Day 3: Mucho Gusto

"Bienvenido a Costa Rica!", came the boisterous call from the chorus of senior citizens after I introduced myself by stating my name, age, place of birth, where I live, and what my interests are.  I was part of the crowd, a seemingly integral addition to the spirit of the moment.  We were all seated in a circle, some of us in chairs and the others in wheelchairs.  There was no beginning or end to our circle.  And if even a single one of us was missing, our shape would be compromised - no longer a cohesive unit.  This, in effect, made us all mandatory participants with each of us being just as important as the one sitting to our left, right, and directly across from us.

Allow me to set the scene more clearly.  I was just beginning my first day as a volunteer at Manos de Jesus Nursing Home in Cartago.  I was one of only two volunteers from CCS working at the time.  Manos de Jesus is a rather impressive facility for the elderly, one that would rival and even best many of the nursing homes that we see in the United States.  The grounds are complete with ample sleeping quarters, sunny courtyard,  fully-stocked kitchen, chapel, clinic, therapy garden, soccer field, chicken coops (of course, with chickens, and an abundance of fresh eggs every morning), and elderly residents.  On the surface, Manos de Jesus is a dream for elderly folks who have nowhere else to go - and to a certain extent - it is.  The residents are able to lounge in the sun, play games, garden, and tend to the chickens, all with wide smiles on their faces.  Two problems, however, become obvious rather quickly.  The first is a mathematic complication of the simplest kind: numbers.  There are 48 residents that live at Manos de Jesus.  On the flip side, there are only a small fraction of staff to care for the vast majority of their daily needs.  Manos de Jesus relies on two sources of income to run its operation.  The first is monetary aid from the government, which interestingly enough comes from the Costa Rican Lottery.  The second is private donations.  Unfortunately, the monetary needs of the facility are not met completely by these two forms of fundraising.  This, in turn, leads to suboptimal levels of staffing and other essential supplies, as well as a need to develop ways to stretch the almighty buck - or in Costa Rica - colon.

The second problem is significantly more disturbing emotionally.  The residents of Manos de Jesus range in age from 77 to 102 years old.  Thankfully, this is the crowd that I was primed to work with from the time I was a mere wisp of an idea in the back of my parents minds when they first got married.  The men in the facility range most widely in terms of age.  The women, however, tend to be much older.  In fact, the oldest resident at Manos de Jesus is a lovely lady by the name of Rosa. (Just as an aside, I have decided it would be best to protect the names of the residents.  Therefore, this resident's name is not actually Rosa, but everything else about her is completely true.)  At first glance, it was not obvious to me why the women tended to be older than the men.  I was later informed that in much of Latin American culture, women continue to be "useful" with a multitude of daily chores until much later in life.  Therefore, their service (dare I say, forced labor) in the household, spares them the fate of being sent to the nursing home until even later in life.  As another aside, I am just as unenthused about this aspect of Latino culture as you are.  However, it certainly deserves mentioning.  So please don't shoot the messenger.

The residents come from varied backgrounds.  Similarly, different reasons lead to their admissions to the nursing home.  The one constant is this: they all came to the nursing when this was their only plausible option left.  Some were alcoholics who burned bridges with their families and had nowhere else to go except the streets when they exhausted their resources.  We could easily assume being in a nursing home with a roof over your head and food to eat everyday is better than being homeless.  Others had no other family members by the time they reached their mature elderly age, and so came to the nursing home for living needs and companionship.  Yet others have various mental and physical disabilities that were the root of their admission to Manos de Jesus.  This is very similar to the experience I had in Peru in which a significant social stigma continues to exist in Costa Rica as it pertains to disabilities.  Oftentimes, families do not want to deal with the supposed "embarrassment" that a relative with disabilities would cause.  Therefore, they are abandoned in hospitals in times of acute illness.  However, when that acute issue resolves, the person's family is no longer anywhere to be found and a permanent trip to Manos de Jesus is in order.

Even though I have dealt with these social stigmas in the past, I have not been able to become desensitized to them.  This has both positive and negative aspects.  On the one hand, I continue to struggle with my emotions, as the idea of abandoning a family member because they have a disability is completely and utterly incomprehensible to me (as I am sure it is to most of us).  There are still certain moments when I have to take a time-out during work to collect my thoughts and refocus on the work I am doing, in order to not get lost in a sense of sadness for the people's lives I am trying to help.  On the other hand, I fear that if I do become desensitized to their plight, I would not give them the utmost of care that they truly deserve.  I'm sure one day I will strike an appropriate balance with my future patients in the hospital, but until then, the emotional roller coaster will just have to do.

Now that I am done with my detour, back to the circle, with each person just as integral as the next.  We were playing a round of hot potato with a blue bouncy ball.  The music would begin - Latin dance music, of course - and the ball would be passed in a clockwise direction, just like a planet in orbit.  There just wasn't a central star yet.  When the music stopped, the person with the ball had to introduce themselves.  When the music stopped with the ball in my hand on the tenth (or so) round of play, it was my turn to stand in the middle of the circle and become the sun of our circular solar system.  While I was standing, the two elderly people who were sitting directly to my left and right held hands, so as not to break the circle of our communal activity.  "Me llamo es Corey. Yo tengo 24 anos.  Soy de Estados Unidos y vivo en Nueva York. Soy un estudiante de medicina.  Me gusta leer, cocinar, y bailar." I was immediately accosted  (not in a bad way) by a crowd of voices, coming from every direction in the circle, "Bailar, bailar. Corey necesite bailar!"  I should have known what I was getting into when I freely admitted in my introduction that I liked to dance.  And now there was no way out.  From somewhere to my left, the Latin dance music began, and Javi, one of the residents, set the mood with short bursts of, "Yop, yop, yop!" and "Wopaah, wopaah!".  Next thing I know, I am being held, arm-in-arm, by a kindly woman named Bel, and she takes the lead.  For a full song, she twists and turns, overarm and underarm, and moving her hips more than most 20 year olds can, even though she is easily in her 80's.  Although I felt as if I had no idea what I was doing, the time flew by, and suddenly the dance was over, with a pure smile on both of our faces.  Bel kissed my cheek and quickly said, "Gracias y Bienvenido a Costa Rica." with a perfectly sincere look on her face.  The rest of the residents followed in kind, "Bienvenido a Costa Rica!" The cry was so loud and enthusiastic that I am sure it could be heard back home in Brooklyn.

Subsequently, Mick, one of the residents, who is sitting in his wheelchair to my right, takes out a harmonica. Mick reminds me completely of my maternal grandfather in ways that include mannerisms, facial features, personality, amount of English-speaking ability, and even his hands.  For some reason, I have memorized my grandfather's hands, even though he is no longer with us, from size and shape, to texture.  Mick has those hands.  He plays a song for me on his harmonica, a song I do not recognize.  However, he plays like a pro, and I find myself clapping my hands to the beat.  When he finishes his song, he reaches out his hand to me.  I take his hand in mine, and for a split second, I am shaking my grandfather's hand, a hand I have been unable to hold in six years.  "Mucho gusto", says Mike, which means, "Good to meet you."  And then the tears well up unexpectedly in my eyes.  Part of the reason for this was the pleasant reminder of my grandfather, whom I miss greatly and think about daily.  The other part was the warm feeling in my core that told me I was immediately welcomed here.  They wanted me here.  And from my first day of working here, I knew that I could make a difference, that I would have a purpose.  There must be a reason why the Big Guy upstairs sent me here and now to Manos de Jesus.  This is where I am meant to be at this point of my journey.

Pura Vida.

Day 2: Pura Vida

Costa Ricans, who are locally called ticos (for men) or ticas (for women), have a favorite expression that is notable for its simplicity as well as its vast array of possible meanings.  This expression is "Pura Vida".  Literally translated, this means "Pure Life".  However, this term is used in countless situations.  It can be used to show joy, happiness, or satisfaction.  It can also mean, "This is the way to live!", "Awesome", "Cool"... or any other similar adjectives.  When you ask someone how they are doing, "Como esta usted?", ticos and ticas will often answer with, "Pura Vida!", rather than the admittedly more boring, "Muy bien, gracias."  Pura Vida can also be posed as a question.  Forget about asking how someone is; people often ask if others are in a state of this pure life.  Because here in Costa Rica, Pura Vida isn't really just an expression.  It is a way of life, an integral and permanent aspect of the culture here.  After all, Costa Rica is not only home to ticos/as.  This is their paradise, and they cannot fathom a world without "their" Costa Rica.

On Day 2 of my trip, we started off the morning with a tour of the city of Cartago, the third largest city in Costa Rica.  We first visited the Basilica, which is a major pilgrimage site that attracts 2.5 million Costa Ricans and Nicaraguans every August 2nd.  The church is a stunningly beautiful building whose architecture displays a mosaic of different styles, as it has been re-built several times after major earthquakes (the most recent of which was in the early 1900s).  According to popular legend, the original basilica was built over a river where a statue of the Virgin Mary was found by an indigenous person after the Spanish colonization of Costa Rica.  Even today, water flows under the foundation of the basilica and into a fountain.  The ticos/as believe that this water is holy and routinely use it not only to bless themselves, but also to drink and even bathe.  In fact, one elderly gentleman used the water to wash his face and slick back his hair as he was walking through the church grounds.  He did look rather dapper.  For a moment, I though maybe he wanted to look his best for a coffee date with his lady friend or perhaps to impress his wife of many years.  However, this turned out not to be the case, which is no surprise.  The elderly man then walked into the church, positioned himself in the center aisle, knelt on both knees, blessed himself, and began to slowly crawl on his knees down the entire aisle to the altar.  My program coordinator - who doubled as our tour guide for the morning - explained that this is a Costa Rican tradition in which prayers are offered while crawling towards the altar in order to pray for a specific cause, such as the health of a loved one or to give thanks for finding a new job.  It turns out one part of my prediction was true.  This elderly man was on a date, but it was with someone even "higher" than his wife. Pura Vida.

On the rest of the tour, we saw other sites including stores, bakeries, farmers' market, and another landmark called Las Ruinas.  The ruins are the remains of a church whose building was begun and abandoned several hundred years ago. This was actually supposed to be the site of the basilica.  However, various natural disasters prevented Las Ruinas from ever being completed.  The priest believed that these natural disasters were a sign that the church was being built in an area that God did not find appropriate.  Or maybe is was because the priest was having an affair with his brother's wife?  Sounds scandalous, doesn't it?  According to legend, the priest would bring his brother's wife to Las Ruinas to express their love for each other in certain ways that priests have vowed to never do...  Of course, the building site was not called Las Ruinas at that time.  They were, after all, trying to build a church, so calling the area ruins probably wasn't in their best interest.  That would be rather foreboding.  Anyway, the legend.  Eventually, the priest's brother found out the scheme that had been played out by the unconventional lovers.  The priest, according to legend, was then killed by his brother.  From that point on, it was deemed inappropriate to build a basilica in a place where a murder and scandalous sex occurred.  Pura Vida? Hmmm...

While walking through the streets of Cartago, several ticos/as recognized our program coordinator.  Expecting to hear the customary, "Hola.  Como estas?" as the acquaintances passed by each other walking in opposite directions on the street, I instead heard, "Adios."  Adios?  Why would my program coordinator say goodbye to someone he has not even said hello to?  Was this some odd Spanish idiom in Costa Rica, where adios can mean both hello and goodbye, accomplishing the same task as Aloha for Hawaiians?  Further, was this a term I should be using in the same fashion, since I am trying to embrace the culture and pretend to be a tico? Yes, I realize that I would be the only blond-haired, blue-eyed tico in the whole country.  But you can't fault me for trying.  But as it turns out, it is a good thing I did not experiment using this idiom before asking about it.  Apparently, Costa Ricans are eternally late for every aspect of their daily lives.  They commonly say they are on tico-time.  This is so widely accepted in Costa Rica, that ticos/as actually think there is something wrong if someone shows up for an event on time.  As a joke, I told the program coordinator that Costa Ricans must throw people in jail or admit them to a psychiatric facility if they are audacious enough to arrive for something early.  He laughed before abruptly stopping and said, "No, really."  He actually had me fooled for a minute, as I didn't realize how good his joking skills were in English.  I guess the joke is on me.

As Costa Ricans have perfected the art of being late (are any of my Tapper family members part Costa Rican that I don't know about?), they cannot spare time talking to people that they know when they see them in the street.  Therefore, they say "Adios" to each other as a way of acknowledging each other before rushing to their next appointment.  Translation: Adios = "Hi.  It is good to see you.  But I really don't have the time (even if I do have the desire) to learn about how you are doing, so I'm going to say bye and keep walking.  Oh, and by the way, let's catch up later."  Pura Vida.

After the tour was finished, I returned to the home base and received a pleasant surprise.  We were  scheduled to have a cultural activity for the day, as if all of the above wasn't a good even dose of the Costa Rican way of life.  As soon as we entered through the door of the home base, Latin dance music began to play, and of course, there was a tico dancing along.  Because when ticos/as hear music, they must enjoy it to the fullest.  After all, it is Pura Vida. Are you getting the hint of how applicable Pura Vida is to every situation in a Costa Rican's life?  I certainly am.  We were then welcomed - no - beckoned to join.  But when you are that dry sponge soaking up all of the cultural moisture, how can you resist?  The simple answer is, you can't.  So, we didn't.  We learned the basic steps of salsa, meringue, cha cha, and cumbia.  According to the girls in the class, it was very reminiscent of a Zumba class except that we were dancing with each other for the majority of the time.  At the end of the class, we learned a certain dance by a Korean artist who shall remain nameless.  However, this person/song is all the rage right now, even though this is the first time I am ever hearing it or dancing to it.  But yes, I now know THAT dance.  And I'm not embarrassed to admit it because in the end, we have this one life that we should live to the fullest, with as few regrets as possible.  Pura Vida... Now I get it.

Day One: Cartago, Costa Rica

As I step off the plane, after a rocky flight - with even more turbulence than I have ever been accustomed to or welcome in my life (even though this usually does not bother me in the least) - the first image that I see outside the airport window is my plane.  The Boeing 737 is no worse off than it was when we left Houston, my layover city.  However, it is dwarfed by a majestic green mountain looming in the background.  For a moment, I feel like I have entered a scene from Jurassic Park.  You know the one, the scene at the beginning of the movie with the helicopter approaching this massive island of mountainous cliffs covered in greenery.  Also kind of like the Hallelujah Mountains in Avatar, with the cascading waterfalls that dissipate into fields of mist the farther they fall towards the surface of Pandora.  

Ok, enough movie references - I apologize.  But my point is, my first glimpse of Costa Rica is beautiful, with the green mountain enveloped in mist and clouds.  As I exit the airport, I immediately see what I have been waiting months to see: the purple and khaki colored sign that had "Cross-Cultural Solutions" written on it.  The sign is carried by the CCS driver.  He immediately introduces himself courteously, but also graciously, with a hint of pride.  I am also welcomed by a volunteer who has been here for the last six weeks and decided to come along for the ride.  This turns into a great resource, as I am given an in-depth scoop of what to expect when I get to the home base.  I have done this before, so I shouldn't be intimidated about coming to volunteer in a new country.  And I suppose I'm not actually intimidated, just more excited about finally beginning this new chapter which I have been anticipating for quite some time.  I find it interesting how the butterfly sensation we sometimes get in the pit of our stomachs is the same for various different emotions and situations like excitation, intimidation, fear, and well... bumpy plane rides.  I guess I have been experiencing this physical manifestation a great deal today, caused by mostly positive emotional feelings.

As we leave the airport, I am in full voluntourist mode.  I try to take in all of the sights, examine the people, take in what they are doing, who they are speaking to, and how they drive.  By the way, the driving here is scary, although not as horrifying as it was in Peru.  There are lots of cars of all shapes, sizes, and ages; none of them stop at the ALTO (STOP) sign.  There are also very few traffic signs.  So folks generally drive when and where they want to, regardless of who or what is in the street.  Have no fear though.  It isn't anything this New Yorker can't handle.

I am surrounded by mountains on three sides, exactly like the one I saw as I first exited the plane.  And now that there are multiple mountains, my awe is naturally tripled.  I promise I could just stare at nature all day with no other care in the world.  But I know, I know - I have work to do here.  On the fourth side, there are signs of civilization, where nature has taken a back seat to the housing and commercial  needs of us humans.  We all need somewhere to live.  There are a mix of houses, shops, car dealerships, and even pieces of the US, although not the ones I am proud of (I won't out any particular companies, but think of large fast food corporations and other breakfast establishments.)

The sites I see are a mixture of Hawaii and Peru, with an ironic outcome best described as an urban paradise.  I am reminded of Hawaii by the flowers that come in every shade of green, orange, pink, red, and purple, the green mountains, the mist, and of course, the sun with all of its accompanying heat.  I am reminded of Peru by the urban buildings, concrete walkways and bridges that have been covered with some artful - and other less attractive - graffiti.  Then there are the billboards, signs, and car music that I became all too familiar with in Peru that leave me with no doubt that I am in a Spanish-speaking country.  I feel like a dry sponge that is all too eager to soak up all of the moisuture that it can find.  I take as much in as I can.  And all of a sudden, my breathing becomes easier, more fluid and less tense.  My shoulders slump, but my eyes stay wide open.  And for the first time in all too long, I am completely relaxed.  I have been so wound up with nervous energy the last several months with applying to residency and going on interviews, and now that I am where I want to be, returning to do work that has become such a part of my personality, I am starting to feel like me again.  I, the dry sponge, am eager to expand as I learn about the Costa Rican culture and even more excited to give of myself to the people I am here to help. 

I hope this is the right mindset to be in at this moment.  Because this urban paradise I am just beginning to experience for the first time also has glimmers of trouble in the form of poverty.  Sparsely located throughout the area between the airport and the volunteer home-base, densely packed shantytowns assembled with aluminum and dirt are all too visible.  They stand as beacons of struggle, of a life that is foreign to most of us in countless ways.  After all, this urban paradise isn't actually all easy-living and relaxation.  But then again, if it was all strictly paradise, I wouldn't be here - not on a volunteer trip, at least.  This serves as a reminder that I am here to do work.  While there is no set goal or accomplishment in mind, I certainly have a role to play.  And even more certain than that, this next chapter of my adventure is just beginning.

New beginnings of a new adventure...

I can hardly believe that my last day in Peru - and hence, my last blog post - was just over 2 years ago.  Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of the folks in Peru, both fellow volunteers as well as the children I worked with.  My time in Peru was some of the greatest I have ever had, and it has been my dream ever since then to return to international volunteering.

Well, I have some good news... This December, I will do just that.  I am off on another adventure.  I will be volunteering in Cartago, Costa Rica for 2 weeks.  The specifics of my assignment are still up in the air and will be given to me shortly.  However, no matter what I will be doing, I will be ready to get my hands dirty and effect change, even if just a little bit.  As "my" saying goes, "Every little bit helps." And as the much wiser Mother Teresa once said, "We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop."

And that isn't all.  I am most happy and proud that I will not experience this adventure alone.  My sister, Chelsea, will be joining me for a week during her Christmas break.  I am so honored to have her come with me, and I can only hope that she has as life-changing an experience as I had last time!

More details to come...