower.
The roof rises to 15-ft and is suspended on posts about two feet above the walls, where wrought iron scrolls edge the entire house. They remind me of waves or musical scales, just right for La Musica de la Montana. We had expected only a sink in the kitchen, but workers had also built makeshift counters and covered them with slabs of cement, perfectly suitable for now.
During the day, our doors swing wide and we live in our open-air house. At night, we close the doors and windows tight, more for an illusion of safety than anything else, as the area above the walls is unfinished and open to creatures that slither, crawl or climb the walls or the wood posts that support our patio.
We’d just gone to bed on our first night here, when suddenly a noise came from under the sink. Pecos grabbed his machete kept next to the bed and, most fearsome in his underwear and skinny legs, took a few hesitant steps in that direction. I aimed the flashlight toward the kitchen. Something was thrashing inside the plastic bag that held other bags, knocking it around on the floor as it tried to kick its way out.
Pecos tiptoed closer, telling me to stay back as he brandished his machete. I edged toward the door and estimated how many jumps it would take for me to open it and leap out. Suddenly a moth the size of a hummingbird flew up from the bag and fluttered around the kitchen. Its patterned brown wings whooshed like paper as we shoo-ed it outside.
Having braved the wilds on our first night here, each evening since has become much less worrisome. In a week or two, or perhaps four or five, our casa will be enclosed and we will sleep snugly and securely.