Good-bye!

IMG_8317, a photo by Brayo on Flickr.

After our night of revelry, we didn't get off to much of an early start. We found a nice cafe near our hotel, with this strange old abandonded mansion across the street. After a quick breakfast, we got a taxi to the airport.

getting ready to say good-bye

my hand!, a photo by Brayo on Flickr.

For our last night in Costa Rica, we returned to San Jose and the same Holiday Inn where we'd spent our first night. We had dinner at a really good restaurant (Cafe Mundo, I think?) that reminded us both of the kind of places that are popular in Austin-- a big old house, with a few tables in each room, plenty of outdoor seating, and a casual, but imaginitive menu. Lots of Ticos, no tourists. Joan took a nap, and around midnight, we went out to El Pueblo, a complex of restaurants, shops, bars, clubs, etc. Here we finally got a chance to put those salsa lessons to good use. The more traditional dance hall was winding down so after a few dances, we went to some of the more young-hormone-oriented discos. And that was a lot of fun, too.

daytrip to Cahuita

IMG_8237, a photo by Brayo on Flickr.

For our second full day at the coast, we rode our bikes to Cahuita, a small town we’d seen briefly from the bus and that was described by several other people as a “relaxed” alternative to the “party” atmosphere of Puerto Viejo. We only had about an hour and we spent it on the beach of the National Park abutting the town. The grocery store next-door had yogurt and diet coke. The fruit seller had bananas and custard fruit. And the best part of the trip was getting there and the places we stopped along the way. As opposed to the road connecting Puerto Viejo, which passes small hotels, beach bars, and café’s, the area going north to Cahuita is inhabited by local families. Light industry—for instance, a lumber yard—is also there. We stopped at a cocoa farm, and although we didn’t go for a tour, we tasted delicious fresh chocolate. It had a fruity taste and a nutty consistency, not from anything added, but from the cacao fruit itself.

the beach

IMG_8130, a photo by Brayo on Flickr.

Our first full day on the coast, we walked most of the 4-5 km to town along the beach, stopping occasionally to splash in the water, but mainly just walking. As we got closer to town, the beach got a little more crowded, but everyone still had room to not only lay out a beach towel but also—if they’d had the resources—to build a large suburban home with a fenced backyard. We ate lunch at a “soda” in town, a casual, locally-owned place serving traditional Caribbean food, flavored with coconut. We rented bicycles and rode them back to our hotel. We took a nap, then went to dinner at an open-air French restaurant. The chef professed hurt feelings to the American honeymooners who had asked for box to take home their leftovers. After dinner, we took another walk on the beach and then got a taxi to Puerto Viejo for a night out. They tried. A nice Caribbean couple explained that it was Ladies Night at the disco and that they were already allowing Ladies to enter the disco and enjoy free cocktails until midnight when the men would also be allowed to enter. Few ladies partook. Brian was not the only lonely man on the dancefloor.

on the bus

IMG_8032, a photo by Brayo on Flickr.

It was a long day going between Santa Elena and Puerto Viejo. It gets warmer and drier very quickly as you come down from Monte Verde, with corresponding changes in vegetation. The population density also increases, but it still feels very rural until you are 10km outside San Jose in a massive traffic jam. We might have spent an hour there if we weren't in the bus lane. We changed buses in San Jose and in our trip to the coast, we once again passed through rain forest. One side of the road was bordered by cliffs, and we frequently passed waterfalls, some were gushers, and some were like lace curtains. We passed through some flat land and then arrived in Limon, a medium-sized town on the coast. The last hour or so along the coast got us very excited about the time we'd be spending there. The beaches stretched on and on, shaded by palm trees, and with very few people. Our hotel, about 3km south of Puerto Viejo, is in the middle of the jungle, just barely visible from the muddy track that leads off the main road. We had a nice simple dinner at outdoor café, spent some time on the moonlit beach, and fell asleep to the sounds of cicadas, monkey, and frogs. And woke up to the sound of howler monkeys! We never saw them, but heard them frequently—the sound of someone with a bad cough gasping for breath.

Monte Verde

IMG_7914, a photo by Brayo on Flickr.

For zipling, you get into a harness with a couple of lopps on your chest. You climb up to a platform high in a tree with a connecting that tree to another a few hundred meters away. One of chest-loops hooks onto a pulley that slides on the wire. As a back-up, the second chest-loop is also connected, by way of a c-clap, to the wire. (Don’t break the wire.) You ride sideways with your left shoulder leaning, your right hand lightly holding the wire behind you for balance and braking. We didn’t see animals while ziplining, but it’s fun crossing the thick green valleys at high speed and so close to the treetops. And after the tour we saw monkeys and a small mammal resembling a capybara. Besides the canopy tour (i.e. ziplining) we also went hiking in the Santa Elena Forest and then took a guided night hike in a private reserve. It was a great kind of tired that we felt at the end of the day. It was still very windy outside, but there was plenty of hot water.

Lake Arenal, Costa Rica

IMG_7852
Originally uploaded by Brayo

The most reliable way to get to Santa Elena and Monte Verde from San Jose is to get a bus to La Fortuna (4 hours to go maybe 100 miles) and then a boat across Lake Arenal for about an hour, and on the other side of the lake, overland on a good earth road for another hour. The hardest part of the journey was the bus ride from San Jose, mostly just because it was so long. It’s fun to stop in various small towns and watch people get on and off. La Fortuna is a popular tourist destination, and Costa Ricans use the route for gong between towns along the way.
Lunch in La Fortuna was very good. We ate at a coffee and sandwich shop in front of the town square, with a view of the church, and behind it the cloud-covered volcano. Lots of people around, both tourists and Ticos.
Lake Arenal was created by damming a river in a deep valley. (I think?) and there’s little human activity except on the narrow side with the dam. We only saw one other boat on the lake, and one house on the shore. Otherwise it was jungle or steep cliffs covered with grass. The air was misty and the water shiny gray like mercury. On the other side, the road was dirt, and the winding road passed only the occasional farmhouse. This part of the country feels different from San Jose, although it might be mainly a factor of human habitation. Even San Jose was misty and mountainous. Maybe the difference is that here’s just more so.
Santa Elena is plain cold. Or more than that blustery. Our lodge is comfortable and clean, but the roar of the wind outside is near constant. It’s a little calmer down in town, but we were still wearing our down jackets with T-shirts underneath.

San Jose, Costa Rica

IMG_7764 Originally uploaded by Brayo

We had our first breath of warm outdoor air from the gangway in San Salvador. We changed planes there and had an hour to buy something for Joan’s chapped lips and watch a young woman in a Luigi costume try to get people to play Wii. It’s about an hour’s flight from San Salvador to San Jose, and besides filling out our customs cards, we played sodoku. Neither of us had ever played sodoku before, and we had to do SOMETHING that we couldn’t do when the boys are around. There should be some other things, too. Our hotel has a very nice, warm, waveless pool. It’s indoors, which is probably the right choice since San Jose is in the mountains—the city is warm but the breeze is cool. The hotel is downtown, with multiple parks nearby. When we arrived, a brass band was playing in the park, and later there were acrobats. One unexpected highlight was the 10-block walk to the bus station to buy tickets for our trip to La Fortuna tomorrow. The airplane meals were fine, but small, and even if we’d been well-fed, the smell of the bakery would have pulled us in. It was tiny, and so stacked up with bread-goods that the propieter had to peek at us over the top. I think this was the first time we learned that it’s simply not true that “Everyone in Costa Rica speaks English.” And our little bit of Spanish was enough to avoid Pollo, and read the signs well-enough that she understood what we wanted. All the same, when it was time to pay she pointed at the cash register rather than say the numbers.

Today, we came to New Amsterdam and although most of the drive was very close to the ocean, the sea wall blocked any view of the ocean. New Amsterdam itself is a nice little down, and so far everywhere we’ve gone—4 or 5 places has been within walking distance of each other on the same main street that runs through the town. We had our first interview with an HIV+ woman today and she was really amazing. She told us about a dream she had where God showed her a garden and everyone in it had HIV—and it was her job to take care of them. She didn’t think she could do it, but she talked to her pastor and he said it was her calling. Later in the afternoon, we talked to a guy whose official job has nothing to do with HIV, but who seems to make a hobby out of talking to church groups and others. Like in Kenya, my feeling from being here is not that there needs to be more talk about condoms, but that monogamous marriage is not being celebrated. I won’t dismiss the argument that an over-emphasis on abstinence can compromise people’s ability to "prepare adequately for unexpected sexual encounters" (i.e. carry condoms). But the opposite is also true—promoting the idea that most people are promiscuous and thus need to carry condoms—makes abstinence or monogamy seem less realistic and undermines people's commitment.

I met yet another cool RPCV today, this one working at Catholic Relief Services. Being able to understand and appreciate another culture—while still understanding and appreciating your own— is so powerful. She was very good at dealing with some of our gotcha questions.
Because we were “working so hard,” I didn’t get to eat lunch, but only had a piece of vermicelli cake which is noodles in a sugary sauce with a good sized chunk of cinnamon bark. I don’t know if it’s baked or if it’s just sugar and time that kept it in a solid square shape while I was eating it. Interviewing people does energize me, but I do wish Americans would reconsider their fetishization of working through lunch.
It hasn’t rained as much as I’d expected, but today it rained very suddenly, hard enough to get me wet in the time it took to run from the front door of a building to a waiting taxi, and persisted for at least an hour. We took our taxi to the Pegausus so that we could interview Magda, a woman in her 70s who has been very active in Guyana’s woman’s movement. She had been educated in Britain—including Scotland—and reminded me of Joan’s grandmother Agnes.

from Linden

I spent at about an hour just sitting on the balcony and watching the town wake up. The mini-buses started arriving from about 7 and the flow was constant by around 8. Vendors were coming to market, school children in day-glo blue uniforms were coming to the Linden School of Excellence, trash men came hauling garbage behind a trailer, and nurses in white dresses boarded other mini-buses to go to their hospitals.

Linden is a world away from Georgetown; it was founded after colonialism and shows little in the way of British influence. The central business district lies on opposite sides of the Demerara River, and we had a good time exploring the market stalls and buying hot sauce. The market is covered and so its dark among the stalls and the passages narrow, but the people were very friendly. The town is town and it feels especially tiny in comparison with the Bauxite mining operations that surround it: enormous piles of grayish dirt, multiple levels of conveyor belts and waterfalls, and firestacks that spew smoke so thick it looks like whipped cream.

to Linden

We celebrated Pagwah some more, this time by driving around until we found some people playing with water and playing with colors. A few of us got out of the taxis so that we could first be dowsed with water and then smeared with red and blue powder. They gave me some red powder so that I could also color some people.

I wore my colored shorts on the way to Linden and they made a nice conversation piece when we stopped to help someone with a flat tire. Some Amerindians had also come out to look at the tire and although they hadn’t played with colors themselves they could see that I had. We didn’t understand each other very well, but they tried and they were very friendly.

We arrived in Linden at about dusk, and there was still a mood of holiday excitement. After dinner, we sat outside the pastry shop and I noticed a boy copying my gestures while I talked at the phone. His name was Devon and he told me he was 14, and a couple of my friends that he was 12, 13. His favorite subject is maths and he is saving money to buy a bike. I was very tempted to give him the last 3,000 ($15) that he needs.

rules

I got three text messages from my son today and two from my wife so I am very happy. I can imagine us living in Guyana for a little while. I know there are dangers here, but Peace Corps is cautious about where they send people and the volunteers don’t live under our rules regarding not going out without a taxi and/or a supervisor.
If I were allowed to, I would go swim in the ocean which I can see from my balcony and which can be accessed by going to the second floor, then down the Kingston wing, down the steps, a few steps, through the sidewalk, jumping the fence and running over a small dune. The people few down there are poor, swim in their underwear, and while one might ask for your shirt her friend will tell you don’t give her nothing.
We went back to Salt and Pepper Food Court for lunch. Wanting to mix it up a little, I ordered the potato curry roti as did my colleague. Our meals both looked remarkably like the chicken curry he had eaten the day before. After a couple of enquiries, they relented and added a piece of curried potato to each of our plates—sarcasm?

Georgetown, Monday

I’m missing my family a lot and they are missing me, especially my oldest son. He’s asked me to never again go away without him, and I want to honor his request at least until he’s older and at least when I’m going to be away for this long. Although when I explained what I was doing he told me he wanted to be a lawyer, too.
In between interviews, we had lunch at the “Salt and Pepper Food Court,” which is a buffet restaurant that sells takeaway food downstairs. We bought our lunch downstairs and ate at the tables. It’s close to the area that in Kenya I’d call “the stage” where all the mini-buses wait for passengers, and also to the Staboek market, so it’s a great place for watching a commotion.
After our interviews, we went to an event at the University of Guyana to recognize International Women’s Day and hosted by Professor Bibian Isoto. Bibian is originally from Uganda and was dressed kienyeji (“traditionally”—kind of) and knew a little bit of Swahili. One of the other professors knew quite a bit more—although he was Guyanese, he had spent some time in TZ.

worship

I went to church twice—to the Methodist in the morning and to the Catholic Cathedral at around 5pm. The supervisors are rather cautious about allowing us to leave the hotel without a chaperone, and while I am indeed full of Christian zeal, I expect I would have done something else in the evening if I’d had more options. And I probably would have missed out. Although the homily was typically difficult to hear, the ritual was moving. The hymns were sang mainly by the two women who also played the organ (and maybe another instrument) and, they used the same otherworldly, very high and tremulous voices that I’d heard at pagwah the night before. And as they started singing the first hymn the wind picked up to rustle the flags and the fluorescent lights came on to add both light and a low, buzzing hum.
And Pagwah the night before—this is a Hindu holiday and took place at a temple. From what I heard, the Pagwah events started with a religious ceremony and ended with the variety show that we watched. A band sang what seemed to be pop songs, using mainly what I would call “Indian” instruments plus a keyboard and conga drums. The band’s performances alternated with performances by a group of very energetic dancers who danced to Indian disco music.

We had a busy day of interviews in the course of which I met a former Peace Corps Volunteer. Talking to her (as well as with a current Peace Corps Volunteer later) reminded me of what an excellent group of people we Peace Corps Volunteers are. They showed a similar combination of wisdom and hope; despite knowing the challenges for themselves and Guyana, they were cheerfully committed to their work.
We also spoke to some CSWs (Commercial Sex Workers—a lot could be written about the names we apply to people who engage in sex in order to get money, whether for basic necessities or something else, but I’ll leave that to others, at least for now) and of course that’s not a common experience, especially since we were speaking (in an oblique way most of the time) about their sex work. Supposedly men will pay double for sex without a condom, and considering the poverty and desperation involved, I’m not surprised that many women accept, even if those we talked to insisted that they would not. One way to explain the man’s recklessness is that such men know they are infected, but another explanation is “cognitive dissonance,” that such men separate themselves from the entire experience o f “picking a fare.”
Because Sunday was an off-day, we went out for dinner at Celina’s, the only restaurant in Georgetown with an Oceanside view. The water here is definitely the Atlantic rather the Caribbean, and it has the same gray-green color and generally foreboding look as it does in, for instance, Maryland. We waited a long time for our food and I got to feeling a little quiet and sullen. (As opposed to quiet and happy, my usual mode).

jet to Guyana

On my flight to Guyana, I sat next to a Guyanese man who, upon later reflection, I think may have been involved in drug trafficking. He runs a hardware store in Brooklyn and owns several rental properties there, and makes a trip to Guyana every six weeks to spend a week relaxing. A man in his fifties, with lots of “tough love” wisdom on a variety of subjects (“And if you ever get into any kind of trouble where there doesn’t seem to be any way out, remember that it’s a result of your not working hard enough.”), I feel disrespectful suggesting he was doing anything except relaxing. But the regular trips to Guyana, combined with a couple of the stories he told me, has made me wonder if he doesn’t carry something back with him, even if he pretends not to know what he’s doing and despises everyone else involved.
About those stories—The first one isn’t so much a story, but a best practice. When he arrives in Guyana, he told me, he would collect his luggage and retrieve a long knife from his suitcase. When he gets a taxi for the four-hour ride to the east coast, he’ll show the driver the knife as a warning. He doesn’t want the driver to use his cell phone during the journey or to drive down any dead ends. If they get attacked by bandits, the driver dies.
The other story is about a time when he got beat up by drug dealers in New York. The details were muddled—it seemed to have something to do with activity going on in one of his rental properties. The police considered him a suspect for a while, but cleared him (I think). Even the attackers came back and apologized that they’d attacked the wrong person. It was hard to focus on details, as I was a little distracted by the photos he had to go with it—a few of himself with a badly bruised face after the attack, and one of his very bloody shirt.

jet to Guyana

On my flight to Guyana, I sat next to a Guyanese man who, upon later reflection, I think may have been involved in drug trafficking. He runs a hardware store in Brooklyn and owns several rental properties there, and makes a trip to Guyana every six weeks to spend a week relaxing. A man in his fifties, with lots of “tough love” wisdom on a variety of subjects (“And if you ever get into any kind of trouble where there doesn’t seem to be any way out, remember that it’s a result of your not working hard enough.”), I feel disrespectful suggesting he was doing anything except relaxing. But the regular trips to Guyana, combined with a couple of the stories he told me, has made me wonder if he doesn’t carry something back with him, even if he pretends not to know what he’s doing and despises everyone else involved.
About those stories—The first one isn’t so much a story, but a best practice. When he arrives in Guyana, he told me, he would collect his luggage and retrieve a long knife from his suitcase. When he gets a taxi for the four-hour ride to the east coast, he’ll show the driver the knife as a warning. He doesn’t want the driver to use his cell phone during the journey or to drive down any dead ends. If they get attacked by bandits, the driver dies.
The other story is about a time when he got beat up by drug dealers in New York. The details were muddled—it seemed to have something to do with activity going on in one of his rental properties. The police considered him a suspect for a while, but cleared him (I think). Even the attackers came back and apologized that they’d attacked the wrong person. It was hard to focus on details, as I was a little distracted by the photos he had to go with it—a few of himself with a badly bruised face after the attack, and one of his very bloody shirt.

friends

Joan’s discovered facebook. I don’t know whose invitation to join finally triggered her to register, but now that she has, she’s added a lot of friends (including me!) and is looking for more especially among people she half-remembers from high school. I’ve gotten into it, too and maybe everyone has, because it seems like more people are inviting me, as well. Interest in facebook is growing in Belgium also—the word often seems to jump out of overheard, otherwise French or Dutch conversations.

One of my friends, who despite her living in Brussels, I’d barely communicated with this summer, finally came over for dinner last night. She had a friend (boyfriend? I don’t think she would have worn that dress for just us.) with her and he and I got on well. Joan and I talked about afterwards how although we’ve had a few people over, none of them have been Belgian. Our friend actually lives in the U.S. most of the time and is from Congo. And her friend was Dutch.

Lux

Although there are a lot of good bars and restaurants in this neighborhood, when my office decided to do a happy hour, we did it at the office, with drinks in the “refectoire” (“break room”) and food—cheeses, quiches, cold cuts, olives—on tables set up in the hall. It started right on time at about 5:30 with almost everyone attending. What did we talk about: Flemish history, whether it’s customary in Bru to greet people in French, Dutch or not at all, Luxembourg (because I was about to go there), other people’s holiday plans, a proposed soccer tournament (on the Play Station 3).

There’s a Chi-Chi’s in Luxembourg, in the main square, next to the Pizza Hut. There are also several more traditional tourist trap restaurants, and we ended up with falafels. Our first day there, we took a tour of the “casements” the underground passages that were built in the middle ages when the whole city was a fortress, and although theoretically interesting, the experience was like going down to the basement but with a lot more steps. So I’m really glad we stayed the night and went back to the centre again the second day, and found the “other old town,” tucked into the valley, again dating from the days when the city was a fortress. I don’t generally care that much about food so I think it means something to say I ate one of the best meals of my life there—potatoes au gratin with spinach. It sounds really ordinary, but they put something in that sauce and it was really good.