TravelStream™ news feed for member bootsmade4wlkin on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/bootsmade4wlkin en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 21 Jun 2008 15:08:10 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1214075160/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1214075160/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1214075160/tpod.html Sat, 21 Jun 2008 15:08:10 -0400 Still Not Ready to Settle Down...

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Marcala, Honduras

Do you know what it takes to turn aloe vera plants into aloe vera products? I do. It takes a lot of work. And now I know from personal experience. Practically since I arrived in Marcala I had been bugging Ariel, COMUCAP's agricultural engineer, to take me around COMUCAP's farms and factories. I wanted to understand what exactly we do and I wanted to get out of the office. Well, I got my wish. It turns out that after days of cutting and collecting the aloe vera to take to the processing plants, we were short a couple thousand pounds...and short workers. So everyone in the office piled into the old pick-up truck and headed up to the farms to help out. I was actually excited to learn how to cut aloe and be a part of the whole process. When we arrived at the farm after bouncing around on a dirt road for about twenty minutes I thought how beautiful it was. The aloe plants had been planted on a side of a hill with a little stream at the bottom, framed by trees, and a perfect blue sky above. I realized immediately that cutting aloe is an art form and the cuts had to be exact in order for the "leaves" to be accepted by the processor. It takes time to determine which leaves are ready to be cut and then to slice in just the right spot to take it off cleanly. My lack of any knowledge concerning how to cut aloe and the shortage of knives left me at the bottom of the worker totem pole. I got to carry the already cut aloe to the big collective piles and then to the waiting truck. At first it wasn't so bad and I really felt like I was contributing. But walking on the side of a hill with armloads of aloe that can be surprisingly heavy with the sap running down your arms and the sharp edges of the leaves digging into your skin loses its novelty very quickly. Especially once you look down and see your ankles covered in little black bugs...and your arms...and hands. Now, I would just like to say that I have come a long way in my bug tolerance. I can kill my own spiders now, and have become skilled in roach extermination as long as I have a big heavy book or shoe or insecticide in hand. But I also have a history of reacting very very VERY badly to bug bites. When normal people are bitten by bugs, they get an itchy red spot that goes away within a few days. When I get bitten by bugs, be it ants or mosquitoes or mystery bugs in Laos, I swell up, turn red, and am tormented by itchiness for no less than a week. When I saw my body covered with these little black bugs, I did not panic all at once. At first glance they seemed like little gnats. But when I swatted at them, leaving streaks of blood and smushed bug guts everywhere, I realized with horror what kind of bug I was dealing with. I knew them well from Costa Rica. Tiny and harmless-looking, they left bites that turned into huge red welts with a dot of blood in the middle. And they itched like nothing I have ever experienced. And they were all over me. I screeched and started swatting, trying to rid myself of the nasty things. And as I looked around, I noticed everyone doing the same thing. Ariel quickly cut open an aloe leaf and told me to rub it all over to keep the bugs away. Sort of unbelieving, but willing to try anything, I quickly took the leave and ran sticky, gooey aloe sap over every part of my body not covered by clothes. Including my face. The others did the same, but I could still feel them crawling all over me as I continued with the endless trips between the cutters, the piles of aloe, and the truck. After a few hours, I was covered in a mixture of blood, sweat, aloe, and dirt. I had torn my pants on some barbed wire at some point, and I had had enough. Ok, I got it. I had my experience. Ready to go home now. But I didn't want to be the whiney gringo who couldn't stand a little manual labor, so I didn't say anything, just sent out a big thank you when it started to rain and everyone made their way back to the truck. Relieved to be getting out of that bug infested farm, I gathered with the others, smiling. And then I heard the gasps and disbelieving giggles. One of the women grabbed my arm and held it for inspection, and when I looked, I wanted to cry. Mixed in with the sweat and dirt and aloe were streaks of blood that when washed away in the stream revealed my arm completely covered in red splotches with blood spots in their centers. And when I say covered, I mean that my arm was almost entirely red with my pasty pale skin showing through in only a couple of areas. My ankles were the same, and so was my other arm. Thank god my face was spared the attack, but there was one vampire bite to my neck. Everyone else had similar bites, but because I am so pale, they showed a lot more on me. I looked diseased and memories of that horrible rash in Asia brought tears to my eyes. But there wasn't much time to feel sorry for myself because we still had a lot more work to do. First we went to a partner farm nearby to collect some more cuttings, though they had more than enough workers to transport the leaves and spare me from any more hard labor. But then we went to another farm owned by COMUCAP. The rain had stopped, the sun was out once again, and the view of the valley falling away from the farm was breathtaking. It was definitely the most beautiful farm I'd been to yet...but also the one with the steepest hill down to the aloe plants. As Dolores, Niria, Ariel, Jorge, and I made our way down to the uncut plants, I wondered who exactly was supposed to make their way back up that hill with the sacks of aloe. Luckily, I soon found out that it wasn't me. My job was to take the freshly cut leaves and put them in a sack as Dolores cut them, gave the sacks to Niria, who in turn took them over to a tree where the men were waiting. The aloe was good and healthy down there and Dolores was determined to cut enough to finish off the 10,000 pounds that we were supposed to deliver to the processing plant the next day. So when dark clouds started to gather and thunder crashed practically on our heads, she was determined to keep working. When the rains started to pour down, we still kept working. I was told that I could go back up the hill and wait in the little house where the real workers were keeping dry, I refused. I was determined to see this through to the end. So on we worked until Ariel finally told us that we had enough. Already soaked through to the bone, everyone grabbed sacks to lug back up the now very muddy little trail to the truck. Well, everybody except me. I said that I could take a sack, I wanted to prove my dedication, but they entrusted me instead with the knives. Great. Images of falling in the mud and stabbing myself immediately started flashing through my mind. I think I would have preferred the weight of the aloe on my back, but they wouldn't let me carry anything else. I think my fellow workers felt sorry for my patheticness and wanted to give me a break. Little did they know that I'm not the most coordinated person when walking up or down hills or stairs, or anything on an incline or decline for that matter. Luckily I made it up the hill without disaster, shot a dirty look at the real workers waiting in the cabin, and waited for the others. Next came transporting the newly cut aloe from our small truck to the big truck that would transport them to the processing plant. And yes, it was still raining. A lot. By the time we all made it back to the office seven hours after we left, we were freezing, soaked through to the bone, covered in mud and aloe, and splotchy red from bug bites and scratches. Oh yes, I had definitely had my experience with aloe production. I had gotten out of the office and gotten my hands dirty as I had wanted. And though I wanted nothing more than to take a shower and I was seriously dreading dealing with the weeks of torment that were surely to follow lending my body to an all you can eat buffet for the bugs, part of me was kind of proud and happy about the whole day. After all, I had made it. And even though my work days are still generally filled with meetings, planning for meetings, arranging meetings, and devising strategy, my whole life does not revolve around staring at a computer screen anymore. In the almost month since I have been here I have participated in two marches, I have acted as a translator (definitely an adventure considering my still limited Spanish skills), I've bounced around in the back of various pick-up trucks, and now I have helped harvest aloe vera. The adventures continue as I learn something new every day... and I will never again take for granted the nicely packaged plastic bottles of aloe vera that line grocery store shelves...not EVER again!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1212603720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1212603720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1212603720/tpod.html Wed, 04 Jun 2008 14:24:21 -0400 Still Not Ready to Settle Down...

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Marcala, Honduras

If you had told me that the very first apartment that I would ever live in totally by myself would be in Honduras, I probably would have laughed and thought you were crazy. But here I am. In Honduras. In my very own apartment. And let me just say that solo dance parties are WAY more fun when you have a whole apartment to prance around in versus just one little room. I can dance anywhere I want. I could even dance in my underwear if I so desired...though I don't quite trust the site lines of the window slates, so haven't attempted that yet. But the point is that I feel like Tom Hanks in "Big" when he got that cool loft apartment and put a trampoline in the middle. My place isn't quite that big, but it has a guest room...even if there is a lack of guests.... But it also came totally furnished with a big bed and a TV and tons of other things that are normal for other people, but total luxuries for someone who has been in various states of homelessness for three years. I'm on the second floor too, so I have a view of the mountains over the house across the street and high ceilings and I've only seen one cockroach (and it was already dead). I fell in love with the place immediately, and even agreed to pay more than I had been planning to, which is big for an ex-backpacker who still gets a little shiver of joy every time she bargains a price down. It just makes me smile to sit at my table in my living room/dining room/kitchen eating a dinner that I've cooked on my electric range thingy. And sure there are some quirky things about the place. Like the landlady's dog who is really sweet and quiet during the day, but as soon as the sun goes down turns into Mr. Hyde and lets loose these thunderous barks late into the night. And every morning at 4:30 on the dot I am awaken by the roosters who like to get a head start on the sun. And even though it's not supposed to be as rainy as La Estrella here, due to the hurricane in Nicaragua (or maybe it's just that I bring the rain with me wherever I go), we have been having major torrential downpours. And as I learned in Costa Rica, tin roofs and rain storms do not make for a quiet night, or for a dry apartment if there happens to be a hole in that tin roof. Which there is. Right in front of the front door. But what's probably the oddest quirk of all, especially in light of all the water falling from the sky, is the tendency for there to be no water falling from the faucets. It was a bit surprising at first when I would turn the knob to take a shower in the morning and nothing came out, but I've gotten used to it now. In fact, I've even started keeping pitchers of water around on reserve so that I can brush my teeth or wash dishes when the now-familiar groaning sound is the only thing emitted from the faucet. Yesterday I even had the ingenious idea of heating up a pot of my reserve water so that I could wash my hair. You see, my apartment inspires creativity, even when majorly sleep-deprived due to dogs and roosters. So, my first apartment on my own isn't perfect, but isn't perfection sort of boring? I mean, yeah, the sporadic water is annoying and León and the neighborhood roosters drive me absolutely crazy, but I've never been so excited to wake up to running water in my life, I can throw away my alarm clock, and no one is ever going to try to break in with a watch dog so good that he'll bark at a worm inching along across the street. Oh, and did I mention the best part of all? IT'S ALL MINE!!!!!!! Well, at least for three months.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1212014280/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1212014280/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1212014280/tpod.html Wed, 28 May 2008 18:41:21 -0400 Still Not Ready to Settle Down...

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Marcala, Honduras

As I got ready for my first day of work with COMUCAP I thought back to that other first day over a year ago now in Costa Rica...and shuddered. It had to go better this time around, right? I mean, now my Spanish is better and I would be working with adults, not 75 children wondering whether they should take me seriously or not. Back then I was not prepared for the chaos of the day, I was a neophyte in the world of Central American "organization". Now I was prepared, at least mentally, for what I might lay ahead...which I knew could really be anything. Dressed and ready to go, I went to the office of the hotel where I was staying until I found a suitable apartment, and asked him if he knew where COMUCAP's office was located. Yes, that's right, I had absolutely no clue where I would be going for my first day of work. After several emails asking about where I should meet Marlen, my soon to be supervisor, and reminding her of the day I'd be arriving, the only responses where: "Great! We will be waiting for you!" Or something along that line. But though Marcala has paved roads, internet, a little supermarket, restaurants, and even a few taxis, it isn't that big of a place. I thought, no problem, it'll be a piece of cake to find the office. The nice old man in the office gave me some directions, however, that ended with "arriba arriba arriba", which was the first time some doubt entered my mind. But everything looks better after some breakfast, so first I found a promising little restaurant and ordered the plato tipico...oh the memories that salty spread of rice, beans, eggs, cheese, and platanos brought back! I decided to ask the waitress about the COMUCAP office just to double check, which was good, because she sent me in a different direction (but still ended with "arriba arriba arriba"). I set out with confidence...and then ran out of paved road. Stopping in an official-looking office where everyone stared at me with curiosity, I was told that I was on the right track, just go a block back in the direction I had come, turn right, and then go "arriba arriba arriba". When I turned the corner I saw what "arriba arriba arriba" meant and hoped that I wouldn't have to walk up the entire steep hill that was facing me. As I climbed, I kept hoping to see some sort of sign, something that looked remotely official, preferably something with the initials COMUCAP on it, but almost at the top, I still hadn't seen anything. Finally two women with their children in tow approached, and I asked them for directions. Oh, they said, you've come too far! So I trudged along beside them until they motioned to a building that I knew couldn't be right, but decided to go in anyway. The man inside confirmed that this in fact wasn't COMUCAP's office, pointed at a black gate, and told me that it was the next gate after that. I thanked him and went up to that gate. Locked. And it looked sort of like a house. I didn't know what to do. If I had been in Costa Rica, maybe I would have yelled "Upe!", but this was not Costa Rica and I didn't know what to do. I tried to ask a little old lady who passed by, but she told me it was the doctor's house and rushed away...ok.... I decided to abort and try calling to ask directions. Back at the hotel, after finally figuring out how to work a rotary dial phone, and correctly entering the number, it didn't work. Great. Almost in tears and really really appreciating the small size of La Estrella (probably the only place I've ever been where I haven't gotten lost), I forced myself to go back into the fray. When I arrived back at the gate and was trying to decide whether I should just open the gate or yell from where I was standing, the man I had talked to earlier came out and led me to the next house, "No, THIS gate." Oh. When I arrived, the women were all sitting at a table in the center of the room. They were relieved to see that I had finally made it since they had heard about an hour before that I had been wandering around asking for them, but then had disappeared. It seems that Marcala is in fact small, and that I will never ever find a place without getting lost first. The first question Marlen asked me was, "So, what do you?" Still a bit shaken from my hours lost in a town of 10,000 people and nervous about the sad shape of my Spanish, I stammered on about the MCC and MCA-H and trying to work with them to include gender in their programming. Marlen nodded, taking notes, and then said that there would be a big meeting with a whole bunch of organizations whose names I didn't catch, and how much time did I need for my presentation about what exactly the MCC is? 10-15 minutes I replied meekly, and it was so noted. That done, Marlen told me that there were apartments next door and that we would now go and look at them. We went, I saw, I liked, and I said yes. After my first half hour on the job, I had a presentation to do and a place to live. Pretty good. My spirits were being to tentatively lift.When we returned back to the office, I was asked if I wanted to go see the finca. Um, yeah! Five minutes later, bumping along an actually pretty decent road in a mud-splattered pickup truck, picking up people who were going in our same direction, and admiring the mountains around me, I almost laughed at the contrast between my life only three days before and my life now. Before going to the finca, we went to a little place to pick up some little trees. The men loaded them in the truck bed while I was shown around a bit. At the finca, I helped unload the trees, getting nice and dirty... and attacked by ants. The resulting bites all around my ankles that made everyone gasp reminded me that I am, pathetically, allergic to the horrible little monsters. But it was ok, fun to be outside again. But my first day adventures were not over.Instead of going back to the office, I was asked if I needed to use the bathroom or anything because it was a long ride. Wait, what?! Where were we going next? I had obviously missed something and was too embarrassed to ask. So with me still totally in the dark, we turned off onto a road reminiscent of the one leading to La Estrella and bumped along for about 45 minutes before coming to another town. It seemed to that Lydia had business in town with a partner. She jumped out the car too quickly for me to ask if I should come too, so I sat with the driver and got to know him pretty well. After twenty minutes or so, Lydia jumped back into the truck and we were on our way again.By the time we got back to Marcala it was dark and I was starving! I had a nice dinner, joined by a little girl who was six years old and could count to ten in English at warp speed, and was about to leave when one of the guys from COMUCAP asked me if I wanted to have an after dinner beer with him and my new friend from the truck. And so, that's how my first day working at COMUCAP ended, sipping a beer in a Honduran restaurant chatting in Spanish about music and sports.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1211669940/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1211669940/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/3/1211669940/tpod.html Sat, 24 May 2008 19:31:36 -0400 Still Not Ready to Settle Down...

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Tegucigalpa, Honduras

Well I made it! And though I've spent most of my first day in Honduras sleeping (having woken up at 4 am to leave this morning), I think I'm going to like it here. I must say that though I have been crazily excited about this trip since the posibility of interning with COMUCAP was brought up at that DC lunch back in March, in the last few weeks the dread started to sink in a bit. As everyone says, this should be easy for me by now, no big deal! As they remind me, I went around the world by myself and then taught in a tiny Costa Rican village for a year without even knowing Spanish. Three months in a city with THOUSANDS of people should be a piece of cake. But it doesn't matter how much I've travelled or how often I've jumped out of or off of things, or how many strange situations I've gotten myself into and out of while travelling, each trip is a different adventure. And each adventure, as exciting as it may be to plan and talk about while sitting comfortably in some DC restaurant with friends, is still a scary leap of faith when it actually comes time to do it. And I know that I can do it, but arriving in a strange country, in a strange city that everyone has told me is super dangerous, without a hotel reservation and only my instincts to tell me whether this taxi driver is not going steal my bags and sell me into an underground slave trade is still a bit daunting. Luckily I have absolutely fabulous instincts, though, and I have made it safe and sound to Guadalupe 2 where I have already made friends with the front desk guy who has helped me figure out the bus schedule for the four hour trip to Marcala tomorrow and the hostel's wireless internet (which is SO exciting!). I haven't seen much of Tegucigalpa, just what was visible from the road as I made my way to the hostel, but I can already tell that it is a different animal than San Jose. There don't seem to be many, if any, really tall buildings, and everything has a dusty, sweaty, and slightly rundown feel. It certainly doesn't feel like a capital city, more like a one of those little towns in Zona del Sur, Costa Rica that just happens to have a lot of people in it. But I like the sweaty sexiness of its untamed humanity already. Let's just hope I don't get mugged by that sweaty humanity. Sitting in an open air hallway that has been converted into a sitting area by placing two love seats and a coffee table in the middle, I can feel the heat of the day being blown away by a light breeze as early evening sets in. The bustling noise of motorcycles and cars going by, music blasting from radios, and shouts between friends in the street has quieted down some. But I am wide awake now. Probably more than I have been in months. This is why I'm here, this feeling, the one I always get when I'm on the road or starting something new. I have no idea what will happen tomorrow or who I will meet, and that's the beauty of it. That's what I love. ANYTHING can happen!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1211301900/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1211301900/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1211301900/tpod.html Tue, 20 May 2008 13:10:51 -0400 My address is now La Maestra de Ingles en La Estrella...

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Arlington, Virginia, United States

I write now after a long hiatus, not because there was nothing to write, but because sometimes just living is a big job in itself. The last months in Costa Rica were a whirlwind of school projects, class trips, preformances, reunions, final exams, new friendships, and goodbye parties. I left La Estrella with tears, as it should have been, and I went home with a smile, as it also should have been. And so I entered life in good old DC, dove right in actually. In January I started grad school in American University's International Development program. February I became Women Thrive Worldwide's newest global development policy intern. The hope is that someday I will actually get paid for the things I love to do. In the meantime, I've taken up residence in my childhood room and have put off plans to buy a diamond-studded airplane until I somehow become rich and famous.... Once again I thought that I would be here in DC for awhile. I thought that FINALLY I would be ready to settle down for a bit. I guess I should know better my now. While normal people grow out of or get tired of the travelling, it's like my cocaine - I've gotten a taste and just want more. So, in four days I will be off to Honduras for three months. My internship with Women Thrive has led to an internship with their newest partner in Honduras, COMUCAP. Once again I will be living in the mountains, far from the beach, in a town known for being the coldest part of the country. At least this time there will be internet, paved roads, and a population in the 1,000s. Should be an interesting summer...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1193516160/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1193516160/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1193516160/tpod.html Sun, 28 Oct 2007 14:13:08 -0400 My address is now La Maestra de Ingles en La Estrella...

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La Estrella, Costa Rica

It had, amazingly stopped raining and I hoped that the clear skies would hold up at least until I made it to the bus. Things appeared to be pretty stable for now, but you never really know in Costa Rica. One good gust could blow in the storm clouds and within five minutes a perfectly beautifulday will be pounded by ¨aguacero¨ until the next morning. But so far so good. I grabbed my purse with my money, lip gloss, and a cheap (practically useless) Costa Rican umbrella stuffed inside. I was not going to be late for the bus today. I was determined. But, as always, Nena and Nago answered my ¨Chau!¨ with protests. "But you haven´t had your cafecito!" "Esta bien! Esta bien! No necesito cafe,gracias!" Nena usually understands that I really don´t want to eat when I beg off food (especially when served only two hours after breakfast), but Nago always persists."Tiene tiempo!" I think he would say that I have time as the bus is pulling away if itw would get me to eat more. But I skillfully extracted myself from yet another food stand-off by rubbing my stomach and groaning slightly. "Llena. Muy, muy llena!" I had ten minutes to go the longer and less muddier way down to the bus stop. Not being naturally skilled in walking in heels along rocky roads as all Ticas seem to be, I needed those ten minutes. With a final, and definitive,"Chau!" I stepped out the door. Immediately my heels sunk into the mud and I was stuck, much like that tar incident in Orosi. I let out a little yelp which brought both Nago and Nena running. "Don´t go abajo, it´s muddy," Nago told me as Nena ran for paper towels. I decided not to mention the fact that I was not going abajo, that the worse mud was right out the door. Galloping up the hill on tip toes so as not to get stuck again, clutching paper towels for future us, and holding down my dress against the wind, I made my way to the bus. The last wedding I had gone to had been in the states. It had started out with clean feet and a car. I wondered what other surprises this day would hold for me.I had heard whistles as I gingerly picked my wayto the bus door. Lalo wasn´t in his driver´s seatyet, so I was forced to wait in view of the pulperia guys and whoever this whistler was. I looked up with a scowl to let whoever it was know that after nine months I´m still not amused by such behavior. It was Luis Miguel, my newly-single friend who had tried to kiss me the last time I had seen him. He smiled, knowing full well my annoyance, and yelled down, "Tan guapa!" I ducked my head to hide my smile. I must admit, I did look pretty good. It was the firsttime I had anything to wear my one and only dress to and my legs were shaved for the fist time in weeks. I even had on some make up and had managed to put my Tico-cut hair into an up-do. Though slightly unsteady, I was pleased with the effects the heels and months of walking up and down the mountain had on my calf muscles. When I looked up again, Luis Miguel was making his way down the hill with his eyes on me and that damned cocky grin still plastered across his face. But, saved by a student, Lizeth prancedup to me in a pretty pink party dress for a besito. She was going to the wedding too. Together we climbed in the bus and took our seats."Don´t worry about the boys," she told me. "They bother Jenny, too." As Jenny, a petite 18-year-old, climbed on the bus in her wedding-wear, I told them both that men are the same all over the world. All you have to do to keep them in line is give them a few whacks with an umbrella. This was in referenceto an episode with Kevin, my 15-year-old "novio" who had been a bit forceful when asking for a besito only two nights before Luis Miguel had made his move. This being a small town, everyonehad heard about what had happened, and the girls giggled as both my suitors made their way down the aisle. It looked like we would all be attending the Deanna´s nuptuals that afternoon.By the time the ceremony ended, it was cold and dumping down rain. I shivered while trying to figure out the perplexing event that is a Costa Rican boda. Everyonehad arrived late, including the bride, and I was probably the most dressed up on all the guests. Most people werein jeans, Luis Miguel was wearing a t-shirt (and this was his sister getting married!), and the girls who did dress up a bit were in tight little outfits better suited for a club. Before the wedding party walked down the aisle, a video camera was shoved into my hand and I was told to hurry inside to get a shot ofthe big entrance. I never really understood why this job was delegated to me, but after Deana passed by, I quickly handed the device to Carlito (another brother of Deana´s) to take over. The rest of the ceremony went rather quickly, the Spanish puncutated by en electronic version of "Ave Maria" emitted with the press of a button from a little keyboard in the corner. After the newlywed couple french kissed for a good two minutes, thus firmly sealling their vows, half of the congregation got up and left. The couple ended up taking their first married journey down the center aisle amid a crowd of relatives and friends chatting about how they were going to get to the salon for the party.And what a party it was! There weren´t enough plastic lawn chairs for everyone, so the men lined the walls as the women settled themselves at long tables holding 3.1 liter bottles of grape-flavored soda and plastic plates of pastries. Neither looked too appetizing to me, so I scanned the crowd for yet another of Deana´s brothers, Alejandro, who has become my unofficial dance partner. The first dance was a merengue, Alejandro´s favorite. But as he spun me the first time, I realized that I may have made a bad choice of wardrobe. My skirt went flying out (and up), revealling my victoria secret underwear to a wide-eyed Lizeth dancing to my right. Luckily I had chosen a cute, full-coverage pair. And no one else seemed to notice, so I figured that as long as I didn´t spin too fast, I´d be ok. After all, I can never resist a good dance. When the reggatone cam on, however, I thanked Alejandro and sat down to watch the grandmas attempt to shake it to the sounds of a strong bass and foghorn. But it wasn´t until the salsa began and the mystery guy from San José asked me to dance that the real fun began. This guy was good, really good! And under normal circumstances I would have had the time of my life. I would have dance with him the whole night. But what followed instead was one of hte most embarrassing ten minutes of my life in Costa Rica. I knew I was in trouble after the first quick turn. The eyes of the grannies gew wider and wider as the turns got trickier and faster, as my skirt spun out further and further, and as more and more of the room got an eye-full of my cute, full-coverage black and pink victoria secret panties. I was torn between throwing myself completely into the moves and trying to hold down the skirt that seemed to be spinning around my waist now. Luis Miguel grabbed the video camera from his brother and turned it on me. I made horrified hand gestures for him to stop, that I would kill him if he pressed play, desperate to keep some of my dignity in tact. He just laughed and gave me a flash of that cocky grin. Lizeth and two other little girls appeared at my side giggling. The guy spinning me, now aware of what was going on, spun me harder. By the the time the song finally finished, my face bright red from both exertion and embarrassment, I sat down giggling apologetically to the woman beside me. She turned to me smiling, patted my knee, and said, "Que buena una bailarina!" Miraculously, my underwear-flashing dancing seemed to remind everyone of their favorite program, "Bailando por un sueño" where underwear flashing is a sign of good dancing. There were all impressed by my moves! I decided, though, that after that little exhibition I needed a drink. So though I normally would have said no, when Luis Miguel came over chuckling to himself and asked if I wanted to go get a beer, I only hesitated a moment.It turned out to be a smokey little places with "Ali" playing on four TVs featuring a spanish-speaking Will Smith. I got my usual Imperial Light and drank out of the bottle while Luis Miguel sipped his Imperial from a cup with ice. We laughed about the attempted kiss incident, talked about random stuff, and said hello to his father making his own beer run while throwing a knowing wink at his son. It was actually quite enjoyable. When we had finished our beers and I had decided that we´d been gone long enough to give the town something to talk about, we made our way back to the party.On the way back, Luis Miguel turned to me and said that he liked my company, that I talked a lot and he liked hearing about other places. He said that he wouldn´t try to kiss me again until I wanted to be kissed. I thanked him, amazing by such un-machismo things coming otu of a Costa Rican man´s mouth. But then he threw me a devilish smirk and asked when I thought I´d be ready for that kiss. Feeling much like a character out of a 1950s musical comedy, I playfully slapped him on the arm and stepped back into the now-raoring party. In a move that would have made Doris Day very proud, I said, "Let´s stick with dancing for now." As he took my hand and led me to the dance floor, I pulled away slightly and stuck my finger in his face warningly. "But don´t even think about fast turns!"By 6 o´clock the party was winding down and I was beginning to wonder how I would make it back to La Estrella. But then Jenny and Lizeth came up and offered me a ride back in their family´s buseta. But first we had to stop at another party, a Quinceñera, if that was ok. Eager to see where this turn of events would take me, I jumped at the invitation. Luis Miguel began a lengthy speech about how much fun he had with me, but I stopped him with a besito on the cheek (an ode to Sandra Dee) and a "chau," before scurrying after Jenny wondering what else the night had in store for me.When we walked in I immediately noticed how much more people were dressed up here than at the wedding. There were also cute little Thanksgiving-like decorations on the tables, a DJ, and kids on teh dancefloor playing with balloons that had apparently been dropped from nets strung from the ceiling. Immediately we were greeted by the birthday girl´s mother who was thrilled to have the maestra de ingles, of whome she had heard so much, at her daughter´s party. Within minutes we were seated, given our very own 3.1 liter of soda (mega-cola this time), and handed plates filled with rice, veggies, and some sort of meat.I had bearly finished my plate of food when a cumbia started up and I was pulled onto the dancefloor by Lalo, Lizeth and Jenny´s dad as well as the town busdriver. I think this maneuver was partly so that their son, a shy 21-year-old totally under the thumb of his mother, woudln´t try to do so. But I didn´t care. Once up there, plenty of less-shy guys to dance with me. And dance we did! This party was even more happening than the wedding. Mostly dominated by a less-foghorn-happy form of reggatone, everyone was sweaty and happy and shaking it as much as they could. It was the closest I had gotten to an American-style party since I´d been in Costa Rica. That is until pom-poms and whistles were passed out and loud drumming was heard at the door.I turned to look just as a procession of girls wearing belly dancer outfits and guys in what appeared to be brightly colored silk pjs made their way to the center of the room. The girls had whistles in their mouths and three of the guys were pounding on huge drums that hung from their necks. They were all gyrating wildly and seemed to invite the rest of us to do the same. I put my whistle to the side of my mouth like a cigar, held my pom pom in one hand, and somehow managed to figure out the dance steps. Before I knew it, I was pulled into the line of male dancers, swivelling and stomping to the beat, with the rest of the party cheering me on. Then there was a conga line and everyone jiggled through a human tunnel. We were breathless and sweaty, but hte beat of those drums now being flipped back and forth by their owners kept us all going. And suddenly, at what seemed to be the height of the frenzy, a whistle blew and the drums fell silent. Reggatone was turned back on, trying to keep the momentum going, but the spell had been broken. The drummers and bellydancers refreshed themselves with dixi cups of mega-cola and left. The rest of us, suddenly tired with aching feet, made our way back to our tables for our own dixi cups of cola. Only a few remained on the dance floor, half-heartedly swaying their hips tot he beat.Just as I was beginning to catch my breath and stop the sweat pouring down my forehead, Jenny tapped me on the shoulder. Time to go. As we walked towards the door, I gave my pom pom to Lizeth for her pom pom bouquet and swung my purse. But I was stopped before we could quite make our exit. A tall young man, evne by US standards, asked if I wanted to dance. He was cute and it was merengue, bt it was time to leave. I was starting to make my apologies when I saw Lalo with an older woman guiding him around the dance floor. He gave me a little shrug and grinned. I looked up at my tall young man and smiled. Well, one more dance wouldn´t hurt.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1190559600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1190559600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1190559600/tpod.html Sat, 13 Oct 2007 11:01:05 -0400 My address is now La Maestra de Ingles en La Estrella...

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Cañas, Costa Rica

They had never seen the ocean before. For most of them Cartago is a big city, San Jose another world completely. The idea of traveling in a bus for more than two hours, let alone five, was something completely foreign - exciting but scary. But that's what we did.The English Club kids wanted to go to Guanacaste. Living in the cold mountains where it rains for most of the year, the idea of a hot, dry place filled with famously beautiful beaches enchanted them. So I did the necessary research. So, do you guys swim? Well, sort of...kind of...we can doggy paddle in the stagnant pond behind the soccer field. Ok, so we're not going to the beach. But where to go? And how to make this educational? And then I discovered Las Pumas, a small animal reserve that takes in animals from the wild that have been hurt because of human development. When the animals are healed (if they ever are), they are returned to the wild. But until then, the reserve has an impressive collection of large cats that aren't easily seen in the wild. When I called them, they were thrilled to have us, and even offered to give a talk on conservation and what it means for an animal to be extinct. Perfect. And then afterwards we can go and hang out for a bit in Canas, a typical Guanacaste town very different from La Estrella. Excellent. And now to convince the parents that their children will be safe with me, and that going to Guanacaste isn't really the ends of the Earth. I don't think I realized just how difficult this might be.After a week of scared mothers coming up to me demanding that they be able to come too (I had already said a decisive no to bringing any babies!), I finally relented. It was the only way really. So I found a larger buseta that would hold all the English Club kids and each of their mothers. All was set, all were happy. And then the day before the trip, four kids couldn't come after all. Then the mothers decided they didn't really want to go anymore, but could Tio Danny come? How about the older sister, Andrea? She's in colegio, but very mature for her age. I said yes to all, tired and unable at that late date to change to a smaller bus. At 9 pm the night before I was still getting calls about bringing other older siblings. By the time we finally left, only two mothers actually ended up joining us. But, this is Costa Rica. At least the no baby rule was followed.We met down in front of the church at 4:30 am so that we would have plenty of time at the reserve before the rains began. And everything started out smoothly. The bus was only fifteen minutes late and all the kids were more or less on time as well. When one mother not coming with us grabbed my arm and looked into my eyes beseeching me to keep an eye on her daughter and bring her back safely, I easily extracted myself and assured her that Fernanda would be fine. Once on the bus, all the kids stretched out on the back seats, as far away from Teacher as possible (kids are really the same all over the world), and immediately fell asleep. I was about to doze off myself when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Andrea, Omar's sister, asking if I had a towel. What? Why? What happened? Why did she need a towel? Then she mimed her brother throwing up. I looked down the aisle, and sure enough, it was as I had feared. Now, I had brought Dramamine and had passed out puke bags in the event that someone felt the urge to spill the contents of their stomach. I had felt that I had taken all the necessary precautions. I had not thought to bring towels to mop up vomit from the floor. Luckily, though, there was an old rag on the floor for wiping feet that worked perfectly for wiping up puke too. After that, the ride to Las Pumas went quickly and smoothly...thank God!And when we arrived, emerging from the buseta stretching and yawning, the kids seemed equally amazed by the heat as the exotic birds in the nearest enclosure. And sure enough, it did feel like a completely different country from the one that we had left that morning. Sweatshirts that we had hugged to our bodies only four hours before were flung back on the buseta and pant legs rolled up. The air was steamy though it was only 9 am. Everyone looked around them in astonishment with even the most mundane things...but these weren't just any trees or rocks, these were trees and rocks in Guanacaste. After acclimating ourselves to our new surroundings, a young scientist came to give a speech about conservation and what human development does to animals in Costa Rica. I beamed as my students stood in rapture, intently listening with growing concern to what the woman was saying. They had no idea that animals could disappear forever. How horrible that they may never get a chance to see native Costa Rican animals that someone from Germany has seen. Cloistered in their little La Estrella world they had no idea the extent to which their country has been developed (mostly by foreign investors), and just how much harm this has done to their country. Fascinated by the pictures of these mysterious animals, of the molds taken from their footprints, and the sad stories of what is happening to them, questions flew left and right. At first shy and hesitant to speak, they came alive with their growing interest. I stood a little apart, bursting with pride for my students who were not only well-behaved but engaged too. I wanted to jump up and down with joy as Johnny, my oldest boy who never talks in class, became the one raising his hand the most.And then we went to see the animals. We saw various types of wild cats and toucans and monkeys and parrots. Each had a story and some were even missing limbs, but they all elicited gasps of wonder and joy from my students. When we came up to the jaguar's enclosure they couldn't believe their eyes. He was so big and so beautiful, totally unconcerned with the crowd staring at him in awe; to them, he was a picture come to life. Even when the rains started, it was hard to tear the kids away from these fabulous new creatures. And we're talking about kids who get out their umbrellas at the slightest misting. By the time we got back on the bus to spend some time in Canas, they were giddy with excitement. Just wait till the guys at home hear that they saw a real live jaguar...and monkeys!!!In Canas we ate ice cream in the parque central, admiring the mosaic-covered church and nativity scene bandstand. I was afraid that they would get bored without a planned activity, but when I suggested we head back to La Estrella, they all groaned in protest. So we stayed and took silly pictures and explored and just relaxed, enjoying the luxury of having absolutely nothing that we had to do. And then they discovered the public telephones, so everyone just had to call home (remember, phones are still somewhat of a novelty in La Estrella). I mean, who could resist making a phone call from Guanacaste?! But then it was time to herd everyone back on the bus, laden down with enough snacks to keep their sugar high going for the next four hours. But we weren't finished yet. About an hour into our trip, the driver whispered for me to come to the front seat. Do you think they know the ocean? And I looked at him, and he was smiling, and I smiled back. Let's go, I said. So we made the turn off for Puntarenas while most of the bus was asleep (despite the sugary snacks and cokes they'd be sipping). And then all of a sudden, there it was. El mar. I poked Johnny who was sitting across from me. Look, I said. And he did. And I will always remember that face, at first only half awake and then just totally awestruck. And suddenly everybody was up and at the windows, pointing and gasping and giggling at the unexpected surprise. The driver, grinning just about as wide as was possible, pulled over and suggested that we go down and get a closer look. It wasn't a beautiful beach, not the white sand blue water kind that are so prized by American travelers (myself included), but at that moment it couldn't have been more perfect. We ran down to the water, slipping and sliding in the sand, loving the feeling of a texture so foreign. I tried to keep my teacher authority going, but when they looked at me with eyes begging to get at least part way into the waves how could I say no? Within seconds of me giving the ok, shoes and socks were thrown into a pile while their owners splashed into the water - soaked almost immediately. They would play with the waves, running back to land when the big ones came and then bravely striding back in knee deep when they went out again. It was like watching those little kids at the beach rolling around in the sand with those huge wedgies and even bigger smiles on their little faces. It was pure, innocent fun. Infectious laughter carried on the fresh sea breeze, whipping back hair and leaving a slightly salty taste on the tongue. When I was finally cajoled into putting my camera away and joining the fun, I felt like I was twelve again skipping barefoot with my pants rolled up into the surf. As my toes met the water, a giggle escaped from lips parted in a wide grin, and my students' giddiness became my own. I don't remember the first time that I saw the ocean; probably too young to remember. But on this day, the day my students first saw that vast expanse of water disappearing into the horizon, I was able to see it through new eyes - their eyes. All those memories of all those other times in all those different places were gone, swept away by the laughter still carried along on the wind. Together we saw the sea for the first time; together we experienced this gift - from me to them and from them to me. Thank you once again to all those generous people who, through your kind donations, have made this day possible. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1192287300/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1192287300/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1192287300/tpod.html Sat, 13 Oct 2007 10:57:13 -0400 My address is now La Maestra de Ingles en La Estrella...

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La Estrella, Costa Rica

Well, I finally decided that I've had enough of people telling me that I look "mas guapa" now that I'm "gordita" and that I was "muy flaca" when I arrived, but now I look better. Yes, I know that these are compliments. And yes, I know that us western women have a skewed vision of the perfect body and a warped idea of what the correct weight is. I know that the ideal Tica beauty with big boobs, big butt, and a little extra meat all around is way healthier than the slim waif who only ever orders side salads with water. I was a women's studies major; I know the theories behind western society wanting women to take up as little space as possible in the world, thus robbing us of our strength, beauty, and inner power. I know all this. And I keep telling myself this as I examine my new...squishier...self. I tell myself to love my body and enjoy the fabulous cooking of my host mother. But then I think of what I looked like when I returned from my last year-long trip abroad, I think of going home to the Christmas season in two short months, but most of all I think of what I will look like in a swimsuit at my end-of-year WorldTeach party in Tamarindo. And thinking of this finally did it. After trying so hard to see the beauty in a couple extra pounds and allowing myself to loose the internal battles over whether to eat that last tortilla and queso, I have finally been overpowered by that evil little inner voice that every American woman seems to develop by age thirteen telling her to drop the pounds. And it sounded a little like this: Do you really want jiggly thighs at the beach? Hasn't your butt gotten a little too ghetto booty-ish? Love handles may be lovely on babies, but sweetie, you're 24! And have you taken a look at that stomach?! Time to lay off the Imperial, honey!So I've given in, or come around depending on how you look at it I guess. I've made a stand and, once again, consume only salads for lunch. My rice consumption has drastically dropped from heaping platefuls to only a few spoonfuls. I've started walking up the mountain in the mornings before the rains begin. And, I've started doing dance aerobics. Yes, that's right, dance aerobics. Tico style. Which is way more fun, and probably way weirder than dance aerobics in the States. At least I assume so, never having actually done dance aerobics before. But there's a first for everything, right?So. Three times a week I don my new three quarter length yoga pants and grungy tank top and head over to my friend Seida's house where I meet my other friend Adriana for our workout. I should mention that Seida no longer joins us because she has to work in her just-opened panaderia selling melt-in-your-mouth breads that give off a torturously yummy smell while baking. "Remember your thighs!" yells that little voice in my head every time I enter the house. So, with those thighs in mind, Adriana and I determinedly move the TV and DVD player from the bedroom into the larger back room in a very systematic way that we have developed over the past couple weeks. She disconnects the plugs while I handle the cable, and we both manhandle the TV into place. Once all is set up, usually the sound or picture or both aren't working. So then Adriana gets a wooden brush and bangs the front of the set for the sound and I use my palm to hit the side of it for the picture. Pretty soon when everything is in working order, we get in our self-assigned places, ready to begin. Of course by now we are not alone. Emily, Adriana's adorable redheaded nine-year-old, has been a faithful workout companion since the beginning. And more recently, we have also been joined by Glen and Kendall, Seida's 7-year-old twins, who love to jump and wiggle to the music. Even Kiki, Seida's two-year-old, joins in with amazingly accurate imitations of my movements. I'm not really sure whether to be deeply disturbed or charmed and flattered by her mimicry, but I decide just to go with it.On the TV, the picture shows a group of attractive, toned Latinos speaking in both English and Spanish. "This is Zumba, baby!" they tell us, and we're off. They show us the moves slowly for about five seconds and then it's up to full speed for 45 minutes of ass-shaking dance aerobics! As we shake our hips and skip along to salsa, meringue, cumbia, and a weird sort of belly dancing, I glance over at my students in amazement. Even at this young age, they definitely know how to shake it! No wonder this is a country of dancers; just look at the way little Kendall is moving his hips! And then I can't help but to contemplate if this whole thing is ok, shaking it with the kids. It's definitely not something that would be likely to happen in the States, that's for sure. But then again, Dorothy, we're not exactly in the States anymore!Every once in awhile the action is interrupted when the sound or picture go again, causing us all to run up and bang on the TV while dancing in place, trying to keep the momentum going. I like to think that it breaks the monotony of the continuous hip swiveling...because what we're doing is monotonous... During the course of a workout I will step on Kiki a couple times and Glen will run into me while Emily giggles and Adriana quickly mops up water leaking from the ceiling because of too much "aguacero". It's crazy with about as much focus on just keeping the whole activity going as on the actual dance moves themselves. But by the end of forty-five minutes my legs are feeling it, my abs seems a little bit tighter, and the sweat is streaming down my back. "Good work out," I say while drinking my water out of a coffee mug before moving the TV back to the bedroom in another beautifully synchronized routine with Adriana. "Cafecito?" says Seida with a plate of perfectly golden brown, freshly baked French bread chunks topped by thick slabs of my favorite cheese. My little inner voice starts to say something about thighs and back fat, but I silence it before it can begin. I do have some strength left in me after all, though I guess some would call it weakness. "What the hell?" I say as I grab a hunk of bread and sit down for a gab session with my curvy friends. In the end, this is Costa Rica and back fat is SEXY in Costa Rica!!!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1189266120/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1189266120/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1189266120/tpod.html Sat, 08 Sep 2007 12:23:01 -0400 My address is now La Maestra de Ingles en La Estrella...

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La Estrella, Costa Rica

Costa Rican women love their shoes. And I mean LOVE in a way that even my college roommate, who must own at least ten pairs of cowboy boots alone, wouldn´t understand. These women are obsessed with shoes on a totally different level then American women. We´re talking Sex in the City meets In Her Shoes meets the aggression of those people who get up at 5 am to be the first one inside Target the day after Thanksgiving. Ticas LOVE shoes. And not just any shoes, they mostly favor those shoes that if I wore them even under the best of circumstances, I would fall and die or at least break my ankle. Who know the kind - really really high with heels that come down into an impossibly small point and give excruciating blisters. And these women totter around in these shoes on rutted roads holding a baby in one hand, dragging along a toddler with the other, and shaking their their butts in a seductive way that only Latin women can pull off. Even in their own homes they see no reason to kick off the torture devices. I had a very "Leave it to Beaver" moment yesterday when I walked in my house for lunch and there was Jessica, my host sister, mopping the floor in a poka dot halter tank top, neon green shorts, and strappy heels. She looked up grinning and said, "Hola, Lacey," just like any other day. I decided not to say anything about the footwear. In the past eight months (yes, it´s been eight months already!) the Tica Shoe Obsession hasn´t really played much of a role in my life. Recently, however, Teacher has made a major fashion faux pau! You see, when I get up in the morning and think about what to wear on my feet, I think ok, flipflops, flats, or walking shoes? When Ticas get up in the morning they think, hhhmmmm, stilettos, platforms, or wedges? When I see that during a rainstorm the roads become rivers and after a rain they become mud slides with what some would call puddles, but what I would call mini-lakes, I think I need to get some boots. The Ticas think that I´ve suddenly gone soft in the head. It all started after I wrote my last entry and just got so sick of mudsplattered pants. My kids have been wearing these big black rainboots all year, and they seem so practical and not that ugly at all. So I casually mentioned to my family that I was going to buy myself a pair of these boots when I next went to Cartago. They laughed, thinking that I was joking. A woman over ten wearing rain boots?! Ridiculous! When I assured them that I was in fact serious, Jessica just looked at me and said that women don´t wear boots, only the kids and men. Thinking that this would be great fodder for discussion in one of my women´s studies classes (a modern binding of the feet, perhaps? Men allowed to splash around the campo in boots while women are forced to totter around on crippling heels...), I ran the idea by Sandra. She just looked at me. Mario slapped me on the back and laughingly told me to look at the Cartago mercado. So, not to be detered, I did and found a great pair of black rainboots that come up about midcalf. On Monday I proudly splashed along the road to school. What freedom! What relief! How nice not to have to dodge the lakes and worry how my school flats are doing on the rocks and if my pants have been splattered. How fabulous was this liberating walk to school!But when my students saw my feet, only some of them dared to ask what I was wearing. The others just stared in wonder. The older girls giggled. One first grade boy held is foot next to mine, looked up at me part with worry and part with pride that we had the same shoes. My fourth grade, always quick to compliment me on any changes I make to my person, pronounced them "lindo, Teacher." Mario exclaimed in surprise that I had actually gone through with my plan to buy my boots, but then went on a ten minute speech on how these were practical shoes and how all women should get them. They are made of rubber! They have traction! They are inexpensive! Sandra said that they weren´t that bad and how much were they again? Magaly, the kinder teacher and Queen of the tottering shoes, asked if they had similar ones but with a nice wedge heel. I said I didn´t know, but that she could go see. They had a lot of stuff in the back. So, just like with my hair cut, my boots have become a conversation piece in town. Are they comfortable, Teacher? They don´t feel too heavy? Gosh, you´re feet are big, Teacher! And though the purchase of my rainboots (which has turned out to be quite a gender transgression) hasn´t had quite the same support as the chopping off of my hair, I still do have some supporters. And who knows, when I get back to town this week, maybe there will be other boot-clad women stomping around. Or maybe not.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1188065460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1188065460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/bootsmade4wlkin/la_estrella/1188065460/tpod.html Sun, 02 Sep 2007 16:44:07 -0400 My address is now La Maestra de Ingles en La Estrella...

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La Estrella, Costa Rica

As a fun ending for my unit on jobs and places, I decided to have a career day for my students. When I told them that they would need to come to school dressed as what they wanted to be when they grew up, yes anything they wanted, they screamed with excitement. If Shakira herself decided to have a concert in little La Estrella I doubt there could have been more excitement. For two days all my students talked about was what they were going to be and what they were going to wear. My family's little used clothing store attached to the house was mobbed by my students and their mothers looking for the perfect outfits for doctors, police officers, and firefighters. Everyday at school I had at least five kids come up making sure that they could be whatever they wanted and that the big day was in fact on Thursday. After assuring them that, yes, for the hundredth time, they had complete freedom in their career choice and that the day was correct, they would get this look on their face that some American kids get when they look at an ice cream sundae. When Thursday finally arrived, the excitement at school was palpable. My fourth graders were first and when I walked into my classroom the soccer players were deeply involved in a pick up game, the doctor was examining the housewife's baby while the farmer/cowboy looked on, and the students were getting out their notebooks. They each proudly had their turn in front of the class declaring, "I am a doctor (or whatever they happened to be)," and striking a pose for the camera. In 2nd and 3rd grade things pretty much went the same way. There were the soccer players, doctors, farmers/cowboys, a fireman, a team of teachers, a few giggling actresses, two veterinarians with their dogs in tow (one of which being Chiclet), and even a forest ranger. After the requisite photos, they were paired up with a fellow career person and given a place in which they had to set a mimed scene. The forest ranger helped the firefighter put out a fire at school, a doctor gave an actress a shot after she was rushed to the hospital, and the veterinarians together cured their dogs after a walk in a supermarket. In first grade, half of my girls were teachers who were way more fashionably dressed then I ever am, though I was flattered to see all the sunglasses pushed up on their heads as mine always are. I did have a jolt, though, when I saw that one of my boys dressed as a farmer had rounded out his costume with a real machete hanging at his side. It's the little things like this that remind me where I am. (One day I walked outside to see my two year old host nephew playing with a machete while my host brother, his father, was chopping wood with yet another machete next to him. When my mom later called me worried that the matchbox cars she had bought as a gift for this two year old were meant for kids three and over, I assured her that this would most definitely not be a problem.) The fifth and six graders, who probably spend more time thinking about their future jobs, ended up being a bit more creative with their assignment. Along with the teachers (again with the sunglasses on their heads), veterinarians (dogs still in tow), and soccer players, there were also two photographers and an artist along with a singer, bus driver, secretary, and lawyer. One girl even came as a university student and two as police officers. Their scenes included one in which the police officers busted a soccer player who was caught shoplifting, an artist chastising a photographer taking unauthorized pictures of her art, and a lawyer-secretary team defending a criminal (played by me) in jail. At the end of the day, walking home as the first drops of the afternoon rain started to fall, I reflected back on the aspirations of my students. They had all been so excited, some of them so sure of what they wanted to be. The park ranger couldn't wait to defend animals from the poachers in the national parks and the secretary was very serious about her ambitions to make it to that office job. Everyday I see all these kids with so much promise, so smart and working so hard against odds I don't even think they're aware of, and it gives me hope. Walking home that day, even though I'm not really one for praying, I sent a little prayer up to the dark clouds above anyway. Please let these kids make it, please give them a chance to do what they really want with their lives. Please.
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