Costa Rica

Entry 16

     Welcome to Costa Rica! Where Pura Vida isn’t just a tourist saying, a bunch of people on the street corner constitutes a bus stop, or a fight, or maybe both. But I’m ahead of myself.

Let’s start in Panama City, where I was met by Alejandro Lorenzo, a friend of my dad’s. Stepping outside Panamanian Customs, the heat hit my like a brick wall. You think Houston is hot, try 90 degrees and 99 percent humidity year round. We drove from the airport, through the new part of town, where skyscrapers were being built like crazy (the economy grew 10% last year). We passed the ruins of “Panama Viejo” and into the old part of the city. I dropped off my bags and we went to the Panama Canal. I was surprised at the lack of white tourists, everywhere I’ve been, except China, has throngs of obese white people everywhere, but I only saw Central Americans. On the observation platform, I was amazed at how quickly the locks drained; you could literally see the water level moving down. With my Spanish slowly coming back to me, we made our way to the museum and toured the three levels before returning to the car. After spending an hour and a half in traffic, we finally made it out to the Panamanian equivalent of a ‘road to nowhere’. With all the gravel that had been excavated for the canal, a road had been built to a small island in the middle of the sea. After watching a beautiful sunset over the water, we walked along the seawall where vendors hawked their wares and beggars did anything to make themselves stand out and get that nickel.

            Back at the hostel, after saying goodbye to Alejandro and his two sons, I felt a rush of memories from the different hostels I’d stayed in over the past 6 months. I felt exhilarated and ready, but I also felt anxious. This time it would be different. I wouldn’t be traveling with friends, I wouldn’t speak the language, and I didn’t even know where I was going to stay or what my work was going to be. I would be staying in Costa Rica for almost twice as long as I was in London for. I didn’t really know anything about the country expect that I was born there almost 20 years ago and I felt a deep connection with the place. Laying there in the unusually quiet hostel, on top of the sheets because the AC refused to cool the hot, humid, dirty air, the enormity of the next four months slowly dawned on me. Whoops, too late. I barely slept at all that night.

            A puddle jumper to San Jose the next morning and I was greeted at the airport by a man holding a laminated card with ‘Kieran Skelly’ boldly printed on it. Driving through the city, listening to driver tell me how much San Jose had changed the last few years and hearing the surprise in his voice when I told him I was born here and left 12 years ago, I realized I didn’t remember anything about it. I wish I could’ve pointed out all the new buildings that had gone up and reminisced about how I used to play soccer where that strip mall was, but I didn’t remember where I had played soccer, or even if I did.

            I eagerly walked into the Aerial Tram office in San Jose and was whisked upstairs to meet with Eugenia, the owner. She asked if I would rather have the conversation in Spanish or English. Conscience of my dad’s strong advice to speak Spanish every opportunity I got, and feeling pretty good about my Spanish thus far, I happily told her to speak Spanish. Whoops. I only managed to catch about a word a sentence, and I quickly learned how to anticipate a joke coming and smile, and then break into a chuckle and nod my head and say “si”. Unfortunately this was the conversation on what I would be working as over the next four months (or at least I think it was) and all the important stuff like that. Too embarrassed to ask her to switch the Spanish, I left her office in a daze, just knowing that someone would pick me up at my house tomorrow morning at 6:10.

            I arrived at Dona Anna’s house, where I was shown my room and a quick tour of the house before being hurried out the door by Dona Anna and hoping on a bus to San Jose central. We walked around the market that was bustling with people and she gave me a quick tour of the city and told me which bus to take home after work and how to get there from the office.

            The next morning, after waking up every hour out of nervousness (I think), I awoke to a banging at my door at 5:00am and a soft voice saying “Kevin, Kevin”. This must be a dream I thought, where in the world am I? After finding my surrounding, I realized this woman was crazy; I had over an hour until being picked up and she was already waking me up. Grumbling, I got out of bed and started to dress and then I heard the voice again, “Kevin, el muchacho esta aqui.” Ohh.. 5:10, not 6:10. My Spanish was worse than I thought. I hurried out to the car and an hour and a half later, I arrived at the tram. The first day was great; I was taken on every tour there was, just to familiarize myself with the park. Zip lines, canopy tours, nature walks, and gondola rides; what a perfect job. In the minibus for the hour drive back to San Jose, I realized how perilous the drive was and doubted I would still be around to do it in 4 months. On a curve barely 1km after the park, the road widened just slightly, enough for the 18 wheeler in front of us to pull over a few feet. Harvi, the driver, dropped it a gear and slammed on the accelerator, hurling us towards the newly formed hole in the road. Exactly halfway past the 18 wheeler, another 18 wheeler overflowing with pineapples came around the corner in the opposite direction and thundered past us, barely a foot from us. I jumped; no one in the car flinched.

            Twenty minutes later, in the cloud forest in heavy fog, our driver was growing restless; we had been stuck behind dump truck for ten minutes that was going so slow it seemed like it would break down any second. The dump truck turned on its left blinker, signaling it was ok to pass, and once again Harvi dropped a gear and jerked the steering wheel to the left, fighting against the steep incline we began to slowly pull past the truck. When we were almost past the truck, another 18 wheeler emerged out of the heavy fog a few hundred meters in front of us. Harvi will the motor to go faster for a split second, but realized we’d never make it. He slammed on the brakes, sending me and everyone else flying off their seats onto the floor, and pulled behind the truck once again a half second before the 18 wheeler barreled past us.

            I quickly settled into a routine; wake up at 4:30 am, get to the tram at 6:30 and leave at 6 pm (if we were lucky). Walk the two kilometers through downtown San Jose to the bus stop, buy a packet of Chicky’s cookies, and pay the 80 cents for a direct bus that stopped right outside my house. I would eat, and then go straight to bed. The bus going by my house was great, because I could hop off the bus and walk straight into the house. But it also meant that every bus that I wasn’t on thundered past my house, literally shaking the house. It wasn’t just buses, but 18 wheelers, ambulances, and throngs of cars. A new noise I learned to recognize is the horrific sound of an 18 wheeler engine braking. Thankfully it’s banned in every populated part of the US, so most people will never have the opportunity to experience this dreadful noise, but my house, located at the bottom of a hill, was a prime target for it. It is impossible to sleep without ear plugs, and even then you are guaranteed at least one early alarm clock a night.

            After a great first day, things quickly went downhill. There were no more zip lines or gondola rides. I was stuck behind a desk selling overpriced photos to American tourists. Although I got to The Tram at 6:30, I wouldn’t start selling photos until 11:30 so for five hours I sat in my black, cast iron chair and stared out into nothing. I learned the true meaning of boredom. Not to mention all the tourists spoke English, so I wasn’t learning any Spanish, just new ways of lying to retired couples from Oklahoma how I was “living the life” in this beautiful country. No pay, no Spanish, no free time, and no sleep. By the fifth day, I already exhausted and broken down. Calling my parents for the first time, I broke down in tears in the middle of La Plaza de Cultura. The only thing stopping me from asking them to change my plane ticket to the next flight home was knowing they would never allow it. After promising to email some friends, but warning it would take time, I begrudgingly said goodbye and walked to the bus station. Things got a little better from there, I started taking a newspaper and dictionary to work, I snuck away and hung out with the maintenance crew. But I still wasn’t learning much Spanish though and hated waking up at 4:30 every morning. I felt like an indentured servant, I was working for no pay, and didn’t have time to look for any other job. On the rare days that I did have an internet connection, I searched endlessly for Spanish emersion programs, and volunteer opportunities. All of them either involved midnight beach patrols with high school sophomores from America who thought they could change the world by helping a baby turtle make it past the surf or $20 an hour Spanish lessons, something I couldn’t afford.

            On my days off everything almost seemed worth it. I would go to the bus station with my backpack that contained just a change of clothes and a swim suit, and get on which ever bus appealed to me. Walking along a deserted beach in Jaco and scaling treacherous cliffs with sheer drops into the pounding surf. I passed tents that looked more like people were living there than camping. I briefly thought of buying a tent and setting up camp right next to them and traveling from beach to abandoned beach, living off coconuts and fish. I fought off the urge and bought a heaping platter of rice& beans (of course), fish, shrimp, and oysters for $4 and then a return ticket to San Jose for $2.

            Or my trip to the Orosi River Valley, arguably the most beautiful part of Costa Rica, which is saying a lot. Getting off the bus I walked into a house that had the sign “Tourist” and wandered around the house until I found a lady in their bedroom reading a book. They didn’t know anything I could in the 4 hours of daylight left, but the lady’s son offered to go on a hike with me the next morning and show me the surrounding mountain, for free. I walked along the main road until I found a restaurant where I had a delicious meal and arranged for his “cousin” of a taxi driver to take me on a tour of the valley the next day.

            The next morning I met fifteen year old Goronzi at 8 am and hiked through barely used trails to some of the most beautiful waterfalls and “pozas” (swimming well). We then hiked up to an abandoned house that had stunning views of the surrounding valley and watched as storm clouds swirled around the Iscazu Volcano. We hiked down the mountain through a coffee plantation where Goronzi seemed to know every worker and they explained to me how their day started at 5 am and ended at 1 pm with a $15 paycheck. We ended up at Goronzi’s grandparents house where I was treated to a great breakfast and a tour of their property. Later I went to the same restaurant as the day before where I met Louis the taxi driver who seemed to know everything about the local countryside.

            The next day I returned to work and informed my boss I would be leaving in 5 days on Feb. 3^rd, exactly a month after I started.

            I bought my plane ticket to my next destination that night.