It starts as a whisper. A vague allusion to what is to come. Tracks multiply down the beach. Turtles, the solitaries or more affectionately termed crazy ones, began wandering slowly up the beach at odd hours of the day. Great hulking shapes occupy the sand in the heat of noon, driven by the primal need to lay. The Arrivada, the Arrival, is here.
Four nights into our stay, halfway through the dry season, when the beach and streets remain largely unpopulated and the shadows are scared away by the suffocating blanket of the sun, we witness one of nature's many unexplained miracles. The Arrivada occurs roughly once a month during the wet season, between the months of June and December, and on average once every month and a half to two months during the dry season. Hundreds upon hundreds of turtles migrate to the beach at the same time to lay eggs. Our work hours change from four hour shifts to unending eight hour shifts. We are tided through the great waves of turtles by bottomless cups of dark Costa Rican coffee, hold the milk and sugar. Sleep comes to us in fits during the day or the brief two hour breaks that usually take place around midnight. There is truly no rest for the weary.
The scene is chaotic, quiet, beatific. The bright white lights of poachers sweep over us, attracting the turtles and there valuable cargo. There are literally thousands of turtles, of slow moving mounds illuminated in the stark brightness. Large, mobile rocks that occupy or once sandy beach. Egg poaching is one of the main sources of income in Ostional. Legally, locals are allowed to poach the eggs for the first 36 hours of the Arrivada. Logically I can understand this, if the people don't take them, most of the nests are destroyed by dogs, vultures, or one of the other thousands of turtles that scatter themselves in a futile search for an area onoccupied beach. But my heart still goes out to the turtles. They never even had a chance. How could they ever make it against such incredible odds, battling people, animals, birds, even the heat. Sweat slides down my cheek. My skin weeps.
Our group of three continues down the beach, passing the markers we set up that afternoon. One meter, two meters, three meters. Turtles, turtles, turtles. Finally, our group leader Eric alights upon a huge Olive Ridley near the waves.
"This lovely old lady right here, she's the one for us." Eric approached the turtle with his usual unrestrained humor and enthusiasm, until he stopped short behind the her. We moved in closer behind him, timidly, cautious of anything that would cause our normally buoyant friend to literally stop in his tracks.
"That is definitely a shark bite."
The whole left backside of the turtle was missing. Pale, pulsating turtle flesh undulated slowly with the phantom motion of active muscles underneath a jaggedly broken shell, edges sharp and terrible. My first and only thought, this is insane. I gripped the clipboard tightly and began to write down observations, but I could hardly see pass the missing quarter of the turtle. We went through the motions, watching the turtle struggle to dig a nest with one flipper, recording length and width, trying not to stare at the missing limb. As though it would be impolite for us to fixate upon it, like someone with a physical disfiguration that you are intensely curious about but you don't want to point out or talk about out of courtesy for their feelings.
After counting a total of 131 eggs, a record for my stay in Ostional, we moved on. Slipping into the early hours of morning, disappearing with the darkness, the turtles came and went crawling over each other and running into us with little more warning than a soft grunt, titanic collisions that barely rocked the sand. Although their journey was pointless, their labor fruitless, they continued on the beach and the world kept on turning. With all the potential those three nights held, the world kept on moving and nothing really changed. The tracks were washed away by the tide.
Wednesday, April 28
Tuesday, April 27
First Night Out
¨What the hell are we even looking for?¨
It became a sort of mantra of our first night of patrol. The newcomers, six volunteers including myself, followed obediently behind our respective group leaders as we trudged blindly in different directions along the beach. I was accompanied by the girls I shared a dorm with whom I would later call friends but now thought of as cultured and worldly strangers who had experienced much more of the world than I. We newbies had arrived in Ostional a mere four hours ago. It was the evening of the sixth of April. It was hot. It was muggy. There were thousands of bugs. It was fantastic.
With the excitement that can only be generated by doing something for the first time, the kind of nervous twist of the stomach that leaves one feeling slightly winded and lightheaded, we donned our red cellophane wrapped headlamps and hit the sand: literally. Having never ventured on the beach before this moment, I was quickly lured into a false sense of security by the seemingly flat ground, but was even more rapidly overtaken by the various rocks and branches that sent all five feet and ten inches of me sprawling in the sand. As I righted myself, I looked up to find that my group had, thankfully, stopped a few feet in front of me. It appeared that they were all observing, with varying degrees of interest, what appeared to be the path of a large tree that had been dragged from the water up the beach. A large tree with...flippers? My heart leapt in amazement, they were turtle tracks! As I moved to follow our leader, Jami, up the beach she turned and flashed her light quickly at me as though she was shaking her head. I could only guess that meant stay put. I might as well, I would probably just trip over the turtle if I tried to follow her.
We waited as we watched Jami move slowly down the top part of the beach, her small red light the only thing we could see in the thick oily blackness of the humid, moonless night. I took a few moments to observe my surroundings and found myself dwarfed by the immensity of the world. The vast expanse of starlit sky stretched above us. The light from the stars dripped and melted in the humid air and briefly, lighted the white crests of the waves as they rolled in on themselves, swallowing the dark secrets of the heavens in its unknowable depths. I was reminded suddenly of a saying I had read or heard somewhere. It had something to do with the fact that humans don´t have wings to explore the heavens because they would never want to come down to earth again. I held it to be true in that one endless moment, unable to travel any farther, at the edge of the world, restrained only because of my physical form. Because I was human and could not leave the ground without being lost to the mysteries of the stars or the ocean. Overwhelmed, I looked down. Small spots of glowing sand, which I later learned was called bio luminescence, drew my thoughts immediately from the sky to the ground and I rubbed my big toe in it to see the sand spark and jump around my feet. I gasped and jumped backward. Looking up, my attention was caught by the quick flash of a red headlamp about 100 yards down the beach. Red, black, red, black. Jami had found the turtle.
It was incredible. The turtle was making the bed when we found it. It reminded me of some great sea faring dinosaur, an ancient, lost being that had emerged from the depths of the ocean and sat here before me, more real than I could have imagined. It was, by all accounts, an alien creature. This turtle also just so happened to be one of the biggest Olive Ridley turtles I would see throughout my stay there. It measured some 80 centimeters across and 75 centimeters long. Jami worked her way purposefully, gently, around the turtle, checking for blemishes or scars. Then she did the unthinkable, she pulled out two more pairs of gloves and handed them to the two new volunteers in the group, Kirsty and myself. We held the gloves, completely dumbfounded. What exactly did she want us to do? She looked up at us and laughed.
¨Don´t just stand there put the gloves on and touch the turtle! But don´t tell anyone I let you, it´s not really allowed.¨
I moved in a trance to kneel in the sand by the huge beast and stretched out my gloved hand tentatively to lay one finger, then my entire palm, on the hard shell of the turtle.Completely absorbed, I turned my red light to focus directly on the head of the turtle. She breathed deeply through her nose, and then she opened her eye. I stared directly into the huge dark, brown pools of the turtles eye and knew then that there was a story there I could never understand, a depth I could never discover. This turtle was a superbeing. She had dragged herself out of the water and yards up the beach to lay eggs. To continue her race. She was magnificent. I am not usually one to be caught up in the miracle of life sort of phenomenon, but this turtle deserved some serious respect. She was a fighter and I liked that about her, and all the turtles I saw after her. They all commanded the same respect, all carried the same mystery of the struggle of survival, of simply continuing. Here, I was the alien. I was the foreigner that was allowed a small glimpse into a different world, and I was afforded some small acceptance by the people who lived in accordance to the rules of this place. For the time being, I was welcome.
My hand moved in circles across her shell and then down to her flipper and her neck. The soft flesh of her unprotected body was warm and malleable beneath my fingers. I petted her flipper lovingly and knew in my core that the best thing to do would be to let her be. I took off my glove and sat in the sand to help count the eggs.
¨You know the eggs won´t survive,¨ Jami said as she wiped iodine onto the flipper of the turtle where she would then tag it, ¨It´s too hot for the eggs to develop. They pretty much just rot in the heat.¨
My jaw dropped. The turtle had done all of this work for nothing? I had no response for this unwanted revelation and trained my eye back to the eggs. One, two. One, two, three on the clicker. Counting the tiny lives that would never be.
We had been walking the beach since seven o´clock and it was now nearing 11. We wiped sweat from our brow and headed back to the station, tired and ready for sleep. As I took off my shoes and collapsed hot and uncomfortable into bed, I thought of the beach we had left behind us, of the secrets of life and death, of inevitability. Somehow these thoughts were drowned out by the crashing of waves that sent me drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep. Outside more turtles continued there doomed march up the sand before they too were dragged out, past knowing, into the waves. Rocking back and forth in ignorant bliss.
It became a sort of mantra of our first night of patrol. The newcomers, six volunteers including myself, followed obediently behind our respective group leaders as we trudged blindly in different directions along the beach. I was accompanied by the girls I shared a dorm with whom I would later call friends but now thought of as cultured and worldly strangers who had experienced much more of the world than I. We newbies had arrived in Ostional a mere four hours ago. It was the evening of the sixth of April. It was hot. It was muggy. There were thousands of bugs. It was fantastic.
With the excitement that can only be generated by doing something for the first time, the kind of nervous twist of the stomach that leaves one feeling slightly winded and lightheaded, we donned our red cellophane wrapped headlamps and hit the sand: literally. Having never ventured on the beach before this moment, I was quickly lured into a false sense of security by the seemingly flat ground, but was even more rapidly overtaken by the various rocks and branches that sent all five feet and ten inches of me sprawling in the sand. As I righted myself, I looked up to find that my group had, thankfully, stopped a few feet in front of me. It appeared that they were all observing, with varying degrees of interest, what appeared to be the path of a large tree that had been dragged from the water up the beach. A large tree with...flippers? My heart leapt in amazement, they were turtle tracks! As I moved to follow our leader, Jami, up the beach she turned and flashed her light quickly at me as though she was shaking her head. I could only guess that meant stay put. I might as well, I would probably just trip over the turtle if I tried to follow her.
We waited as we watched Jami move slowly down the top part of the beach, her small red light the only thing we could see in the thick oily blackness of the humid, moonless night. I took a few moments to observe my surroundings and found myself dwarfed by the immensity of the world. The vast expanse of starlit sky stretched above us. The light from the stars dripped and melted in the humid air and briefly, lighted the white crests of the waves as they rolled in on themselves, swallowing the dark secrets of the heavens in its unknowable depths. I was reminded suddenly of a saying I had read or heard somewhere. It had something to do with the fact that humans don´t have wings to explore the heavens because they would never want to come down to earth again. I held it to be true in that one endless moment, unable to travel any farther, at the edge of the world, restrained only because of my physical form. Because I was human and could not leave the ground without being lost to the mysteries of the stars or the ocean. Overwhelmed, I looked down. Small spots of glowing sand, which I later learned was called bio luminescence, drew my thoughts immediately from the sky to the ground and I rubbed my big toe in it to see the sand spark and jump around my feet. I gasped and jumped backward. Looking up, my attention was caught by the quick flash of a red headlamp about 100 yards down the beach. Red, black, red, black. Jami had found the turtle.
It was incredible. The turtle was making the bed when we found it. It reminded me of some great sea faring dinosaur, an ancient, lost being that had emerged from the depths of the ocean and sat here before me, more real than I could have imagined. It was, by all accounts, an alien creature. This turtle also just so happened to be one of the biggest Olive Ridley turtles I would see throughout my stay there. It measured some 80 centimeters across and 75 centimeters long. Jami worked her way purposefully, gently, around the turtle, checking for blemishes or scars. Then she did the unthinkable, she pulled out two more pairs of gloves and handed them to the two new volunteers in the group, Kirsty and myself. We held the gloves, completely dumbfounded. What exactly did she want us to do? She looked up at us and laughed.
¨Don´t just stand there put the gloves on and touch the turtle! But don´t tell anyone I let you, it´s not really allowed.¨
I moved in a trance to kneel in the sand by the huge beast and stretched out my gloved hand tentatively to lay one finger, then my entire palm, on the hard shell of the turtle.Completely absorbed, I turned my red light to focus directly on the head of the turtle. She breathed deeply through her nose, and then she opened her eye. I stared directly into the huge dark, brown pools of the turtles eye and knew then that there was a story there I could never understand, a depth I could never discover. This turtle was a superbeing. She had dragged herself out of the water and yards up the beach to lay eggs. To continue her race. She was magnificent. I am not usually one to be caught up in the miracle of life sort of phenomenon, but this turtle deserved some serious respect. She was a fighter and I liked that about her, and all the turtles I saw after her. They all commanded the same respect, all carried the same mystery of the struggle of survival, of simply continuing. Here, I was the alien. I was the foreigner that was allowed a small glimpse into a different world, and I was afforded some small acceptance by the people who lived in accordance to the rules of this place. For the time being, I was welcome.
My hand moved in circles across her shell and then down to her flipper and her neck. The soft flesh of her unprotected body was warm and malleable beneath my fingers. I petted her flipper lovingly and knew in my core that the best thing to do would be to let her be. I took off my glove and sat in the sand to help count the eggs.
¨You know the eggs won´t survive,¨ Jami said as she wiped iodine onto the flipper of the turtle where she would then tag it, ¨It´s too hot for the eggs to develop. They pretty much just rot in the heat.¨
My jaw dropped. The turtle had done all of this work for nothing? I had no response for this unwanted revelation and trained my eye back to the eggs. One, two. One, two, three on the clicker. Counting the tiny lives that would never be.
We had been walking the beach since seven o´clock and it was now nearing 11. We wiped sweat from our brow and headed back to the station, tired and ready for sleep. As I took off my shoes and collapsed hot and uncomfortable into bed, I thought of the beach we had left behind us, of the secrets of life and death, of inevitability. Somehow these thoughts were drowned out by the crashing of waves that sent me drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep. Outside more turtles continued there doomed march up the sand before they too were dragged out, past knowing, into the waves. Rocking back and forth in ignorant bliss.
Monday, April 26
Overview of Ostional
There are places in the world that exist without. They exist outside of the expected or the delegated. These places exist outside of time and reality. Ostional is one of these places. Throughout my stay there I found myself removing myself from the moment to a person some 10 years younger, or older, caught ageless and changeless in the timelessness and quiet restfulness of the tiny ocean front town.
The station, this is what everyone called the dorms where we stayed, is located five feet from the black sand of Ostional beach. The only relief from the stale heat is to be found in the brief ocean breeze that carries with it the smell of dry, cooked sand and coats our nasal passages with a thin film of salt that stays with us and occasionally burns the throat. It is too hot to sleep during the day and most of us could barely find the energy or the will to drag ourselves to the ocean. Drowning in our sweat and smelling of a pungent mixture of bug repellant and sunscreen, we gravitated toward the waves with the inevitable journey of magnets, unable to deny the irresistable pull of the wet slap of the great, dark pool of the pacific ocean: caught in the riptide created by the heat.
Ostional beach is surrounded by a dry rainforest. The roots of drooping mango trees are exposed by any threat of a wind as the dry dirt is ripped from the earth and thrown toward the heavens, leaving the ground vulnerable and new. Ripe fruits fall from exotic trees into the middle of the road, where, if left unattended, they begin to rot, filling the air with the sticky, sweet smell of delicious decay. Starved dogs chase purple and orange crabs crookedly across the streets, under chairs, and over the feet of the people that sit, sweating, languid and wet in whatever shade there is to be had. Trees that appear dead and dry burst forth into riotous shades of red and pink at the ends of the sharp angles of branches, much like Ostional itself. What may appear as lifeless and stark is actually painfully brilliant and beautiful.
For most of the permanent residents of Ostional, and for the volunteers as well, work doesn´t start until the sun is drowned by the ocean and the cicadas serenade the day one final time with a loud and obnoxious buzzing that rattles our eardrums, before they too slip into silence. Then, everyone moves with purpose to the beach. Wary of the hightide, people look for tracks, either a turtle´s, which cut great, lumbering lines through the wet sand, or the small needle point tracks of the crabs. In the distance, one can hear the tinny ring of Michael Jackson as the top hits are blasted through the overused speakers at the bar. We move along the beach in silence, muted whispers carried to one another over the sound of the waves that swell over our exposed ankles. Like so many mosquitos, we infest the beach, buzzing and looking, always looking, for the bite.
The station, this is what everyone called the dorms where we stayed, is located five feet from the black sand of Ostional beach. The only relief from the stale heat is to be found in the brief ocean breeze that carries with it the smell of dry, cooked sand and coats our nasal passages with a thin film of salt that stays with us and occasionally burns the throat. It is too hot to sleep during the day and most of us could barely find the energy or the will to drag ourselves to the ocean. Drowning in our sweat and smelling of a pungent mixture of bug repellant and sunscreen, we gravitated toward the waves with the inevitable journey of magnets, unable to deny the irresistable pull of the wet slap of the great, dark pool of the pacific ocean: caught in the riptide created by the heat.
Ostional beach is surrounded by a dry rainforest. The roots of drooping mango trees are exposed by any threat of a wind as the dry dirt is ripped from the earth and thrown toward the heavens, leaving the ground vulnerable and new. Ripe fruits fall from exotic trees into the middle of the road, where, if left unattended, they begin to rot, filling the air with the sticky, sweet smell of delicious decay. Starved dogs chase purple and orange crabs crookedly across the streets, under chairs, and over the feet of the people that sit, sweating, languid and wet in whatever shade there is to be had. Trees that appear dead and dry burst forth into riotous shades of red and pink at the ends of the sharp angles of branches, much like Ostional itself. What may appear as lifeless and stark is actually painfully brilliant and beautiful.
For most of the permanent residents of Ostional, and for the volunteers as well, work doesn´t start until the sun is drowned by the ocean and the cicadas serenade the day one final time with a loud and obnoxious buzzing that rattles our eardrums, before they too slip into silence. Then, everyone moves with purpose to the beach. Wary of the hightide, people look for tracks, either a turtle´s, which cut great, lumbering lines through the wet sand, or the small needle point tracks of the crabs. In the distance, one can hear the tinny ring of Michael Jackson as the top hits are blasted through the overused speakers at the bar. We move along the beach in silence, muted whispers carried to one another over the sound of the waves that swell over our exposed ankles. Like so many mosquitos, we infest the beach, buzzing and looking, always looking, for the bite.
Tuesday, April 20
04-06-10
Sweat slipped gently down the sides of my face and over the tip of my nose; tiny drops of liquid that my dehydrated body released in a futile attempt to return my body temperature to anything that resembles normal. The open windows of the large bus traveling from San Jose to Santa Cruz were forced wide to allow airflow through the vehicle due to a notable lack of airconditioning. Large cloth curtains smacked the tinted windows, tentatively attached to the walls of the bus by thin wire that cut into the flesh of my upper arm and click, click, clicked against the metal skeleton of the vehicle. We were on our way. Everything held together by motion. Drifting through space and pushing onward through time towards the end of the world.
Vegetation lined the roads and climbed over concrete walls, pushing its way up lamp posts and curling territorially across road signs. People had tried to take the land and make it their own, but the land was taking it back. The fragile pavement was being eaten away, consumed by the world around it. Advertisements for "Fanta!" more fun by the bottle were curling and bleached by the sun, the city disappeared behind us and the heat of the surrounding jungle pulled us deeper and deeper into rural Costa Rica.
Our plan was to take one bus from San Jose to Santa Cruz. From there we would take a different bus to the last stop, to Ostional, along dirt roads and through deserted towns. Six of us had woken up at 5:00 AM to catch the first bus and now dropped listlessly in and out of sleep, giving into the heat, slipping through realities.
We arrived in Santa Cruz right around 10:00 AM, four hours after leaving San Jose. All in all we'd made great time, but there was still so much farther to travel. We waited two and a half hours for to begin the second leg of our journey, draped over backpacks and suitcases, wishing for a tiny whisper of a breeze. I clung tightly to my bags and consciousness, occasionally peeling myself off of the waterproof material of my large backpack only to melt once again in the heavy pools of sunlight; waiting, always waiting.
The bus finally arrived. The carefully maintained line that we had established hours previously turned into a mad scramble to be the first through the doors. Local people pushed past tourists, toting large bags of grains or television sets. I experienced a few moments of utter disarray as I contemplated just how removed this place was, that supplies were so scarce people were forced to travel 3 hours to buy anything of use. We moved steadily and chaotically towards the soon to be overflowing bus. Ultimately people were forced to wait for the next days bus as there were those who had started hanging out of the doors, and still more wanted to board. Those of us who were already in the bus tried our best not to faint or drip sweat onto our neighbors as we stood crushed in the center aisle, suffocatingly close, trying to time our breathing to allow for room to accommodate the rise and fall of our chests.
Our overcrowded bus left the station about a half an hour after the scheduled time. The renovated school bus style of the bus provides minimal comfort even for those sitting down, while our only relief from the heat slipped through the half open windows to tickle the backs of our necks and tease us with thoughts of wind and breezes. All along the side of the road we passed rustic houses that resembled shacks more than the houses I was accustomed to seeing. Precariously balanced tin roofs drooped forlornly over randomly nailed together pieces of recycled plywood, covered by the dead leaves of the multiple palm trees dotting the countryside. I was suddenly and overwhelmingly grateful for the secluded house that would be waiting for my return with it's open windows and front door without a lock. It was all a stark contrast to the padlocked gates and barbed wire that melted into the foreground that moved steadily past the windows clouded by red dust that floated through the air and caked us all in a fine layer of soft, red grit. We breathed the dust in and absorbed the climate in through our nose adn let it settle into the depths of our lungs to be circulated through our bloodstream. We traveled another three hours past commuters on horseback. After making several stops to let off passengers at lumber cleared farm houses, I smelled the sea. It was the distinct smell of salt and sea weed that disturbed the dull perfume of dust and swept gently along my senses, gifting me with a start of hope. We must almost be there. Our bones rattled as we were jerked and thrown about in our seats traveling across the uneven, unpaved road. Then we reached the last stop. We had reached Ostional. The small "Soda's," locally owned markets, and the bar were the only two buildings in town. We all but fell off of the bus before beginning to trudge wearily down the road, avoiding rocks and smashed overripe mangos. Exhausted, we traveled the last few meters to the place we had been looking for, to the station, to the ocean, to our new home.
Vegetation lined the roads and climbed over concrete walls, pushing its way up lamp posts and curling territorially across road signs. People had tried to take the land and make it their own, but the land was taking it back. The fragile pavement was being eaten away, consumed by the world around it. Advertisements for "Fanta!" more fun by the bottle were curling and bleached by the sun, the city disappeared behind us and the heat of the surrounding jungle pulled us deeper and deeper into rural Costa Rica.
Our plan was to take one bus from San Jose to Santa Cruz. From there we would take a different bus to the last stop, to Ostional, along dirt roads and through deserted towns. Six of us had woken up at 5:00 AM to catch the first bus and now dropped listlessly in and out of sleep, giving into the heat, slipping through realities.
We arrived in Santa Cruz right around 10:00 AM, four hours after leaving San Jose. All in all we'd made great time, but there was still so much farther to travel. We waited two and a half hours for to begin the second leg of our journey, draped over backpacks and suitcases, wishing for a tiny whisper of a breeze. I clung tightly to my bags and consciousness, occasionally peeling myself off of the waterproof material of my large backpack only to melt once again in the heavy pools of sunlight; waiting, always waiting.
The bus finally arrived. The carefully maintained line that we had established hours previously turned into a mad scramble to be the first through the doors. Local people pushed past tourists, toting large bags of grains or television sets. I experienced a few moments of utter disarray as I contemplated just how removed this place was, that supplies were so scarce people were forced to travel 3 hours to buy anything of use. We moved steadily and chaotically towards the soon to be overflowing bus. Ultimately people were forced to wait for the next days bus as there were those who had started hanging out of the doors, and still more wanted to board. Those of us who were already in the bus tried our best not to faint or drip sweat onto our neighbors as we stood crushed in the center aisle, suffocatingly close, trying to time our breathing to allow for room to accommodate the rise and fall of our chests.
Our overcrowded bus left the station about a half an hour after the scheduled time. The renovated school bus style of the bus provides minimal comfort even for those sitting down, while our only relief from the heat slipped through the half open windows to tickle the backs of our necks and tease us with thoughts of wind and breezes. All along the side of the road we passed rustic houses that resembled shacks more than the houses I was accustomed to seeing. Precariously balanced tin roofs drooped forlornly over randomly nailed together pieces of recycled plywood, covered by the dead leaves of the multiple palm trees dotting the countryside. I was suddenly and overwhelmingly grateful for the secluded house that would be waiting for my return with it's open windows and front door without a lock. It was all a stark contrast to the padlocked gates and barbed wire that melted into the foreground that moved steadily past the windows clouded by red dust that floated through the air and caked us all in a fine layer of soft, red grit. We breathed the dust in and absorbed the climate in through our nose adn let it settle into the depths of our lungs to be circulated through our bloodstream. We traveled another three hours past commuters on horseback. After making several stops to let off passengers at lumber cleared farm houses, I smelled the sea. It was the distinct smell of salt and sea weed that disturbed the dull perfume of dust and swept gently along my senses, gifting me with a start of hope. We must almost be there. Our bones rattled as we were jerked and thrown about in our seats traveling across the uneven, unpaved road. Then we reached the last stop. We had reached Ostional. The small "Soda's," locally owned markets, and the bar were the only two buildings in town. We all but fell off of the bus before beginning to trudge wearily down the road, avoiding rocks and smashed overripe mangos. Exhausted, we traveled the last few meters to the place we had been looking for, to the station, to the ocean, to our new home.
Sunday, April 4
Fasten Your Seatbelts
Currently, I am writing from the Maximo Nivel center for language in San Pedro, Costa Rica, reporting from the inside. I can feel my house keys digging into the thin skin of my hipbone, a reminder to keep all things valuable as close to your internal organs as humanly possible. A reminder that I have been raised with a slightly skewed view of the world. It is not as safe as I would have hoped it to be.
The 12 am red eye flight arrived in the San Jose airport at 5 am. The passengers struggled, bleary eyed, to hold on to the precious few hours of sleep that would, hopefully, get them through the day. Not I. I had been awake since the voice spilled out through the airpline intercom, asking us to prepare for our arrival in San Jose. I peered out the small window to my right, fogging the pressure proof plastic glass with my hot breath, obscuring the view below. Strings of blinking lights outlined the skeletone of the city, the backbones of the main roads and clusters of houses. It appeared that the tightly packed towns bordering San Jose sprawled across rolling hills and crept up mountains like some intruding species of plant. A toxic weed slowly establishing roots in the natural darkness of Central America. I was transfixed, literally glued to my seat as my heartbeat began to accelerate and my palms broke out in a cold sweat. One of the disadvantages of the window seat, I really had to pee. I can promise you that this did not help me to collect my cool. This is it. I had arrived.
Nervously, I stood in line, waiting to go through immigration, internally debating whether or not to throw away my lukewarm cup of water that was supposed to be refrigerating my typhoid vaccination pills. Panicked thoughts finally won me over. So, in order to remain inconspicuous and avoid suspicion, I sprinted back through the line of weary passengers, opening up a McDonalds cup and tearing a plastic baggy dripping wet, containing one large bottle of pharmeceuticals from the dewy styrofoam. I hurredly wiped my hands on my jeans and crept back into line, avoiding the eyes of those who had seen me stumble passed them, portraying the cliche of dear in the headlights to a T. The line throw immigration moved swiftly, the airport police to drained of energy to do much more than reach for the passport, never making eye contact, before sending people along their way. After baggage claim, the people at customs decided that the x ray machine wasn't quite worth the time it would take to herd all of the passengers through, collected our papers, and pushed us towards the exit, rats in a maze. All I had to do was find my cab.
In Costa Rica, stop signs are yield signs, yield signs don't exist, and most traffic lights are studiously ignored, at least by cab drivers. We cruised down the curving innerstate from the airport to my host family's house at a comfortable 100 mph. It was terrifying. I gripped my seat cushion, wishing for the reassuring feel of something solid beneath me as the wheels barely seemed to touch the ground. Turning signals also turned out to be for show. After around twenty minutes of experiencing the warpspeed tour of Costa Rica, we made it to the house of my host family. The houses on this street were painted bright blues and pinks and greens. Fittingly, they resembled easter eggs, or square cut gems, or pastel candies, easily ascending the gently waving hills of the city streets. The cab pulled up right outside of a white house with forest green trim, where we were met by my host mom, Ana. She welcomed me inside and I followed her gratefully to a room painted the pale blue of the sky and the sea as the two elements kissed on the far horizon. I sank gratefully into gentle slumber, burrying myself in the waves of covers. After everything, every minute of planning, countless emails, and mountains of stress, I had finally made it to the ocean. Allow me to correct myself, almost to the ocean. I had journeyed over boarders and cultures and mountains and lakes and cities filled with families to be right here. Wrapped up in my sea blue room, waiting for the heat of the day to wake me.
The 12 am red eye flight arrived in the San Jose airport at 5 am. The passengers struggled, bleary eyed, to hold on to the precious few hours of sleep that would, hopefully, get them through the day. Not I. I had been awake since the voice spilled out through the airpline intercom, asking us to prepare for our arrival in San Jose. I peered out the small window to my right, fogging the pressure proof plastic glass with my hot breath, obscuring the view below. Strings of blinking lights outlined the skeletone of the city, the backbones of the main roads and clusters of houses. It appeared that the tightly packed towns bordering San Jose sprawled across rolling hills and crept up mountains like some intruding species of plant. A toxic weed slowly establishing roots in the natural darkness of Central America. I was transfixed, literally glued to my seat as my heartbeat began to accelerate and my palms broke out in a cold sweat. One of the disadvantages of the window seat, I really had to pee. I can promise you that this did not help me to collect my cool. This is it. I had arrived.
Nervously, I stood in line, waiting to go through immigration, internally debating whether or not to throw away my lukewarm cup of water that was supposed to be refrigerating my typhoid vaccination pills. Panicked thoughts finally won me over. So, in order to remain inconspicuous and avoid suspicion, I sprinted back through the line of weary passengers, opening up a McDonalds cup and tearing a plastic baggy dripping wet, containing one large bottle of pharmeceuticals from the dewy styrofoam. I hurredly wiped my hands on my jeans and crept back into line, avoiding the eyes of those who had seen me stumble passed them, portraying the cliche of dear in the headlights to a T. The line throw immigration moved swiftly, the airport police to drained of energy to do much more than reach for the passport, never making eye contact, before sending people along their way. After baggage claim, the people at customs decided that the x ray machine wasn't quite worth the time it would take to herd all of the passengers through, collected our papers, and pushed us towards the exit, rats in a maze. All I had to do was find my cab.
In Costa Rica, stop signs are yield signs, yield signs don't exist, and most traffic lights are studiously ignored, at least by cab drivers. We cruised down the curving innerstate from the airport to my host family's house at a comfortable 100 mph. It was terrifying. I gripped my seat cushion, wishing for the reassuring feel of something solid beneath me as the wheels barely seemed to touch the ground. Turning signals also turned out to be for show. After around twenty minutes of experiencing the warpspeed tour of Costa Rica, we made it to the house of my host family. The houses on this street were painted bright blues and pinks and greens. Fittingly, they resembled easter eggs, or square cut gems, or pastel candies, easily ascending the gently waving hills of the city streets. The cab pulled up right outside of a white house with forest green trim, where we were met by my host mom, Ana. She welcomed me inside and I followed her gratefully to a room painted the pale blue of the sky and the sea as the two elements kissed on the far horizon. I sank gratefully into gentle slumber, burrying myself in the waves of covers. After everything, every minute of planning, countless emails, and mountains of stress, I had finally made it to the ocean. Allow me to correct myself, almost to the ocean. I had journeyed over boarders and cultures and mountains and lakes and cities filled with families to be right here. Wrapped up in my sea blue room, waiting for the heat of the day to wake me.
Saturday, April 3
The End of Comfortable
A day in Denver. One whole day. One last day. Dark thoughts weigh me down, almost more than my 46.5 pound bag as I head for the car. The forecast ahead doesn't look too sunny either. My arrival in Costa Rica is going to be wet and dreary, with scattered thunderstorms. Nevertheless, it will be an adventure.
Our long time family friends, Bart and Barb, are seeing me off leaving their daughter, Audrey, at home to engage in more interesting projects than the imminent end of my brief visit, while Caroline, the youngest of the sisters will accompany us, fond of me as her simple, youthful innocence allows. As we load the car, I realize how much I will miss the last place that felt really safe to me. I will miss the familiar rise and fall of the english language, not quite as melodious as spanish, but comforting in the harsh reality of sharply pronounced b's and p's. I will miss the thin, dry air of the high altitude. But most of all I will miss the people. I do not look forward to saying goodbye to the family that has taken such good care of me. Already, I am starting to long for the gentle chorus of voices, all addressing me or each other at the same time. That is how this family is. They are so attuned to one another's needs that words are simply for my sake. So, speech escapes them simultaneously and my ears are flooded with the fluid hum of family. That I will cling to as I travel far from any family I have ever known.
Our long time family friends, Bart and Barb, are seeing me off leaving their daughter, Audrey, at home to engage in more interesting projects than the imminent end of my brief visit, while Caroline, the youngest of the sisters will accompany us, fond of me as her simple, youthful innocence allows. As we load the car, I realize how much I will miss the last place that felt really safe to me. I will miss the familiar rise and fall of the english language, not quite as melodious as spanish, but comforting in the harsh reality of sharply pronounced b's and p's. I will miss the thin, dry air of the high altitude. But most of all I will miss the people. I do not look forward to saying goodbye to the family that has taken such good care of me. Already, I am starting to long for the gentle chorus of voices, all addressing me or each other at the same time. That is how this family is. They are so attuned to one another's needs that words are simply for my sake. So, speech escapes them simultaneously and my ears are flooded with the fluid hum of family. That I will cling to as I travel far from any family I have ever known.
Friday, April 2
The Longest Journey
I didn't think I was going to cry until I turned around and hugged my mom for the last time for an entire month. Then it was over. It was like someone had flicked a switch and I could feel the back of my eyes start to tickle as my sight started to blur and the strange faces around me begin to melt into indistinct shades of pale pinks and tans. Not usually overly emotional I closed my eyes and prayed to every god I'd never believed in not to let me cry in front of these people I didn't know. I turned around to wave goodbye to my mom and let her know that everything would be alright. I had always been strong for my mom, but now I just wanted to run back to her and wrap myself safely in her skirt like I did when I was three years old, when I was safe. Now, as I looked back, I studied the elastic seatbelt material that separated us. Such a small barrier, so flimsy, but I was already so far away. The shiny black material taunted me. I blinked as the tears started to form and the small belt began to drip and grow, magnified by the traitorous liquid running freely down my cheeks until it became a solid black wall. I was really alone.
I pulled myself together and shuffled through security sniffing rapidly and murmuring quiet thanks to the airport employees all wishing me a good day and a safe trip. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep or cry or just hold myself so that my molecules wouldn't fly away and get lost in the empty "inbetween" of the Boise airport. But I didn't. I walked numbly towards my gate, head bent, shoulders hunched, headphones stuck firmly in my ears so that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone, so that I wouldn't have to think, or breathe. The steel frame of the airport chair was cold and unwelcoming as I lowered myself gently onto the navy blue leather material, moving as if with physical pain. A buzzing in my pocket drew me slowly from my fragile mind to the right pocket of my school sweatshirt, all things that reminded me of home, of routine, of friends and family, happiness and peace. I took out my phone to read the text message on the screen. "Be brave little piglet," I read. A note from my mom, from my home, from my whole world, telling me to be brave. To pick up my feet and board the plane without looking back. I closed my phone and drew in a shaky breath, wiping my eyes as I moved towards the gate, purposefully, determinedly. The mantra running through my mind, "be brave little piglet," as I took my seat next to the window, waiting for the rest of my journey to begin. It was then that I realized that I carried everyone with me on that plane, everyone I loved packed into row 19 with me and shut their eyes and held me as the plane lurched free of gravity and my thoughts were lost in the whispers of the upper atmosphere. Carried by wings lifted by the thoughts of all the people I knew I would miss. "Be brave little piglet."
I pulled myself together and shuffled through security sniffing rapidly and murmuring quiet thanks to the airport employees all wishing me a good day and a safe trip. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep or cry or just hold myself so that my molecules wouldn't fly away and get lost in the empty "inbetween" of the Boise airport. But I didn't. I walked numbly towards my gate, head bent, shoulders hunched, headphones stuck firmly in my ears so that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone, so that I wouldn't have to think, or breathe. The steel frame of the airport chair was cold and unwelcoming as I lowered myself gently onto the navy blue leather material, moving as if with physical pain. A buzzing in my pocket drew me slowly from my fragile mind to the right pocket of my school sweatshirt, all things that reminded me of home, of routine, of friends and family, happiness and peace. I took out my phone to read the text message on the screen. "Be brave little piglet," I read. A note from my mom, from my home, from my whole world, telling me to be brave. To pick up my feet and board the plane without looking back. I closed my phone and drew in a shaky breath, wiping my eyes as I moved towards the gate, purposefully, determinedly. The mantra running through my mind, "be brave little piglet," as I took my seat next to the window, waiting for the rest of my journey to begin. It was then that I realized that I carried everyone with me on that plane, everyone I loved packed into row 19 with me and shut their eyes and held me as the plane lurched free of gravity and my thoughts were lost in the whispers of the upper atmosphere. Carried by wings lifted by the thoughts of all the people I knew I would miss. "Be brave little piglet."
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