KennedyBunkPork

Many Peace Corps volunteers pick up odd hobbies over the course of our 27 months in an effort to help pass time. As a matter of fact, Tico 19 is planning a talent show for 2011, when we will show off our new so-called “talents” to our peers. Lately, I have taken to making elaborate birthday cards with magazine cut-outs, colored pencils, and markers. Get excited… if you’re lucky, you’ll get two before I complete my service! I have also found a guitar teacher, who is committed enough to helping me learn the guitar that he is trying to coordinate a trip with me to San Jose to pick out a guitar. Who knows, maybe I’ll return to Queens to be part of a mariachi band?

I am also pleased to report that I have finally confronted my fear of dancing in Ortega. People in Ortega live for parties! While work is seasonal and times are tough, we would rather have our coffee “con lengua” (literally means “with tongue”, which is another way of saying that there is no money to buy bread), than forego having an Imperial at the Saturday disco. Anyway, I certainly did not expect to find this scene in my Rural Community Development site as a Peace Corps volunteer- the salon comunal transformed into a dance floor, smoke machine, strobe lights, and karaoke screens. Up until last weekend, I have conveniently had (made) plans on dance nights, so as not to have had to face the questions: “want a drink” or “want to dance?” I should have known that the weekend of the celebration of the annexation of Guanacaste would bring not one dance, but two. So when I came back to my town on Sunday, I was greeted with the dreaded question: “are you going to the dance tonight?” I decided it was the perfect opportunity to face my fear- a dance put on by the sports committee that was not being hosted in the cantina. So I offered to help take money at the door- my plan being that I could convey to my town that I was not afraid of dancing, but also defend my refusal to dance by explaining that I was “working.” It’s really quite a shame, I must say, as those of you who know me know that I LOVE TO DANCE. Unfortunately, though, it gets a little tricky when you’re the only gringa in a town of macho men, who like their women, their music, and their guaro (the general term used for hard alcohol). I also must add that it is more than a little intimidating when the majority of the action takes place outside the dance- say, for example, that the dance begins at 7pm. From 7pm until 10pm, people get dolled up just to come and stand outside the dance to see who is inside, what they’re wearing, who is dancing, who they’re dancing with, and how they are dancing. Wouldn’t they just love to see the lone gringa step out on the dance floor, I thought. So my heart raced-from 7pm until 10pm- wondering if someone was going to ask me to dance, who was going to ask me to dance, and why… was this a plot to get me on the dance floor to laugh at the gringa and her non-existent hips, butt, and rhythm? Long story short, I was saved by the bell when the husband of my good friend asked me to dance- not a creeper, not a fabulous dancer, and no hidden agenda. I don’t know how many eyes were on me for those five or ten minutes, but I will tell you that I am still hearing about it days later. And thank goodness, I was given a “ten.” With that, I said “goodnight”, locked my door, and let out a huge sigh of relief.

Finally, while many Peace Corps volunteers arrive as vegetarians and leave as carnivores, I am moving in reverse. Strike one was the chicken coop behind my house in Río Conejo. Colby would come to language class with the news “our mothers are killing forty chickens today.” Then, sure enough, when 6pm rolled around- chicken. Strike two was the chanchos (pigs) at my grandfather’s house. I had spent the previous afternoon watching the three of them run (I did not know pigs ran! And fast!) and take turns trying to get at the rice my host mother was cooking for the mass for the anniversary of her mother’s death. Anyway, I was hooting and howling, tears rolling down my face, watching these lazy creatures scavenge for food. Next day- chicharrones (carne de chancho- pork). “We killed a pig yesterday,” my mother said. I choked. I explained to my host family, so as not to cause any confusion, that while I understand and appreciate the tradition of killing a pig and eating the meat for various celebrations, I will opt to eat rice and beans come December. I explained that I like pork, but I have never before been faced with the prospect of eating the meat of an animal that I knew (and grew fond of, quite frankly). Strike three was the monta de toros I went to on Saturday for Guanacaste Day in Santa Cruz. Unlike Spain’s corrida de toros, where they kill the bull, Costa Rica’s monta de toros is a spectacle that showcases the bull and the rider of the bull- yes, someone gets on the bull, the bull is let loose in the ring, and the rider tries to stay on the bull as long as possible while it is bucking and jumping and running and FREAKING OUT. Meanwhile, the bull ring is filled with macho men (many of them drunk), who get a kick out of taunting the bull and running for their lives when the bull FREAKS OUT. What didn’t I like about the event? One, my palms were sweaty, looking at the crowd of people in the ring, anticipating whether or not they would be able to jump the barreras in the event that the bull took off in their direction. Two, rather than letting the bull retreat from the ring when he had successfully bucked the rider off, (which was what he clearly wanted to do), horsemen came out and lassoed the bull by the horns and the neck. Stuck, and often tangled, the bull put his head down in a gesture of surrender. But no, five, six men grabbed onto its tail and started pulling with all their might. At the same time, another proceeded to jab the bull in the butt with a metal prod. NO ME JODAS, said the bull. Rightly so.

Just a footnote to this last vignette- I recognize that the monta de toros is an important part of the culture of Guanacaste, as is the corrida de toros an important part of the culture of Spain. For this reason, I went to a corrida de toros in Madrid and went to a monta de toros in Guanacaste. I didn’t like them and will probably never go again. But I went. I will try it all, but I don’t have to like it. Integration is about trying.

I want to leave you with this- remember what chanco means? This is how my host father understands the name of my town, Kennebunkport:
Presidente + bunk + chancho
He thought “bunk” was pretty easy, and so were the other parts, when you subbed in “Kennedy” and “pork” = KennedyBunkPork.