Kathawala Gap Year

Last weekend marked our first road trip in Costa Rica, and we decided to go see (or not see, as it turned out) the Arenal volcano in Fortuna. This place is awash in tourists during high season, but in October we were able to see the local Tico town that lies beneath the billboards advertising adventure tours, souvenir shops, and restaurants. At first, we didn’t love this place because it seemed to be a dead town just waiting for its tourists to return, but after a day of walking around we became quite fond of it. But when your errands include a haircut and a car wash, rather than just zip lining and whitewater rafting, you wind up on different paths no matter the season.

It is no accident that Fortuna draws so many visitors; if the volcano is invisible, there is still the gorgeous lake, the hanging bridges, the natural hot springs and the network of rainforest trails surrounding the volcanoes. Many of the modest Tico houses advertise rooms for rent, and everyone is trying to grab a piece of the action. The air is cooler and comfortable, and the respite from Nosara’s humidity was a welcome change.

We were initially paralyzed by the plethora of options and eventually settled on the Fortuna Waterfall, the Mistica Hanging Bridges, and a couple of visits to the hot springs.

On our way to the hanging bridges canopy tour, we were alarmed by the sudden smell of diesel after Oli had passed a truck on the steep mountain road. Since there was nowhere to stop, we pressed on until we reached the park. We had blown a fuel hose and were spouting diesel from beneath the hood. I am learning that when you have a problem in this country, people really want to help you. And when it is a mechanical problem, just wait and see how many well meaning Ticos can fit under the hood of your car.

This issue was solved in two sessions, the first of which drew seven: two parking attendants, a gardener, a tour bus driver, two drifters, and a manager (who overcomplicated the whole thing). This resulted in a delay of action during which time we were able to check out this beautiful park and have lunch.

The second session involved the same two parking attendants, a brother of one, two mechanic friends of the brother, and another drifter. Seventy dollars and half an hour later, we were on our way home with a new hose and clamp and only occasional wafts of diesel fumes.

The apartment we rented was owned by a very friendly Tico family, and it was just a short walk through a residential district into town. Each day we walked several times by a desolate and empty looking “Lava Car”. (I have to add here that this is one of my favorite anglicized business names in Costa Rica–it took me some time to realize that this would be a car wash.) Two young men sat on the side of an otherwise deserted lot looking utterly dejected and bored. We asked them if they were open and they said yes, from 7-5 every day. And so they sat, from 7-5 each time we passed on Thursday and Friday of that week. We decided to give them something to do by bringing in our filthy car first thing Saturday morning.

Much to our surprise, Saturday morning was a bevy of activity at the lava car. The lot was almost completely filled, and we could hear the music blaring from down the street. Four workers were in a frenzy, playing air guitar with their water wands and scrub brushes (Fox on the Run, by Sweet if you can believe it) as they leapt from car to car. Yes, of course, bring the car! We were assured that they could handle more cars yet. Apparently, Saturday is the day to get your car washed in Fortuna.

Two hours later we returned, paid fourteen dollars, and an attendant hurried over with our keys. Our car was scarcely recognizable. The inside, painstakingly detailed, was spotless. The apocalypse had dawned for a tenacious colony of ants that had been thriving in our roof rack. The exterior was gleaming with only a few diesel stain streaks left on the hood. Our jolly crew smiled and waved airily from amidst the din, pleased by our reaction to our new car. I found myself thinking, not for the first or last time, how much I will miss this place.

Traveling abroad with kids definitely exposes you to many aspects of a country you might otherwise miss. The boys have often times softened the demeanor of many a stern local; who knew that so many Turks were compulsive hair rufflers, or the Greeks so impressed by a kid’s appetite? They once drew an appreciative  crowd of Dominican Republic airport workers by racing on the tops of their rolling suitcases while we were waiting in an interminably slow line for a rental car. The bored porters and taxi drivers seemed like they wanted to have a turn at the game themselves. On the other hand, in Western Europe many people seemed to wish we had just left them at home.

And then of course, with children there are the various trips to the doctor’s offices and the clinics. A mysterious spreading rash on the foot in Germany, dehydration in the Dominican Republic, an eye infection in Portugal–what better way to see what health services are available to a transient foreigner? This week’s installment was a come-and-go fever for Russell, spiking as high as 103 every evening, and dropping back to normal by morning. No other symptoms. On the fourth day, something snapped when yet another well-meaning Tico asked why I had not yet been to see the doctor. Thoughts of meningitis, encephalitis, dengue fever and the lingering question, “Why did she wait so long?” haunted me the night before I picked up the phone and called the doctor. Yes, I was told, the doctor would see us at 3:00.

(Before I go any further, I need to emphasize that this would be the 3:00  following the morning of 10:00 on the very same day on which I had called. If I called my son’s own doctor in our hometown, he would not have an appointment for a week at least. I would be instructed to proceed to the ER if I didn’t think he could wait.)

We entered a small air conditioned lobby and were instructed to take a seat; Dr. Alejandro would be arriving shortly. After about ten minutes, a neat but casually dressed man entered and, guessing that we were his 3:00, said hello and indicated that we should follow him into his office. We sat with him at his desk and told him about Russell’s general medical history and the specifics of his current malaise. Set off from the desk was a partitioned examination room where he examined Russell’s eyes, ears, listened to his lungs and palpated his abdomen. No little nightgown was offered, and I know Russell was pleased about this. Vital signs were measured, and we returned to the little desk. There is no infection at the moment, he told me, so there is no need for antibiotics. But he has a significant fever so keep him quiet, dry, and hydrated. He then listed the causes for which I might bring him back–all the usual complication signs. All things considered, we were there for thirty minutes. I paid 60. for these services, and we went home.

Taking to heart my instructions, I kept him home the following day even though his temperature had returned to normal. But as so often happens when you are on the fence about keeping your child home from school, he was bursting with pent up energy and joie de vivre by mid-morning. After a long day during which I nearly clobbered him multiple times, we took a walk to the beach. The waves were perfect: small, smooth, and the late afternoon sun sparkled on the water. He convinced me that we should return home, grab surfboards, and surf in these perfect (perfect for you, Mom!), mellow waves until sunset. His illness had become a distant memory, so long had been this day of my trying to restrain him, and so I agreed.

We had a splendid hour surfing in those beautiful waves during that beautiful sunset. Then, as we were walking home Russell asked, “Did you see the doctor?”

“What?”

“Yes,” Russell explained, “He was out surfing. He asked me if I was feeling better.”

I mentally counted the hours backwards to the office visit. Less than 24 hours earlier, I had been listening to Dr. Alejandro advising me to keep Russell dry and quiet. Mother of the Year strikes again!

Well, I consoled myself, since it was that easy to see that doctor, if there are any complications we are simply driving to the next town!

We just survived our very first storm (the new Spanish word I will never forget: la tormenta), and it is quite a different beast from the typical Nantucket storm. There was little to no wind involved, and my first reaction upon its onset was to think, you call this a storm?

But as the rain fell and continued to fall, we drove around the newly formed ponds and inundations over the roads realizing just what a factor the rain is here. Trees and telephone poles are down where the mud simply gave way beneath them. What already looks like a scotch tape job on electrical wires and cable winding along the jungle canopy has been pulled down and tangled by fallen branches and downed trees. Almost the entire area is/was without electricity and wifi, and many are still stranded on the far side of flooded rivers. We fortunately are not living in such an area but warily watched our backyard jungle change into a swamp as the very land seemed to fill up over three days of non stop tropical downpour. School was cancelled for two days because the roads were impassable. Surrounding every path and road was this welling up of water; not like a river flooding, but an entire water table rising. The good folks of Nosara seemed impressed by this storm; apparently this is not a normal occurrence even here at the peak of rainy season. I can’t even imagine how horrific it would be if you sprinkled in a little gale force wind…

But halfway through October we are beginning to see an end on the calendar to this rainy season. We have so enjoyed the quiet on the beaches and in the restaurants! At times we are the only ones on the vast expanse of Guiones beach. The Ticos, in their upbeat way, look forward to the arrival of the tourists and the prospect of steady work in the months ahead.

See how good I’m getting inserting pictures? The dog in the picture above has adopted us, and we have named her Maria. She has not been allowed into the house yet, but she did chase our car halfway to school one morning. I think we might be one flea bath away from breaking down.

The kids play a game in the States called “Sweet and Sour”. It involves sitting in the back of a car or bus and waving and smiling at the people in cars behind you. If you get them to wave back, and/or smile, they are deemed a “sweet”. If not, well, they know who they are.

The funny thing here is that the Ticos are all “sweets”. Whether it’s a truck driver, road construction worker, or person working a fruit stand, their sometimes grim countenances almost invariably soften and flash into a dazzling smile and a wave if I venture a wave myself.

Walking past someone on the street, I have learned to say, at least,  “hola”. Because even that seems a bit stiff by local standards–“buenos dias” is better, or sometimes you hear an “hola, hola,” or just a “buena!” To pass in awkward silence with downcast eyes seems to be a Western behavior that immediately pegs you as a transient or just simply a sour.

When I first arrived in the country, I learned an invaluable lesson about not trusting GPS guidance blindly. The road west of Liberia that I was following went from pavement to gravel to two deep muddy tracks on a narrow switchback course over mountainous terrain. Make a u-turn,  my GPS helpfully suggested. This was completely out of the question due to both the sheer drops on either side of the road and my unwillingness to go back over the harrowing river crossings and bogs I had already survived.

I had not seen another car (thankfully or not was unclear to me at the time) since the road had so rapidly deteriorated, and I was babbling to myself for being so alone, useless and lost. Things could not be worse, I was thinking, when I came around a corner and saw five men on ATVs parked in the middle of the road. All had red bandannas covering their noses and mouths, and I came to a dead stop and stared. They stared back for what seemed like an eternity.

I felt the presence of my cash, passport, suitcase and my mortal life in the front seat and fleetingly considered attempting the 97 point turn that might take me back the way I had come. Dismissing this option as not fast enough of a getaway, I smiled awkwardly and hazarded a wave. To my relief and pure joy, they waved back and immediately set about moving themselves to the side of the road. One even jumped off of his ATV and pulled a fallen branch out of the road so that I might pass. My second smile and wave were heartfelt as I slogged past them feeling faint.

Consequently, it is no surprise to me that we have met more Ticos thus far than Western locals. A continuation of this “sweet” aspect leads them to be the first to speak to us, ask us our names, our business here, and how we like their home so far. They often ask how we find the Ticos, themselves. An odd question, I thought at first, because it is an invitation to make generalizations. A mother of a boy in Russell’s class pressed me for an answer. I surged forth with all of my positive generalizations as she nodded in assent. Los gringos, I asked conversationally, how did she find them? Cold, she said. I think it is because it is so cold where you live. I laughed, conceding that she might well have a point there.

I do have more to add about the car. When I bought the car, the prior owners promised me that they would share the contact info for THE BEST MECHANIC in Nicoya. Not only were his skills surpassed by none, but he loved this car. I thought of a first born being abducted and cruelly separated from its grieving parent, as they assured me that Ariel needed to continue his relationship with the car. And a good thing too; the car would need to be inspected (the dreaded Reteve annual inspection that no gringo without connections and even some Ticos would never pass) in Nicoya by the end of September.

As September drew nearer, I began to squirm at this prospect waiting for us in Nosara. My brain flitted through evasive maneuvers, but upon my tentative request to the current owners, I was told no, it could not be done early–this task would fall to us.  No problem, just call Ariel, who speaks zero English. He would then take the car to Nicoya for a day or two, look it over to make sure it would pass (which it would–he LOVES this car), and return it to us with a Reteve sticker for maybe a hundred dollars.

Upon inquiring around town after we arrived, we received a few more  emphatic affirmations that we should NOT undertake this task by ourselves. You’ll never pass, they’ll fleece you for everything you’ve got, it will take hours, maybe days, and you still won’t pass. Not much Spanish? Forget about it!

Given that I get a bit queasy about Spanish phone calls at my current level of comprehension, I did what any cornered animal would do.  I plugged in my proposal to itranslate and sent Ariel a text. Would he come and take the car to its Reteve inspection in the coming weeks? Con mucho gusto, he replied cordially, should he see about the next available appointment? He texted later with the news that he would need to take the car on Friday evening for an appointment at 11 AM on Monday morning.

On Friday, I attended my Spanish class and was asked by my teacher what I was doing that weekend. In halting Spanish, I explained that I hoped it would not rain as we would be sin carro for the weekend. I further explained that mi mecanico would be taking the car that afternoon and returning with it on Monday. Ahhh, said my teacher archly, is your mechanic going on a vacation with his family, by any chance? After poking me with images of blaring speakers on the roof, scantily clad chicas in the back, and my mechanic swilling cervezas behind the wheel of our party bus in downtown Nicoya, he reined himself in. But of course, you’ve met this man? Never, I replied, feeling a bit like a buffoon.

Ariel arrived at his appointed time, and I felt better just looking at him. He seemed like such a nice guy, and he set about looking the car over with an easy familiarity. Despite the fact that I couldn’t understand a word he said, he did manage to convey that the car needed four new tires without which it would never pass. He did have them in stock, luckily, and he could install them before the inspection if I could pay him now 800 dollars. I thought of my Spanish teacher as I rummaged around in my safe. I handed Ariel the keys, eight hundred dollar bills, and bade him a safe journey with my many thanks.

When I arrived to my Spanish class that Monday morning, I could barely contain my smugness as I related the story to my disbelieving teacher. Ariel had returned the car by Saturday night with four brand new gnarly treaded tires. The Reteve sticker was prominently displayed on the windshield, and he handed me a receipt for the tires (720.00). What more, I had asked, for the inspection fees, the installation and realignment of the tires, and your time driving the car to Nicoya and back? And your muchacho–a guy who had followed him in another car to bring him back to Nicoya? Fifty dollars more, he said. And that, I concluded to my teacher, is what you need to pay me if you want his number.