On Friday afternoon, in true Costa Rican fashion, my director notified me that there is no school Monday or Tuesday of the following week – surprise 4 day weekend! Several WorldTeach volunteers seized the opportunity to reunion in Boruca (a short 3 hour journey, traveling at 10 mph on a bumpy dirt road, away) and invited me to join them. While the chance to speak English, enjoy a beer, and possibly stay up past 9 p.m. was quite tempting, after a hard week at school I decided I needed some down time, some time to read and relax, some time to myself. And so I declined their offer and remained camped out in La Lucha.
Yet ironically, so far this weekend has been anything but reading and relaxing and spending time reflecting with me, myself and I. Instead it has consisted of intense games of tag, multiple “cafecitos”, learning how to make tamales, shopping Avon catalogues, and giggling with my 12 year old host-cousin about boys as we slipped and slid on the mud while trying to go for a run. Had I gone to Boruca, I would never have walked 20 minutes one way to accompany my host-mother to get her hair cut, nor would I have walked 45 minutes one way with my fourth grader to deliver a chicken.
What is it that makes these small every day happenings so beautiful and so satisfying? Perhaps because everything here is so unplanned, so natural, so everyday. I was only part of these events because I happened to be passing by at the right moment or happened to be sitting in the right spot doing nothing at the right time. No one here makes plans, and no one invited me ahead of time. It’s just….life.
Yesterday morning as I was sitting on my porch doing homework for WorldTeach, one of my fourth graders David rode by on his bicycle and asked me to come help him with his English homework. Of course, ahora, I said – which literally means: now, but actually means: I’ll be by anywhere in the next several hours. Bueno! he shouted and rode off downhill.
And so it was that I eventually showered and headed towards the lime green house with every intention of staying for an hour or two and returning in time for lunch. Yet as so often happens, the smallest cafecito visit turns into an epic adventure.
After helping David with his homework, playing with his younger sister, eating (obviously) and sitting looking at his mother’s Avon catalogues (yes the opportunity to be an Avon agent has somehow reached La Lucha??), I thought that maybe I would go home soon. Wrong. There was loud chatter and a long discussion in rapid fire Spanish about a chicken and a grandma and a car and to be honest, before I could fully understand what I was agreeing to, I was holding a chicken and was on my way to Grandma’s.
“You don’t mind walking to Capri right Teacher?” The destination in question is a 45 minute hike to the other side of the mountain.
“No, but I didn’t wear good shoes…” I said.
“No worries, do these fit?”
And so it was that my 10 year old student and I were on our way to Capri, David carrying a chicken and me wearing his mom’s shoes – a pair of hideous orange sandals.
We walked rather briskly talking about the river, horses, cows, and whatever else randomly popped into his ten year old head, and occasionally trading who got to hold the chicken. Every now and then I would ask why we were taking this chicken to grandma’s and every time I would get a different answer. Once at Grandma’s, I was quickly ushered inside, seated on the only stool in the kitchen and handed a cup of fresco – handmade juice made from some fruit that had just fallen in the backyard and water and copious amounts of sugar. For the next 3 hours, I was left sitting on the hard stool watching Grandma make tamales while David scampered about the mountain like a lost goat.
Just when I was getting ansy to leave, the rain clouds rolled over. “David we should probably go before it rains…” I said.
“But the tamales are almost done! Ahora!” Grandma exclaimed.
Ahora – an hour later, after David and I looked at every photo his family has ever taken, talked about his life when he was young, and worked as a team to catch a different chicken (the one we would carry back to La Lucha with us), the tamales were finally ready.
When the rain finally slowed to a drizzle, we set off back to La Lucha, with a chicken, our bellies and bags stuffed full of hot tamales, and a pair of hideous orange sandals that were, now wet, giving me a terrible blister. But not even my little toe aching from the shoes could bring down the feeling that somehow I was doing something good today. Because before we had even exited the town of Capri, David asked: ”Teacher, when are we coming back? Next Sunday? Or the next one?” I was once again overcome with the feeling of being a friend – and no matter what country you’re in, that feels good.
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