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.

No me jodas!

I wasn’t sure if it would be possible but, as it turns out, I have successfully communicated my sense of humor to my Costa Rican family. Not only do they understand it, but they appreciate it! My host father in particular is one to “joder” or “vacilar.” In other words, he jokes around with me a lot, as do many men in my town. Since day one in Guanacaste, the most machista part of Costa Rica, I decided that I was not going to take any lip from the men here. So I have learned to sass back and be sarcastic… in Spanish. This is really a survival tactic; otherwise, I think they’d make the next two years pretty uncomfortable. Now that they know that I’m “intelligente”, as they say, which really means “quick” in this sense, I may even make some male friends in Ortega.

My host mother spends considerable time at her father’s house, where her siblings, nieces, and nephews also congregate. I love the atmosphere and energy, as I have fond memories of Dempsey reunions at Huntington Common, Woodlawn Avenue, and Summer Street. I like to go with my host mother after dinner, to walk off all the starch, and to share in the conversation. Last night we had three good laughs- I mean Meghan crying, Uncle Ricky wheezing laughs:

1. The women from the aerobics class called a short meeting yesterday to plan a surprise birthday party for someone on August 23rd… hmm, I thought, is this a joke? That’s my birthday. I played along for a while- sure, I can chip in a mil for a cake… They kept on, though… hmm, I thought again, “who’s birthday is it,” I asked. “We can’t tell you,” they said. “It has to be a surprise.” Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore, “Are you really not talking about my birthday?” I asked. They had no idea. Were so embarrassed. “We can split the cake,” they said. “No,” I said, “but can you at least wish me a Happy Birthday, if you’re planning this party for August 23rd?” I asked, noticeably down. Being a lover of birthdays, this would undoubtedly be my worst nightmare- celebrating someone else’s birthday on my own birthday without receiving even a “Happy Birthday.”

2. When I heard that my next door neighbor had dengue, I went into panic mode. I dug into my suitcase for the mosquito net that Peace Corps gave us during training- still neatly packed. You tax payers will be glad to know that we do not have the pretty pretty princess nets, that hang from the ceiling and fall neatly on each side of the bed. No, we have the mustard green, nylon, grandote mosquito nets that can be hung with no less than four nails. You have to tuck it in on all sides because it was most certainly not designed for a twin bed. It took my host mother, brother, and me to put it up one night- one hot, sticky, Guanacaste, Costa Rica night in a tiny room with little ventilation. We had sweat dripping down our faces and were hysterically laughing making jokes about them finding me dead in my tent one morning, having overheated because the faint stream of air from the fan can’t make it through the thick nylon thread.
I secretly like it though- it really does feel like I’m camping, especially since I read at night by the light of a flashlight.

3. Finally, we all had stories about this little devil girl who, as my uncle put it, “jode, jode, jode.” In Spain, this word, “joder,” meant “to fuck”, and was considered a swear word. In Costa Rica, “joder” means more “to fuck with”, as in “to play,” “to bother,” “to joke around.” Anyway, this girl is a devil child. The other night we were playing “Gran Banco,” which is like Monopoly, but all of the sites are in Costa Rica. When she saw that I was playing, she ran at me full speed ahead and began to pet me like a new puppy. “Please don’t touch me,” I said. (Petting continues…) “When someone asks you not to do something you should stop doing it,” I said. (Petting continues…) “You don’t like it when I touch your hair?” She asked. “Nope.” I said. “Your toe nails?” She asked, touching my toe nails. (I hate toes, by the way.) “Nope.” I said. (Petting continues…) This went on for I can’t tell you how long. (Meanwhile, all the other neighborhood boys and girls are observing this exchange.) Finally, Francilena, who cannot be much older than this girl, says to me: “I hope my daughter is not like that.”

In other news, I have been making a lot of progress with my community interviews and am actually excited to start writing my community analysis and work plan, which I have to present to my Project Manager and fellow volunteers at the beginning of September. My goals for the next three weeks include: finish speaking with community leaders, read the project descriptions, interview the Principal, organize an informational meeting in coordination with the health clinic about high blood pressure, diabetes, and exercise, and facilitate a FODA (strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, threats). The latter is an activity you can do with community members to encourage discussion about the resources and needs of the community.

Two big challenges I will surely face over the next two years include the lack of community ownership/pride and the distrust of community leaders and organizations on the part of community members. I spend hours interviewing one person only to hear from another that they are a liar, a cheat, a thief. I hear that the development association has had the same five or ten projects for the past four years- the eco-museum, the salon comunal renovations, the elderly home, the crocodile park, the basketball court, the road improvements. Community members are disillusioned, but development association members speak confidently. So what’s the real story, I ask myself pretty much every night at 2am, when I wake up tossing and turning thinking about English class, the CAT (Community Analysis Tool), and the VRF (Volunteer Report Form). I’ve decided that rather than trying to get to the bottom of it, I will work to promote better communication and transparency.

Yesterday I pitched the idea of a community newspaper to one of the disillusioned members of the development association (yes, there are also the disillusioned development association members and the confident community members, to make matters more confusing). I explained that with a community newspaper we could promote the progress of the development association and other committees, while also publicizing events and meetings, to encourage community involvement and rebuild trust. With over twenty different associations and committees, we would also save considerable paper, markers, and masking tape spent on communicating reuniones. Finally, in order to make the paper sustainable, I had the idea that we could involve youth in the interviewing, writing, and production processes, and maybe even look to sell the paper at some time in the future. The reaction I am anticipating, unfortunately, is no reaction. For this reason, I will be prepared with plans b and c, when I finally present it to the development association. I will be armed with community support, funding, and volunteer staff. I hope.

Diay! Part 2

Are you still scratching your head wondering how I came to be a teacher of aerobics in a foreign country? Sorry to have left you hanging on that one. I was asked by one woman on my first site visit if I was going to be giving aerobics classes like a previous volunteer. She told me that there had also been a class given by the technician at the health clinic but that, unfortunately, for a number of reasons, including an unwillingness on the part of the students to contribute to the light bill for the space, it was no longer offered. How did I revive it? I suggested we have class an hour earlier, at 4pm, so that we would not have to use the lights. What did I do? I pooled all of the knowledge I have acquired from kickboxing, yoga, and step classes with that from Kennebunk High School pre-season and free personal trainer sessions for new gym members. In addition, I lucked out and had the help of twelve gringos studying Public Health at Temple University, who first started sending students to Ortega in 2002. My goal is to turn the class over to a tica so that their attendance is not dependent upon mine-- although, where I thought it might soon become more of a chore than an activity seeing as how we meet every day, I have come to really look forward to the class and already feel a strong sense of camaraderie among the women. One woman told me this morning that the class has already helped her tremendously, as she had been struggling with depression-- a result of spending so much time alone in her house, with her son in school and her husband at work. Other women are extremely dedicated to the cause of losing weight for health reasons such as high blood pressure and suggested that we have regular weigh-ins in coordination with the health clinic. Two more images to complete the picture- one, imagine that I arrive at the salon comunal already sweating (the temperature hit 97 the other day); two, picture a group of mischievous- looking male youth observing the class on their bikes. My goal for the class is to incorporate other themes relating to overall health such as: nutrition, self esteem, alcoholism, and domestic violence. I was also thrilled at the suggestion of one of the founding members that we form our own mini association and take up a collection to raise money to throw ourselves a small party for Mothers; Day. She also suggested that we take the initiative as a group to plant flowers in the new cemetery.

Margaret and Erin (and my mom) will be pleased to know that the "say yes policy" is in full effect here in Ortega. I accepted an invitation a few weeks ago to speak to university students about my project with the Peace Corps and my studies at Fordham. The teacher lives in Ortega and has a class entitled "National Reality", which addresses the social, economic, and political realities of Costa Rica. We thought it might be beneficial, not only for the students, but for me as well, as I have to complete an analysis of my community before I begin my work. I put together a powerpoint presentation that began with my studies at Fordham, continued to describe my work with CMMB, and finished to explain the Peace Corps and my project as a volunteer. Little did I know that the professor had allotted two hours for my presentation and the students' questions (which were few and far between); however, my Spanish served me well, and I was able to communicate my initial observations of Costa Rican culture, Guanacastecos, and life in Ortega. I was reluctant to speak candidly about the "national realities", recognizing that my initial observations are no more than that-- initial observations. At the same time, I was more interested in the reflections of the students on their own culture. They talked about complacency, resistance to change, bureaucracy, and dependency, and asked for my perspective as a U.S. citizen. I explained a bit about our recent election and the push for change, noting that a big effort was made by youth and young adults. We also talked about overcoming obstacles to change-- the most common of which appears to be money-- or, at least, this is the answer one is often given when they suggest a new idea or project. I explained that my role here was not to finance projects (a common misconception), but that it had more to do with offering support and guidance-- troubleshooting, creative thinking, problem solving.

I have begun giving English classes to members of a nearby municipality two nights a week for two hours each. While at first I was flustered to find that the students were not all beginners as I had previously been told, I am starting to get the hang of teaching a mixed level class, and actually like the fact that I am able to talk about rules and exceptions to rules and compare and contrast spelling and pronunciation of English and Spanish sounds. Next week I will start working with a group of youth and adults who are studying to pass their high school exit exam for English. Students range in age from 17 to 40+; some are preparing to graduate in December and are facing the test for the first time, while others have only to pass this one lingering exam, and have tried previously with no success.

On Sunday the "active women of Ortega", an association of about thirty women, planned and threw a party for the fathers in Ortega complete with food, games, and prizes. It struck me funny that the women brainstormed the entire list of 137 fathers-- well, their nicknames. (Everyone in Guanacaste has a nickname, by the way.) The women plan Fathers' day, children's day, and, to my dismay, their very own Mothers' day. I told them that they deserve a surprise just as the fathers do and, while they agreed, they laughed.

In closing, I would like to speak directly to Jeannine and Moot. Jeannine was kind enough to introduce me to the wonderful world of Bannanagrams via an extremely thoughtful care package. For those of you who have not yet had the pleasure of crossing Scrabble with Crossword Puzzles, let me explain briefly: the object of the game is to create as many words as you can in the form of Scrabble while your competitors are doing the same independently. Players have the option to trade in letters for a penalty of three letters, and other rules, etc. The first person to use all of their letters wins. Anyway, I was thrilled to see that the game had directions in Spanish and shared it with my host parents. (My host father and I often share the crossword puzzles in the Teja, a cheapo newspaper full of bikini-clad models and classified ads.) When we sat down to play, I suddenly realized that I had agreed to play in Spanish--Right, I live in Costa Rica now. My host mother was quick to give up and decided instead to help my host father make sense of his letters. "No puede ayudarle! Ustedes hablan Espanol!" I exclaimed. (You can't help him! You guys speak Spanish!) Minutes later... I won... twice. I am not sure how much longer these games will continue; however, as I challenged him three times tonight on the spelling of his words-- I have found that some members of my community spell words according to how they pronounce them. If he weren't so competitive himself, I would let it slide, but the way he says "Bannanograms" with a big smirk makes me want to remind him that he is playing dirty against a non-native speaker. You better start practicing for summer 2011, Mom. After two years of Bannannograms in Spanish, Scrabble should be a walk in the parque, a piece of queque.

Diay! Part 1

Now that I am settled in my permanent site in Ortega, I can give you a good summary of the past few weeks, as well as fill you in on the details of my new home and new "schedule." Site assignment day was just about a month ago. We gathered around a map nervously as the PC staff had their fun with us, blindfolding the first few people, pinning their site on the map, and instructing the rest of us to direct them to it. To my surprise, there were lots of smiles, screams, and shouts, and very few tears. The previous three months of training had felt pretend and we were anxious to make a home in Costa Rica. Next came counterpart day, when we met our future work partners in San Jose for a brief training. For the most part, the counterparts for my program, rural community development, are leaders in the development association in the community. The purpose of this visit was to travel accompanied to our sites and meet our host families, the school director, staff at the health clinic, attend a meeting of the development association, kick around the soccer ball at the plaza, etc.- really to confirm our commitment to the PC. Leave now or forever hold your peace... On this visit I made a point to wave to everyone, introduce myself when possible, introduce my project when possible and, most importantly, RECORD NAMES!

We then returned to our training communities to say goodbye to our families, friends, and neighbors- realizing quickly that they were not "goodbyes" but "see you soons." (Remember the name of my going away party in New York? Same idea. Out of sight, never out of mind.) It was such a beautiful thing to see host mothers estimating (correctly!) the sizes of their respective volunteers, having bought new shorts, blouses, jeans, and sandals as tokens of their great affection. We sent ourselves off with a going away party for our families, which was planned and catered exclusively by us, despite heightened emotions, un monton de mandatos, lingering assignments, and empty suitcases. Swearing in was certainly a reality check- as I mentioned earlier, training felt at times like summer camp, thanks entirely to the friendships we made with tico 19ers, language facilitators, PCV staff, and community members. When we pulled in front of the Ambassador's residence, when I saw the tent and chairs, the Costa Rican flag next to the American flag, the PC logo behind the podium, I recalled the months of medical exams, reading and revising essays, visits to the PC office, pros and cons lists, phone interviews and, finally, packing lists. When we sang the Costa Rican national anthem, followed by the national anthem of the United States of America, when our classmates gave their address, when we took our oath of office, I was overwhelmed with emotion- I felt proud to be an American, I felt fortunate to have been selected as a PCV, I felt regret that my family was not present at the ceremony, and I felt happy that my grandpa was.

But "where the hell are you," you are surely asking. Ortega is located in the province of Guanacaste, which is known for its folklore, beaches, traditions, parties, dances, food, and heat. My site has about 1,000 people, an elementary school of about 200 students, a cemetery, a health clinic, a nutrition center, several bars and pulperias, a soccer field, a Catholic and an Evangelist church, a meeting hall, a policeman, a bullfight ring, and two tourism businesses. In addition, my town has a sports committee, an arts and crafts group, a children's rights group, a development association, a women's and men's soccer team, a health committee, a women's group, an alcoholics anonymous group, and a school board. They are known for a tradition called "la largateada", which is over 100 years old. "El largato" is a crocodile, so "la largateada" translates to something like "the pursuit of the crocodile." On Friday of Holy Week, town members travel to the river and capture a crocodile, which is brought back to town and kept in a cage for the duration of Holy Week, when it is released in the river unharmed. Last year, I was told that 6,000 people came to Ortega for la largateada- rural tourism is a major industry for Ortega and surrounding communities due to crocodile-infested wetlands and local arts and crafts. The town is accustomed to seeing tourists "like myself"; although, I have made it very clear to all that I am not a tourist, nor do I plan to live the lifestyle of one. I want to become a member of the community, I want to be respected as an equal, I want to learn local dances, eat local food, participate in events such as soccer games, baptisms, birthday parties, etc., and understand and appreciate work. On that note, I am pleased to report that in my first week in Ortega I have milked a cow with both hands, made pasteles filled with arroz con pollo, learned to make a traditional beverage, attended a memorial service, attended mass, picked mangoes, ridden a horse, played in a band, danced at a dance, attended a soccer game, witnessed a primary, learned a card game, and attended student council elections. While we are advised to take it easy for the first three months of our service, concentrating our efforts on our community analysis, I have revived a daily aerobics class for women and agreed to teach a twice weekly English class.

Home away from home away from home

I can't say enough about tech week, even though I missed the meeting of the development association and the trip to the cataratas. The drive south was beautiful-- we were heading to the province of Puntarenas near San Vito to a town called Jabillos, where a current PCV has been for nearly one year. My host father was the president of the association and the PC vol's local counterpart (every volunteer has a local counterpart). He is 43 and his wife is 33. They have two daughters, who are 12 and 14, and one son who is 7. After two days with the Chacon Moras, I became their "oldest daughter." They had never had a volunteer stay with them and were so eager to spend time with me and introduce me to their extended family. I felt so comfortable in their house-- it was the first occasion I have had to put my feet up on the couch in front of the television! It was also nice to be removed from the chisme of Rio Conejo, so I took the opportunity to confide in my new tica mother about many things-- some PC, some personal.

Before I jump to the projects we did, I just want to make a few quick notes:
1) I will never forget riding in Don Carlos' (padre) truck (picture a cattle truck) with my new siblings in the back, the girls, posed unintentionally like models, looking like twins, one on each side of the back, legs outstretched, weight on their arms, their hair blowing in the wind. Meanwhile, the gringa was safe and sound inside with mom and dad.
2) Stepping in and out of a mosquito net makes me feel like a princess.
3) I saw my first arcoiris in Jabillos, after what I would call a perfect summer storm, but what was actually a winter storm-- the first of many. Ya begins the rainy season, by the way. (It's awesome, at least in Cartago-- we get 1/2 day of warm sunshine and then, at 1pm on the dot, when we are safe and sound in our classroom, we get a tormenta like no other. Thunder, lightning, power outages, MUD, SO FUERTE we laugh reading the lips of whoever has the mala suerte to be presenting at that time.)
4) After my five hour ride with the language facilitators to Jabillos and a long conversation with my new tico grandpa, I feel comfortable saying that my Spanish is improving. I have finally, after 10+ years of language instruction, figured out how, when, and why to use the Imperfect tense!
5) I milked my first cow... is the verb still "milked" if no milk came out?
6) I'm bringing back "pura vida" to the U.S.-- It is the perfect answer to "how are you" when you're riding in the back of Don Carlos' truck, subiendo and bajando montanas, watching the sky turn magical shades at dusk, welcoming the cool breeze after the day´s humidity.
7) "What a beautiful glass," I said to the wife of the man who operates and maintains the aqueduct that serves Jabillos and neighboring communities. "Take it and remember me," she said. I introduced myself, accepted the gift with a puzzled look, and walked out wondering what she would do when the sixth guest wanted a drink on Easter Sunday.

My English class consisted of seven Kindergarteners, two of whom preferred their game to mine, and spent the entire class in the other room playing with their cattle figurines. While I was disappointed that they were not interested in joining us to count fruit, sing, or play Bingo, I was touched that they continued to invite me to join them for the duration of the class. The valuable lesson learned here was that Kindergarteners need to be constantly stimulated and ought to have something in their hands at all times that they can be creative with. Another difficulty I faced was the lack of support from the Kindergarten teacher in the way of discipline. It was as if she was waiting for me to arrive so that she could take lunch...

My second project was a group project with the school on the environment. We began with a brainstorm on the environment, followed up with a discussion on definitions and causes of pollution, and finished with a walk around the plaza, either picking up trash or picking up items relating to the environment. The students then made some pretty impressive collages-- some more sucio than others.

The other group did a charla on nutrition for the women in the community and touched one everything from the food pyramid, to the nutrition facts, to exercise, to healthy cooking, to concerns such as high blood pressure and high cholestrol.

I was surprised and impressed to see such a strong showing at all of our reuniones-- the best of which was hands down our fiesta de despedida, which was organized by our host families and community members in the salon comunal. My night started with an intensive lesson on Cumbia from a 14 year old tico dance instructor. Other highlights included: DONUTS and a touching reflection on the week by both our host families and us. Tears preceded words of thanks and invitations to return to our beds any day, any time.

While I spent a mere four days with my family, I felt moved to give them a framed picture of our family before I left. My brother and sisters were clearly moved as well, as I returned to Rio Conejo with a pair of earrings Carol purchased in San Vito, a necklace Stephanie no longer wears, and a shot glass Diego must have given me from a personal collection.

One final lesson learned, as we gear up to find out our permanent sites in less than 48 hours, while I could give a preference for climate, work, location, and family, the only deal breaker for me would be an overwhelming feeling of isolation, which I sensed I might feel in Jabillos if I were there alone. The sites where we will be serving are already rural sites, with few more than 300 people, often no less than one hour from the nearest big town or small city. For this reason, I have asked to be placed in a site with a clear center. While Jabillos had a church, pulperia, and salon comunal within a stone's throw, they appeared to be no more connected than stops on a bus route. We had few interactions with community members in town because their houses are fairly spread out. To give you an idea, I am embaressed to say that I got lost one day going home for lunch, having taken the one road that did not lead to my house... I walked for at least twenty minutes in the sweltering heat with an empty water bottle and was struck by the realization that if I fainted from dehydration no one would even stumple upon me-- no one other than a vaca.

No, it wasn't swine flu

So tech week looked grim on Saturday, when I woke up in the middle of the night cursing the torta de atun that we had for dinner that we certainly to blame. When I woke up again to my alarm, I was violently sick to my stomach in a foreign country, in a foreign house, with a foreign mother. When you feel the way I felt, you don't want to have to worry about things like cultural sensitivity... and I didn't. I sat myself down on the bathroom floor to my mother's horror. There was no other option as far as I was concerned; although, she tried to bring in a bench from the kitchen. She also kept telling me she had pastillas for this and that. Luckily, fellow PCV and neighbor stopped her before she got me and told her PC did not allow us to take meds, but only agua de arroz, which is literally the water from cooked rice with cinnamon. When the PC prescribed meds over the phone, I was out for the afternoon. I woke up to the tico version of chicken broth, which has noodles and potatoes, carrots, and chayote. My family was really wonderful and my mother even cried with me! I must admit, though, while the TLC was above and beyond, and so necessary without family and friends, I snaped one time and told her to pelase stop worrying and that I had lived by myself for nearly six years. I could hear her all weekend talking to family and passers by saying "pobrecita, Katarin, she won't even eat a tortilla, which won't make her feel badly, not even an egg in her soup." The up side of going late to San Vito (I ended up carpooling with the language facilitarors on Monday), was I got in some good integration time with my host mother, which has been extremely limited. Anyway, she took me on a different route to her sister's and showed me all her family's coffee fields and how they had been divided up amongst their children. We also passed a beautiful ranch just in time to get a tour from the duenos. It is rented out for wedding parties, birthdays, etc., and it is walled off by palm trees. There is a beautiful pool with a fountain, where tilapia swim,
a treehouse-type area for dancing, and a doll house-like three floored log cabin that sleeps two couples and has a picturesque simple kitchen. This would certainly be a contender for luna de miel destinations if I were to fall in love in Costa Rica...

Creative Katica

I am weeks late in posting this, but I wanted to tell you about my second English class. After the first class, one of my family members expressed interest in learning how to order food in a restaurant. I planned the class around a game of Bingo, with detailed drawings in colored pencil of vegetables, meat, salad, drink, menu, bill, dessert, etc. Backing up, I planned an activity where we would take turns playing waiter and client by posing the question "Excuse me, what would you like..." and "I would like..." This was great practice, but I was most excited about Bingo, particularly after I decided that whoever got Bingo would have to say "Excuse me, I would like..." and name all of the items where they had markers as if they were ordering in a restaurant. While I only managed to get four of the five required people to come, and I failed to secure a committment from a PCV to observe my class, I thought it was extremely successful!

I have had such a blast here rediscovering my creative side, which has been masked by other interests or preoccupations since probably high school. I am now making birthday cards again, painting with water colors, making card games, and writing letters. I am dreaming up ideas fro my future classrooms, including shadowboxes, kaleidoscopes, mailboxes, world maps, masks, mobiles, collages, murals... I also had an idea today that involved a world map mural and a series of "Where in the world is Carmen Santiago", where we could take "trips" to different countries ever day or week and learn about key aspects of other cultures, packing suitcases for climate, cutting out pictures from magazines, and sending postcards. Where in the world is Kathryn Rouillard? Tune in next week!