Many of my readers probably know that in Latin America, soccer is THE sport. I'll admit, it doesn't do much for me. I keep myself busy following the Tigers, following many of their games online, and up until last night, watching the Red Wings through online streams of the game. But in Honduras, soccer trumps all, and to most people, not other sport exists.
Last week Sunday, I went to a soccer game. The Honduran soccer league has two teams that are based in Tegucigalpa, a la the Cubs and White Sox in Chicago or the Islanders and Rangers in the NHL. The two teams are Olimpia and Motagua. In Tegus, no rivalry matches Olimpia and Motagua. mention either of the names in a group, and you'll get half the group cheering, half the group booing. It's craziness, though as a fan seasoned in Hope/Calvin games, it's fairly familiar.
This past week marked the end of the Honduran league's season. As is the case with most all other soccer leagues, the championship is determined by a two-game final, where the combined score decides who wins (just like tournaments in Jeopardy!). Last Sunday was the first game of the championship, and guess who were playing? Olimpia and Motagua. Big deal, for serious. A few people were going, and I had several spare hours, so I thought I needed to get in on the Olimpia/Motagua action.
The obvious problem, however, was that I was unaffiliated. The two teams were just names to me. So I went, determined to pick an allegiance early on.
We arrived at the stadium, having purchased 250 L. tickets for 270 L. from a scalper on the street as we rode in our taxi - about a buck of profit for the dude. Our seats were in the nicest section - the Sillas, or chairs, as opposed to the sections of nothing more than concrete steps in the Sombra (Shade) or Sol (Sun), moving down the hierarchy. Sillas are the safest place to be - people certainly have gotten injured at Olimpia/Motagua games.
I started taking note of things to help me make my decision. Olimpia certainly wins when it comes to fans - their section was basically chock full. Motagua's was pretty sparse, even by the time the game began. I found I preferred the look of Olimpia's jerseys - red, white, and blue, with a cool, retro-looking lion logo - to Motagua's with its blue-on-blue eagle with hints of maroon. Further examination led me to see that I also preferred Olimpia's sponsors - Coca-Cola over Pepsi, Salva Vida beer over Gatorade. I continued to ponder my affiliation as vendors hawking pizza, candy, drinks, and gum passed, being significantly more invasive than vendors at American sporting events.
The game began after a beautiful a capella rendition of the Honduran national anthem. The pulsating Olimpia fan section seemed quite unaware that any singing was going on, continuing to chant their various cheers. Every once in a while, an amoeba of open space would form in the middle of the crowd, signaling that something was going to blow up. Apparently the guards frisking people at the gates were not infallible - there were plenty of large explosives that went off throughout the game, all prefaced by the amoeba of space. Immediately upon detonation, the amoeba walls would collapse and fans would quickly fill in that space removing all evidence that anything had blown up within two seconds. It was awesome to see.
I still hadn't decided on who to root for. Most signs were pointing me toward Olimpia, but I wasn't so sure. Everything pointing in that direction made me think that Motagua was the underdog, which was almost enough to trump everything. After about 5 minutes of gameplay, when I could tell that the teams were actually fairly evenly matched, I decided I was a Motagua man. If I could see the underdog win the game, that would be excellent.
Alas, it was not to be. Motagua was possibly the better team overall, but their forwards could not beat Olimpia's defenders down the field. Olimpia struck first. Then second. In the second half, Olimpia scored a third time. Late in the game, Motagua did score a goal, and I got to cheer for that at least. I actually didn't realize this game was half of the championship, so as we left early to beat the rush, I was a bit disappointed I hadn't chosen the team that not only won, but had my favor in most every aspect besides gameplay.
The second half was played last night. For all intents and purposes it was played like a normal game, which Motagua won 1-0. But when you combine the scores, Olimpia came out as the champs, 3-2.
There's always next year. I'm a Motagua man, but if I had to buy a jersey (as I may some day), I wouldn't hesitate to betray my allegiance.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
...unsure what to do (no, this post isn't about what you think)
This morning, as we were getting ready for the bus to arrive, which happens at 6:30ish am, our doorbell rang. Whenever the doorbell rings or we hear the annoyingly wimpy metallic-sounding taptaptaptaptaptap on our gate (a sound that frustrates me to no end - just knock full-out dude, rather than sounding so sheepish with your wimpy pen-on-metal-bar sound), we brace ourselves and none of us want to answer. If it's someone we know and want to talk to, the person will just call out. If the doorbell or taptaptaptaptaptap sounds, it's either Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, or people wanting our money, either begging-style or watchmen collecting monthly dues (a subject already sore due to an unscrupulous, now-unemployed watchman giving us fake receipts and essentially stealing our money). Whoever it is knocking or ringing, we don't want to talk to them.
In all of the Latin American I've visited, people asking for money have been a common sight - any big city has them. None of them have been particularly overbearing or forceful in their pleas for money, and it's fairly easy to pass them by. But now that I live down here, I've found that people just come to our door and ask for handouts. And it's not like we can go anywhere - it's where we live; we can't just pass by and ignore. I know it sounds a little nasty to complain about people asking for money, when I've always had resources in abundance, but I can't help but be skeptical of most people's motives (it's pretty much always men who come by, and I think it's reasonable to guess 99 times out of 100 any money you give would be spent on booze or drugs, no matter what story they tell you about baby sisters needing milk or whatever).
Anyway. 6:30. Doorbell. WAY too early for anyone to come calling, especially someone who's begging. We do happen to be up, though, and I open the door. This guy speaks very good English, but like most guys who come by, he talks way too much, trying to be way too convincing to actually be convincing. He tells me his life story and I can't get a word in edgewise. Grew up in Houston. Somehow in Honduras. Stuck in Honduras. I don't understand why. The cops hate him and are unfair to him because he's not Honduran. Bladiblahdiblah. Through all of this, he's hiccuping. Actually hiccuping, like I thought only cartoon characters do when they're drunk. But he must have been. He wonders if we have any work he can do - he can do it all. I tell him it's not our house to have work done to it, and I tell him we will be going to work soon and I'm very sorry but can't talk right now. He asks me where I'm from, said something to the effect of "I thought you might be Christian." I tell him I am, but that doesn't change the fact that my ride will be coming in just a minute. But he doesn't shut up. Then the bus rumbles up and we have to go. We make extra sure to lock up carefully, because he's still just hovering. Gah.
This evening, our doorbell rings again. Dan answers, and it's the same guy. He launches into the same spiel, asking for work, growing up in Houston, Honduran police give him problems, and he's in bad shape. Asks if we're Christian, asks if we have a Bible we could give him. It's hard to say no to giving a Bible, but we each only have our own personal Bibles down here - I have scads in the States, but I decided to allot packing space and weight to other things I might use more down here than a spare Bible. Then he asks if he could have some money for rice and beans, because the cops won't let him work, they say his papers are no good, and he can't work. And the FBI is after him somehow, too? He certainly speaks English better than any other person asking for money than I've met. Dan offers some break and water, but he's not interested. He's up for the rice and beans, and so needs the money.
Well, I have some extra packets or refried beans, and we had a tupperware full of rice. While Dan still patiently listens to this guy's trying too hard, I scoop the rice into a ziploc bag, grab a packet of beans, and walk out to him. I say, "Well, we aren't comfortable giving you money, but if you are hungry and need food, we will gladly let you have this. It's exactly what you were saying you needed to buy. Here you go."
The man kind of ignores my offer and keeps talking about his various problems with the police and not working and the FBI and how he needs to get to the embassy and talk to the ambassador and can we help him talk to the ambassador because we are Americans and the ambassador is an American and he needs help because no one will listen to him. As he continues, I continue to hold the food over our gate, telling him that if he really needs to get to the embassy, he's been hanging on the wrong side of town ALL day, and that we're just teachers and we know nothing about embassy affairs, nor would we hold any more sway than a guy who's born in Houston like he supposedly is.
"Would you like this food or not?"
"No I won't humble myself to take food from somebody else."
"But you'll humble yourself to take money to buy the same food?"
He shifts his balance to the foot further from the gate. I continue, "We are more than glad to give you this food, sir, but I'm afraid that is the only way we can help you and if you don't want this sort of help I have to ask you to leave."
He takes a step back and says, "You won't see me again."
"Okay. If you still need the food, we are glad to help you out."
"Do you have a Bible?"
"Again, no extras, I'm sorry. If we did, you could gladly have one," I said, gently thrusting the rice and beans in his direction again, "but I'm afraid this is the only way we can help you."
"I will leave. You won't see me again."
At this point, he started to try launching into his litany of problems again, but Dan and I had made the only offer we could in good conscience, and a very reasonable one at that. We just turned around, walked inside, and closed the door.
Please don't lie to us.
In all of the Latin American I've visited, people asking for money have been a common sight - any big city has them. None of them have been particularly overbearing or forceful in their pleas for money, and it's fairly easy to pass them by. But now that I live down here, I've found that people just come to our door and ask for handouts. And it's not like we can go anywhere - it's where we live; we can't just pass by and ignore. I know it sounds a little nasty to complain about people asking for money, when I've always had resources in abundance, but I can't help but be skeptical of most people's motives (it's pretty much always men who come by, and I think it's reasonable to guess 99 times out of 100 any money you give would be spent on booze or drugs, no matter what story they tell you about baby sisters needing milk or whatever).
Anyway. 6:30. Doorbell. WAY too early for anyone to come calling, especially someone who's begging. We do happen to be up, though, and I open the door. This guy speaks very good English, but like most guys who come by, he talks way too much, trying to be way too convincing to actually be convincing. He tells me his life story and I can't get a word in edgewise. Grew up in Houston. Somehow in Honduras. Stuck in Honduras. I don't understand why. The cops hate him and are unfair to him because he's not Honduran. Bladiblahdiblah. Through all of this, he's hiccuping. Actually hiccuping, like I thought only cartoon characters do when they're drunk. But he must have been. He wonders if we have any work he can do - he can do it all. I tell him it's not our house to have work done to it, and I tell him we will be going to work soon and I'm very sorry but can't talk right now. He asks me where I'm from, said something to the effect of "I thought you might be Christian." I tell him I am, but that doesn't change the fact that my ride will be coming in just a minute. But he doesn't shut up. Then the bus rumbles up and we have to go. We make extra sure to lock up carefully, because he's still just hovering. Gah.
This evening, our doorbell rings again. Dan answers, and it's the same guy. He launches into the same spiel, asking for work, growing up in Houston, Honduran police give him problems, and he's in bad shape. Asks if we're Christian, asks if we have a Bible we could give him. It's hard to say no to giving a Bible, but we each only have our own personal Bibles down here - I have scads in the States, but I decided to allot packing space and weight to other things I might use more down here than a spare Bible. Then he asks if he could have some money for rice and beans, because the cops won't let him work, they say his papers are no good, and he can't work. And the FBI is after him somehow, too? He certainly speaks English better than any other person asking for money than I've met. Dan offers some break and water, but he's not interested. He's up for the rice and beans, and so needs the money.
Well, I have some extra packets or refried beans, and we had a tupperware full of rice. While Dan still patiently listens to this guy's trying too hard, I scoop the rice into a ziploc bag, grab a packet of beans, and walk out to him. I say, "Well, we aren't comfortable giving you money, but if you are hungry and need food, we will gladly let you have this. It's exactly what you were saying you needed to buy. Here you go."
The man kind of ignores my offer and keeps talking about his various problems with the police and not working and the FBI and how he needs to get to the embassy and talk to the ambassador and can we help him talk to the ambassador because we are Americans and the ambassador is an American and he needs help because no one will listen to him. As he continues, I continue to hold the food over our gate, telling him that if he really needs to get to the embassy, he's been hanging on the wrong side of town ALL day, and that we're just teachers and we know nothing about embassy affairs, nor would we hold any more sway than a guy who's born in Houston like he supposedly is.
"Would you like this food or not?"
"No I won't humble myself to take food from somebody else."
"But you'll humble yourself to take money to buy the same food?"
He shifts his balance to the foot further from the gate. I continue, "We are more than glad to give you this food, sir, but I'm afraid that is the only way we can help you and if you don't want this sort of help I have to ask you to leave."
He takes a step back and says, "You won't see me again."
"Okay. If you still need the food, we are glad to help you out."
"Do you have a Bible?"
"Again, no extras, I'm sorry. If we did, you could gladly have one," I said, gently thrusting the rice and beans in his direction again, "but I'm afraid this is the only way we can help you."
"I will leave. You won't see me again."
At this point, he started to try launching into his litany of problems again, but Dan and I had made the only offer we could in good conscience, and a very reasonable one at that. We just turned around, walked inside, and closed the door.
Please don't lie to us.
Monday, April 19, 2010
...for the fourth time
My trip home was successful. The funeral for my grandma was lovely, I was proud to be able to sing at it with my brother, and though it was difficult and had its painful aspects to be sure, it was one of those funerals that seemed more a celebration of my grandma's legacy than mourning her loss. I have no regrets of the time or money spent to go home for it.
It was wonderful to see my family, as well. While my folks came down in February, it had been three and a half months since seeing anybody else, including my six-month old nephew, who is PRECIOUS. I hung out with him, and played with my sister's kids, who just keep on growing (and becoming more well-behaved, Dyann!) Obviously, it was great to see my siblings, who are responsible for the cute kids and wonderful in their own regard. Seeing the extended family was good, as well, especially considering the circumstances.
I got to drive around Holland, drink beers and lattes I've missed, EAT TACO BELL TWICE, buy various foodstuffs to bring back down, and spend four hours with a great friend to catch up and look forward to the coming summer.
And oh, did I look forward to the coming summer. Perhaps too much. The trip was much needed for my own emotions - the funky state I've been in for much of the school year had returned pretty strongly, and I've started to hold the school and Honduras in very low esteem. It was good to get some breathing room and gain some perspective on my situation down here.
But I think I have to quote Ulysses Everett McGill on this one: "One third of a gopher would only arouse my appetite without beddin' her down" (O Brother, Where Art Thou?) In my case, the third of a gopher was a weekend home. I fear it may have even more thoroughly roused my appetite for being home than before I went, which is saying something. But it certainly was not enough to satisfy me, and now the hills of Tegucigalpa, despite their freshly green patina following an early start to rainy season, seem even bleaker in comparison.
I'm again truly questioning the wisdom of returning here in the fall. I mean, come on, last year I had such a hard time coming down, just fearing that I wouldn't like it. Now I KNOW that I don't like it. I understand the idea of doing things you don't like as growing experiences, because they're good for you. But is it really a growing experience if I don't like the idea of teaching as much now as I did a year ago? Is curling up in a ball of depression, as I have done several times this year, actually good for me? I'm losing my confidence in students, I've become as apathetic as they, and I'm more a writhing ball of hate toward Latinos than a teacher at this point.
Here's what prompts me back toward Tegus in August:
I flew into Honduras yesterday for the fourth time, planning on teaching. It has not gotten any easier to swallow. Does it make sense to count on a fifth time out in August?
It was wonderful to see my family, as well. While my folks came down in February, it had been three and a half months since seeing anybody else, including my six-month old nephew, who is PRECIOUS. I hung out with him, and played with my sister's kids, who just keep on growing (and becoming more well-behaved, Dyann!) Obviously, it was great to see my siblings, who are responsible for the cute kids and wonderful in their own regard. Seeing the extended family was good, as well, especially considering the circumstances.
I got to drive around Holland, drink beers and lattes I've missed, EAT TACO BELL TWICE, buy various foodstuffs to bring back down, and spend four hours with a great friend to catch up and look forward to the coming summer.
And oh, did I look forward to the coming summer. Perhaps too much. The trip was much needed for my own emotions - the funky state I've been in for much of the school year had returned pretty strongly, and I've started to hold the school and Honduras in very low esteem. It was good to get some breathing room and gain some perspective on my situation down here.
But I think I have to quote Ulysses Everett McGill on this one: "One third of a gopher would only arouse my appetite without beddin' her down" (O Brother, Where Art Thou?) In my case, the third of a gopher was a weekend home. I fear it may have even more thoroughly roused my appetite for being home than before I went, which is saying something. But it certainly was not enough to satisfy me, and now the hills of Tegucigalpa, despite their freshly green patina following an early start to rainy season, seem even bleaker in comparison.
I'm again truly questioning the wisdom of returning here in the fall. I mean, come on, last year I had such a hard time coming down, just fearing that I wouldn't like it. Now I KNOW that I don't like it. I understand the idea of doing things you don't like as growing experiences, because they're good for you. But is it really a growing experience if I don't like the idea of teaching as much now as I did a year ago? Is curling up in a ball of depression, as I have done several times this year, actually good for me? I'm losing my confidence in students, I've become as apathetic as they, and I'm more a writhing ball of hate toward Latinos than a teacher at this point.
Here's what prompts me back toward Tegus in August:
- No jobs in West Michigan. It's so hard to search for a job in the Mitten, because they're simply not there. Schools are cutting back like crazy year after year, dealing with cuts of as much as $9 million in one district, I read over the weekend. They're looking to shed jobs wherever possible. With that in mind, Tegucigalpa seems like the only place where I know people that I have a job waiting for me.
- 10th graders asking me, "You're gonna be here next year, right?" I'm really not looking forward to next year's crop that I'd be facing. I hear plenty of frustration stories from teachers who have those students now. A few of the kids seem even more spoiled and entitled than any of my students from this year. And I DON'T want to deal with that. But I have met a few kids who seem like they legitimately look forward to having me as their teacher. (They clearly haven't spoken to a good number of my students.) When they 9or any other teachers or staff) ask me that question above, I have to answer, "That's the plan." That's my cop out from saying what I really feel. And I know that consistency is something that's so hard to come by when it comes to teachers for these students. Maybe a totally reluctant and out-of-it Mr. Eding is better than Ms. X in her first year, not understanding what really happens here.
- Kristin Diepenhorst. (Kristin, I'm making it blog-official. Everybody basically knows anyway.) She and I are closing in on three months of dating down here. We've known each other for a long time, and began taking our relationship in a new direction shortly after Christmas. And I'm really excited. Even more excited to date her in the States, where life is a bit more comfortable and normal, but these days are fantastic as well. And Kristin has never really considered not coming back for her second year. She actually loves her students and stuff - you know, the way normal teachers feel. I really am not keen on the idea of long-distance relationships, but it would only be from August to June that we'd be doing that, punctuated by Christmas and an inevitable trip or two I'd take down to visit. Still, I like her too much to be comfortable running the risks inherent in long-distance.
I flew into Honduras yesterday for the fourth time, planning on teaching. It has not gotten any easier to swallow. Does it make sense to count on a fifth time out in August?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
...which is really far from home
God is good.
This morning at around 5:30, when I already happened to be awake, the phone rang.
God is faithful.
I figured it was our community coordinator or something. Maybe something was up with the bus and she was letting us know with an hour of warning.
God never fails.
I answered and heard my step-mom Carol's voice. I immediately knew this news was bad.
God is good.
My grandma passed away. Only like 8 hours before I'm writing this.
God is faithful.
I'd been kept abreast of her developments over the last two months or so, when after so many years of rather secure steadiness, she finally began to show signs of her final descent. Her heart simply seemed to be failing.
God never fails.
I determined myself a while ago to return for her funeral. The day the folks back home are shooting for is Friday. On Friday at school, more than half the day will be devoted to Day of the Americas, so most of my classes are canceled.
God is good.
Flights out of Tegus all leave between noon and one, so On Thursday, when I booked a ticket for, I'll be able to come in and teach most of my classes in the morning. I'll be in Grand Rapids by 10:30 in the evening on Thursday.
God is faithful.
I'll be home for two full days. I'll sing at the funeral with my brother. I'll see my family, though not under the greatest of circumstances.
God never fails.
I'll fly back to Tegus on Sunday, leaving at 6:30 in the morning, and arriving around noon. I'll be able to rearrange myself in plenty of time before the next school week begins in earnest.
God is good.
I live thousands of miles away, and miss my family so much right now, but I will be able to go home to celebrate my grandmother's life.
God is so, so good.
This morning at around 5:30, when I already happened to be awake, the phone rang.
God is faithful.
I figured it was our community coordinator or something. Maybe something was up with the bus and she was letting us know with an hour of warning.
God never fails.
I answered and heard my step-mom Carol's voice. I immediately knew this news was bad.
God is good.
My grandma passed away. Only like 8 hours before I'm writing this.
God is faithful.
I'd been kept abreast of her developments over the last two months or so, when after so many years of rather secure steadiness, she finally began to show signs of her final descent. Her heart simply seemed to be failing.
God never fails.
I determined myself a while ago to return for her funeral. The day the folks back home are shooting for is Friday. On Friday at school, more than half the day will be devoted to Day of the Americas, so most of my classes are canceled.
God is good.
Flights out of Tegus all leave between noon and one, so On Thursday, when I booked a ticket for, I'll be able to come in and teach most of my classes in the morning. I'll be in Grand Rapids by 10:30 in the evening on Thursday.
God is faithful.
I'll be home for two full days. I'll sing at the funeral with my brother. I'll see my family, though not under the greatest of circumstances.
God never fails.
I'll fly back to Tegus on Sunday, leaving at 6:30 in the morning, and arriving around noon. I'll be able to rearrange myself in plenty of time before the next school week begins in earnest.
God is good.
I live thousands of miles away, and miss my family so much right now, but I will be able to go home to celebrate my grandmother's life.
God is so, so good.
Monday, April 12, 2010
...adding to my communicative arsenal
Pause in my Costa Rica recap (well, I was already doing that, wasn't I?) to say that I have at long last downloaded Skype, the online communication tool that allows for text, audio, and video chatting for free over the internet. I don't know how many of my readers use Skype, but I figured this would be a fine place to let people know I have it just in case. My username is aarone46, if you want to add me to your contact list. I'd love to chat with people, and I'm realizing that Gmail chat isn't widespread enough for some of the people I want to chat with.
So there you have it. aarone46. Skype me.
So there you have it. aarone46. Skype me.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
...not quite in the home stretch
Since "Spring Break," or Semana Santa, is over, I could say that we're in the home stretch of the year. I won't. I'd like my home stretch to be a bit shorter than 7 weeks, and we've got a 4 day weekend coming up the first weekend of May, so I'm going to call that the home stretch. Now I just have a three week span separating me and the home stretch. Somehow that seems more hopeful to me.
I bet you're glad I cleared that up, aren't you? Anyway...
As I said, Semana Santa, or Holy Week, just finished. You knew that - Easter! In Latin America, schools are always off for the whole week, so our "spring break" moves around. (Next year, it's almost three weeks later - how's that for a home stretch? It's a huge week, especially among IST teachers, to travel.
There were three groups that went to Guatemala, 4 or 5 folks that went to the Carribbean coast, two groups that traveled down to Costa Rica, a handful that either went home or had loved ones come down here...and me. I didn't have anybody to travel with, due to the dearth of guys down here and the awkward logistics of a guy traveling with three or four girls. So I was going to travel by myself and love it, dangit! No one else to hold me up, no opposing opinions about timetable, ease of slipping into hostel during an inherently busy time, time to just read by myself and (hopefully) spend with God... I found a great deal on airfare to San Jose and prepared my full week in Costa Rica - other folks with similar deals only even managed to find Monday to Saturday itineraries! Score!
Traveling by oneself kinda sucks. Especially during the long hours of waiting between your bus and ferry in a rather uninteresting town. I had two decks of cards packed in the false hope that I'd find someone to play with. I did read all of The Kite Runner (much enjoyed) and read about 2/3 of the nonfiction Under the Banner of Heaven (an enlightening, yet disturbing view of Mormonism and Mormon Fundamentalism), but I still found myself with an unfortunate amount of down time.
How about a reference map?
The trip started off great - wonderful views of Nicaragua from the plane, breathtaking first glimpses of the natural beauty of Costa Rica, and being able to feel savvy when I passed up the 21-dollar taxis at the airport, walked to the main road outside, and caught a bus going basically the same place for the equivalent of ONE DOLLAR. It was Saturday afternoon, and by the time I hit the hay on Sunday, I needed to be in the semi-distant beach town of Santa Teresa (Near the town labeled "Montezuma"). I had to play things by ear - once in San Jose, there were 3-4 legs of trip to Santa Teresa - bus to Puntarenas, ferry from Puntarenas to Paquera (sorta southwest across the gulf from Puntarenas), and then one or two buses, depending on my luck. I made it to San Jose by around 4:45, and I knew buses to Puntarenas left hourly and took 2.5 hours. I thought the earlier I could get to my hostel on Sunday, the more time I could bum around the beach, as un-beach-bummy as I may be. The timing couldn't have been better - I got to the bus station and purchased my ticket with about 8 minutes to spare before the bus left, got a hotel room (sized 9 feet by 4 feet, seriously) for 10 bucks, had dinner, and crashed. It was VERY hot along the coast - inlands of Central American countries get much cooler with their elevation, and I wasn't in San Jose any more.
My plan to catch a 7 am ferry, freshly baked bread and OJ in tow, was thwarted by the fact that there WAS NO 7am ferry. Schedules changed for the holy week, and I was left twiddling my thumbs until the 9am ferry. By this point, I wasn't feeling so great. I began to feel like traveling was getting the best of me, and I felt stiff and weary. I napped and read on the hour-long ferry ride, felt even wearier as I disembarked, and caught a bus to the town of Cobáno. My bus continued to Montezuma, so I needed to transfer to head to Santa Teresa. The vessel for travel was continually getting to be lower quality, yet the fares continued to rise. After awaking at 5:20, I made it to S. Teresa around 1:00. Then I couldn't find my hostel. Famished (no lunch), I had to snag some food before I undertook my search in earnest. My weariness was only worsening, and the added strain of digestion seemed to make things even tougher. But I finally did find my hostel, about a 13 minute walk from any of the stuff of interest in the town. I immediately collapsed in my bed.
The plan was to spend half of Sunday and all of Monday in Santa Teresa, hit the beach a bit, read, sample the restaurants, and hopefully meet some people worth meeting before leaving early Tuesday for my next location. But I ended up alternating sleeping with reading and eating; that's about all I could manage. The folks sharing my room were nice, and I spent about an hour and a half on the beach with them, but by the time I'd been up and about enough to eat, I had to lay back down again. A pitiable existence.
On top of that, the bus I was planning on taking at 7:15am Tuesday never came. The man at the hostel said based on my travel plans, even leaving that early wouldn't ave been early enough. I think he was full of it, but I found myself spending ANOTHER achy, downtrodden day in Santa Teresa, popping ibuprofen and watching 3:10 to Yuma. The one upshot to this was that Kristin and her roommates, traveling separately, were arriving that evening, and so I spent a good deal of time with them once they showed up.
I finally got on my way again Wednesday morning, after spending 2.5 days at the beach town, yet only 1.5 hours on the beach. 6am bus, lots of picking up people, and what should have been a two hour drive took us to the boat launch with just enough time to board the 9am ferry. Once back in Puntarenas, my remaining leg was a bus to Monteverde, near the dot curiously marked "Ciudad" on the above map. I got to Puntarenas with nearly 3 hours to kill before my 1:15 bus. Booooooring. I found the bus marked Monteverde, but it didn't look ready to go anywhere at 1:10. Turns out it wasn't ready at 1:30, either. It didn't leave until 2:30. At this point, I had long finished The Kite Runner and was well into my other book. I got a lot of reading done on this day.
But oh, when the bus started and we got out of the Puntarenas area and into the mountains, I was breathtaken by the landscapes. Costa Rica is the most beautiful country I have been to. Even in the midst of dry season, the rolling, somewhat lumpy mountains are just such a singular sight, covered in places by rich forest. The temperature dropped, and although half the bus ride was on terrible gravel road, that bus ride ended up being the highlight of my trip. I was refreshed to arrive in Monteverde, in a beautiful hotel, with crisp wind and traces of rain in the air, eager to salvage what I could from my time up there, having lost a full day of time in that location. Little did I know that bad news was awaiting me...
Stay tuned for Part II of Aaron's misadventure in Costa Rica! It might not be as bland and step-by-step as this part!
I bet you're glad I cleared that up, aren't you? Anyway...
As I said, Semana Santa, or Holy Week, just finished. You knew that - Easter! In Latin America, schools are always off for the whole week, so our "spring break" moves around. (Next year, it's almost three weeks later - how's that for a home stretch? It's a huge week, especially among IST teachers, to travel.
There were three groups that went to Guatemala, 4 or 5 folks that went to the Carribbean coast, two groups that traveled down to Costa Rica, a handful that either went home or had loved ones come down here...and me. I didn't have anybody to travel with, due to the dearth of guys down here and the awkward logistics of a guy traveling with three or four girls. So I was going to travel by myself and love it, dangit! No one else to hold me up, no opposing opinions about timetable, ease of slipping into hostel during an inherently busy time, time to just read by myself and (hopefully) spend with God... I found a great deal on airfare to San Jose and prepared my full week in Costa Rica - other folks with similar deals only even managed to find Monday to Saturday itineraries! Score!
Traveling by oneself kinda sucks. Especially during the long hours of waiting between your bus and ferry in a rather uninteresting town. I had two decks of cards packed in the false hope that I'd find someone to play with. I did read all of The Kite Runner (much enjoyed) and read about 2/3 of the nonfiction Under the Banner of Heaven (an enlightening, yet disturbing view of Mormonism and Mormon Fundamentalism), but I still found myself with an unfortunate amount of down time.
How about a reference map?
The trip started off great - wonderful views of Nicaragua from the plane, breathtaking first glimpses of the natural beauty of Costa Rica, and being able to feel savvy when I passed up the 21-dollar taxis at the airport, walked to the main road outside, and caught a bus going basically the same place for the equivalent of ONE DOLLAR. It was Saturday afternoon, and by the time I hit the hay on Sunday, I needed to be in the semi-distant beach town of Santa Teresa (Near the town labeled "Montezuma"). I had to play things by ear - once in San Jose, there were 3-4 legs of trip to Santa Teresa - bus to Puntarenas, ferry from Puntarenas to Paquera (sorta southwest across the gulf from Puntarenas), and then one or two buses, depending on my luck. I made it to San Jose by around 4:45, and I knew buses to Puntarenas left hourly and took 2.5 hours. I thought the earlier I could get to my hostel on Sunday, the more time I could bum around the beach, as un-beach-bummy as I may be. The timing couldn't have been better - I got to the bus station and purchased my ticket with about 8 minutes to spare before the bus left, got a hotel room (sized 9 feet by 4 feet, seriously) for 10 bucks, had dinner, and crashed. It was VERY hot along the coast - inlands of Central American countries get much cooler with their elevation, and I wasn't in San Jose any more.
My plan to catch a 7 am ferry, freshly baked bread and OJ in tow, was thwarted by the fact that there WAS NO 7am ferry. Schedules changed for the holy week, and I was left twiddling my thumbs until the 9am ferry. By this point, I wasn't feeling so great. I began to feel like traveling was getting the best of me, and I felt stiff and weary. I napped and read on the hour-long ferry ride, felt even wearier as I disembarked, and caught a bus to the town of Cobáno. My bus continued to Montezuma, so I needed to transfer to head to Santa Teresa. The vessel for travel was continually getting to be lower quality, yet the fares continued to rise. After awaking at 5:20, I made it to S. Teresa around 1:00. Then I couldn't find my hostel. Famished (no lunch), I had to snag some food before I undertook my search in earnest. My weariness was only worsening, and the added strain of digestion seemed to make things even tougher. But I finally did find my hostel, about a 13 minute walk from any of the stuff of interest in the town. I immediately collapsed in my bed.
The plan was to spend half of Sunday and all of Monday in Santa Teresa, hit the beach a bit, read, sample the restaurants, and hopefully meet some people worth meeting before leaving early Tuesday for my next location. But I ended up alternating sleeping with reading and eating; that's about all I could manage. The folks sharing my room were nice, and I spent about an hour and a half on the beach with them, but by the time I'd been up and about enough to eat, I had to lay back down again. A pitiable existence.
On top of that, the bus I was planning on taking at 7:15am Tuesday never came. The man at the hostel said based on my travel plans, even leaving that early wouldn't ave been early enough. I think he was full of it, but I found myself spending ANOTHER achy, downtrodden day in Santa Teresa, popping ibuprofen and watching 3:10 to Yuma. The one upshot to this was that Kristin and her roommates, traveling separately, were arriving that evening, and so I spent a good deal of time with them once they showed up.
I finally got on my way again Wednesday morning, after spending 2.5 days at the beach town, yet only 1.5 hours on the beach. 6am bus, lots of picking up people, and what should have been a two hour drive took us to the boat launch with just enough time to board the 9am ferry. Once back in Puntarenas, my remaining leg was a bus to Monteverde, near the dot curiously marked "Ciudad" on the above map. I got to Puntarenas with nearly 3 hours to kill before my 1:15 bus. Booooooring. I found the bus marked Monteverde, but it didn't look ready to go anywhere at 1:10. Turns out it wasn't ready at 1:30, either. It didn't leave until 2:30. At this point, I had long finished The Kite Runner and was well into my other book. I got a lot of reading done on this day.
But oh, when the bus started and we got out of the Puntarenas area and into the mountains, I was breathtaken by the landscapes. Costa Rica is the most beautiful country I have been to. Even in the midst of dry season, the rolling, somewhat lumpy mountains are just such a singular sight, covered in places by rich forest. The temperature dropped, and although half the bus ride was on terrible gravel road, that bus ride ended up being the highlight of my trip. I was refreshed to arrive in Monteverde, in a beautiful hotel, with crisp wind and traces of rain in the air, eager to salvage what I could from my time up there, having lost a full day of time in that location. Little did I know that bad news was awaiting me...
Stay tuned for Part II of Aaron's misadventure in Costa Rica! It might not be as bland and step-by-step as this part!
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