The Caribbean Vibe

VWP: rice and beans (phrase)--this is not a mistake that it's in English, this is an Afro-Caribbean dish with rice, beans, and sweet milk.    

With my bus to Sixaola leaving at 10 am from a central San Jose bus station, I figured I’d have a chance to sleep in on Saturday.  However, my tica mom had other ideas: she insisted I be at the bus station at least 2 hours early to ensure I got a ticket for my bus, which when I reminisce on it, was probably a good idea.  Arriving at the bus station at 7:45 am after a teary goodbye session with my tico parents (they once again repeated “we’re so sad you’re abandoning us” and I once again said “I’ll be back in just a few weeks!”), I bought my ticket to Sixaola, the Costa Rican town in the Limon province that borders Panama and tried to be suave as I maneuvered my chunky suitcase (it comes up to my mid-arm and is wider than a comfy armchair), backpack, and extra beach bag.  Sitting down with my load, I had the opportunity to notice exactly what it must be like for a local tico to see a gringo.  In front of me was another gringa buying her bus ticket.  She had two big backpacks on, one saddled on her front like a baby holder and the other one on her back threatened to flip her over backwards with its extreme bulges, and her Nike shorts, University of Missouri t-shirt and floppy bun-on-the-top-of-my-head look just shouted “HEY GUYS IM A GRINGA!” However, this only provoked me to consider using her as a suitcase-watcher if I should have to use the bathroom and leave my suitcases behind for a minute.  Don’t worry mom, I decided not to trust anyone at the bus station and just had to deal with having all three bags in the tiny bathroom stall with me.  Finding my seat on the bus was a struggle; I was looking for Asiento 37 but all the numbers above the seats had been conveniently wiped off.  Luckily, Gringa was there to help me out, shouting in English, “What seat are you looking for?” Apparently I also was obviously gringa-looking, however, I just wanted to point out that I guess I’m getting tan enough to not be called a yucca potato--notoriously white and pasty--unlike when Gus was in Costa Rica.  Turns out, my seat was right next to this American girl, and I didn’t realize in the moment how nice it would be to talk with someone in my home language for a few hours.  A recent grad from University of Missouri and recently certified in teaching English as a second language, my Texan seat partner ended up being a good and chatty bus companion for the four hour bus ride. 

So here’s the thing about Costa Rican buses: they don’t tell you when the stops are, how to recognize your stop, how to indicate that you need to get off the moving bus, or anything else that may make your travel easier.  When getting on the bus I had told the bus driver (who was wearing a Cuba hat that made him look kind of like Castro) that I was going to Pali at Hone Creek.  What are the chances he would remember that during a four-hour bus ride?  I didn’t worry about this bus-stop issue until after the regulation bus break at a snack place with bathrooms, when most people buy an empanada with cheese or beans or pick up a bag of plantain chips.  But, once we started on the second half of our trip, I realized that I was going to need to eventually get off this bus before Sixaola, because I definitely didn’t want to work my way back all the way from the Panama border.  I tried to remember my conversation with my internship coordinator in San Jose: she had said something about a big yellow building, or did she say something about seeing the beach?  Maybe she was talking about a big highway?  For someone who spent three years in high school memorizing 10 minute long acting monologues, my memory failed immensely in this very key moment.  Suddenly the bus stopped on the side of the road across the street from…a sloth sanctuary.  Murmuring among the other bus passengers started and I was beyond confused as to whether this was my stop or not.  The Castro-look-alike bus driver appeared to be staring at me in his rear view mirror.  Or was that just my paranoia and nerves kicking in?  I felt like I stared back at him with a ridiculous face of confusion for about five minutes straight, and then the bus started back up again.  Well, whether that was my stop or not, I didn’t get off.  Cursing under my breath, I nervously imagined a scenario where I finally get off the bus and I’m at the Panama border without enough money to take a taxi back to Hone Creek, so I just end up going to Panama City (this didn’t happen in real life).  Luckily, I noticed the “Pali” at Hone Creek (which turns out to be the name of a convenience store) and asked the bus driver to open up the bottom of the bus so I could retrieve my chunky suitcase.  When I told him where it was under the bus he assumed I was crazy and said it couldn’t be on the street side of the bus.  He’d have to dodge cars while opening up the bus since he had forgotten to put my suitcase on the sidewalk side way back in San Jose.  Once he realized I was right, he kept saying “you never told me you were getting off at Hone Creek”—please see earlier sentence in the story to prove that he was completely lying at this point.  My memory of meeting my new host mother, Rosa, is somewhat overshadowed by the bus driver complaining to her “she never told me that she was getting off here,” but even so, I can remember Rosa giving me a wide smile, a traditional Costa Rican cheek peck, and a soft “I’m Rosa, and I’ll be your host mom.”  I remember reading in the host family write-up that Rosa was supposedly 51 years old and a widow.  This lady that was standing in front of me appeared to be about 40 years old and had a man with her who could have been her husband…I wondered whether Rosa’s friend Rosa had come to pick me up (in the write up, it also pointed out that Rosa Emilia, my mom, runs her business with her friend, Rosa Maria).  But no, it turns out that my host mom has just kept up her youthful appearance very well, and this man was one of her two sons, and a young boy in the back seat was her grandson. 

My bedroom

Pulling up to a purple house on a large lot with palm trees, plants, and flowers, it hit me for the first time that this wasn’t just a weekend trip, I wasn’t going back to ICADS for classes, and I had said goodbye to my San Jose family and house.  I’m living in a room that’s adjacent to the main house, with its own sink, refrigerator, and bedroom.  I feel like I should be a bit more descriptive with my room so as to portray its true self: the fridge isn’t plugged in, the big dip in my mattress causes me to question its previous owner, the windows are permanently open to allow for a nice beach breeze, and my walls are decorated with cards sent from my mom and grandma from the U.S.  It’s a modest but homey room, and it definitely portrays the laid-back feel of the Caribbean coast.  Another thing about the open windows:  my host mom is a widow who lives alone, but on the same plot of land lives one of her sons with his family.  His sons are four and five and love to move my curtains to the side and spy on me through the bare windowpanes.  With no true windows, it was also easy to hear the grandson telling my host mom “La muchacha todavia esta durmiendo” (the girl still is sleeping) this morning at 8:30 am.  Her son’s family members aren’t the only ones around, which is easy to understand since my host mom is one of eleven kids.  Brothers regularly pop in for lunch, or her cousins will come over for coffee, or her other son and his kid will eat dinner with us.  Neighbors come over for fruit, and other community members stop by to say hi.  Might say I’m living in the house on the block for a few months!  

The view from my kitchen table

Life here in Hone Creek (an English name due to the Afro-Caribbean influence here) is much different than San Jose.  In my mom’s backyard are guanabana, apple, cacao, orange, lemon, and mora trees.  Whenever she wants a few oranges to eat, she just goes to the backyard with a tall tree branch and knocks a few down from the tree.  I’ve never seen such an inventive woman: her trashcan is constructed out of used plastic bottles, her flower pots are coke-can tabs strung together, and she dries out cacao seeds to make her own chocolate (I must be a taste tester for her!).  She also started up her own business in 2001, called El Yue, an organic farm and community center to protect the environment and secure family wellbeing.  She told me the story behind the business’ birth:  she and a few women in the community noticed the abuse of the local land and the instability of family security.  They planned to get a few loans and open up El Yue.  Soon after the first few meetings, some women’s husbands began to threaten them, citing that a business was a man’s job and that if they continued to scheme this business, they’d hit them.  After that, only my host mom and her friend Rosa were willing to continue on with the business idea.  I admire my host mom immensely for her bravery and commitment to her ideas and wants for her own community.   

Along with the fact that this village houses some of the strongest women I've ever come into contact with, there are some other special features to this community.  Some things are so different from my other house in Costa Rica: I found a hand-sized frog in the shower this morning, my four-year-old host grandson plays casually with a machete, and the kitchen here is outside on the patio.  I enjoy the change of scenery, and I know it’ll push me to become even more adjustable to whatever surprises are thrown my way in my last two months in Costa Rica.