I don't know how to describe Costa de Pajaros without sounding like an enamoured tourist. Which (..I keep reminding myself to remind myself..) I am..but I also am just a girl who likes things like fish bones, eating with your fingers, chipping paint, and sweaty weather. So I'll try and describe everything with honesty. Well, firstly, this place is full of the bluntest honesty. I just came back from the weather-beaten wooden home of the sister of our tourguide from the mariposario (the butterfly gardens). Anabelle, our guide, had told our entire group (when I asked about womens access to birth control and teen pregnancy rates here during our first visit) about her own sister - whose first baby was born at 14, and who now is pregnant with her 7th at age 26, after being refused surgery by a doctor who told her at 23 after her 4th that she was too young and beautiful. I believe I may have already written about that.
When I came to Costa de Pajaros, I mentioned Anabelle and that story, but didn't realize that not only does the whole town know her (and each other), but that Anabelle's sister, husband, parents, and 6 children are next door neighbors to us, that I've seen this woman's childrens walking up and down the street, and that Anabelle herself lives about as far away from our house as the Pacific Ocean (20 feet?). In fact, one of the two times I've been taken out on my host brother's fishing boat Anabelle was apparently watching me from her window and remarking that my comfort in the fishing boat showed a steadfastness that will help me with my project. Good thing I love messing around with boats ("or in boats, simply messing").
Anyways, today, my host mother brought me to see Anabelle. We wandered up and down stairs made of flour sacks full of sand piled down the precarious hill to the beach, litterred with dogs, garbage and chickens, around which clusters of huts and homes look out across a view Julia Roberts and Mel Gibson pay billions for.
Anabelle was brushing the hair of one of her sisters "monton de ninos" (to quote Anabelle - monton means lot, but which makes me think mountain of children), and looked less than enthralled that I was there. Her seriousness, and the stares from my host mother (which is one-eyed), as well as Anabelle's sister (who Anabelle blatantly introduced in reference to her previous lecture) and many dirty, itchy children made me incredibly nervous. I felt as though I could hear them thinking, honestly, what does this little white girl need? Why is she asking it of us? And why is she asking questions with no answer, and that we have never once thought about? Like where she should begin her own vague project?
I realized quickly that she wouldn't be the source of information or inspiration that I was searching for..that no one will be. And that I needed to get over myself, which I did. And as soon as I had pulled myself together and managed to be more coherant about my goals, and a little more earnest about the places within my project where I see holes, she began to open up as well, and to show the support for my project that I've been wanting to see.
I left joking with her sister and children, and I'll be going back to speak with her mother some time about the history of this town. And felt like I was on a better path. I got out all my nervousness somehow facing Anabelle, who in my mind somehow was transformed into some sort of expert official on my project when in reality she's just a stressed mother taking care of more than her fare share. And her sister being there helped me as well, as she practically represents the entirety of my project, and exactly what intimidates me most. I don't feel comfortable writing more about her online, this whole blog already makes me so uncomfortable now that I've found out how to see how many people are reading it. Someone with so many problems does not need more speculation placed on her, in my own opinion, though I'd be happy to answer questions, if there are any.
I let my own host mother go back to the shade and comfort of her home, and went to CINCINAE (an acronym I can't seem to remember ever), which is an organization that gives milk to poor mothers as well as lunches to pregnant women and children. There, I caught the director & nutritionist on her way out for the week, who was distracted but delighted that I am doing this project. Obviously I could come and do interviews in the morning, she told me, and gave me a calendar with more information about when she'll be back next and when we can go over the organizations files together to look closer at rates of adolescent motherhood. Sadly, she and the man I spoke to won't be there every day, and tomorrow I have to go through the nerve-wracking process of introducing myself and representing my project well in a language I've just barely begun to grasp, but it could be worse. I could still not know that I am welcome and that there is some immense support in this community for the project I am doing.
What is left for me now is (HUGE), but firstly to go to the other town centers, such as the town management (desarollo - means development but Anabelle told me when I asked that it was the equivalent of a town committee), and the health center to speak to doctors, nurses, and pharmacists, as well as the police station, and middle and high schools. A whole lot of presenting myself..but at least I now have a foothold at the CINCINAE, and a place at which to start.
I also have a list of 50 questions which my host sister and friends helped to translate since the town's whole wireless and cellular system was down...I suppose it sounds insestuous to call her my host sister though, since she's married to my host brother and is the daughter of my host mother?...I should just use names. My host mother is Maritza and is a relatively-divorced 45 year old, and her daughter Lauren lives in the house with her husband Danny, and they have a 1.5 year old little girl. Lauren is 5 days younger than me, and I'm not sure about Danny. He is a shrimp fisherman by night, and hangs out with us and plays with the baby during the day, and they all take turns cooking the most delicious meals I've ever had. Many of Maritza´s other children live nearby to the house, so other daughters in law are always coming through with their kids, as well as cousins and husbands.
The house has five rooms like most Costa Rican homes - a kitchen, a living room, and three bedrooms. Considering that at one point this house had 7 or 8 people in it, that's a little wild to picture. My own room is now a guest bedroom, with two beds covered with thin foam mattresses which are probably many years older than I, and brightly colored sheets which don't get used since the nights and days here are so hot. Above my bed, I have a little carving of a wooden kitchen and roof, with a little carved man sitting and watching while his aproned wife cooks dinner. The walls open up to the tin roof, which is open to let out the heat. Lauren says frogs jump from the trees and through the sides of the house, but I haven't decided if I believe it. Though thinking about it, the thumb-sized scorpion that I found in my backpack could have gotten there much more easily from the cieling than from the ground.
I am relishing getting to walk around in barefeet, and that I can go get passion fruit fresco (the seeds float and are so crunchy and tart I just want to die eating them, that delicious) from the fridge whenever I want. It's the family's first time hosting and they're having a great time doing it. They even got Daniel's brother to bring over his big desktop computer, which they put together for me and which even has wireless thanks to a little USB plug in. Daniel and his brother Joseph's mother works at the mariposario, and is also eagerly trying to help me - though she lives in Chomes which is about an hour away and can't do too much. But it let me get access to a computer to sign up for classes. Oh, which look like they will be a riot - here they are: Latin American Social Movements, Law and Politics of Housing, Producing Violence, and Environmental Justice on Native American Land. Looks AMAZING, and at the same time, I haven't even had a chance to look at classes in the 5 colleges yet. But Producing Violence is only on Monday nights, so I have space for another. If not, I could leave out that or Law and Politics of Housing to take something more specifically focused to what I'm interested in if my advisors tell me I need to reign it in. But I'm supez psyched, to say the least. Also Latin American Social Movements is in espanol!
I haven't finished talking about Costa de Pajaros though! Well, here is their blog..http://costadepajaros.blogspot.com/
And this is what the fishing boats look like..
Here is the colegio, where I'll be going tomorrow to introduce myself. These are all pictures I've found by Googling 'Costa de Pajaros'..haven't taken any myself yet..Don't know if I will be taking many since I might have forgot my camera charger, though I do have several film cameras for my project I could use.
Here is an old, but still very accurate picture of the coast. Today I walked home along the beach, and was more overwhelmed by human trash than I have been in a long time. This weekend or next, or whenever I get the time, I'm just going to take a trash bag and walk up and down the beach picking up everyone's gross stuff.
Somehow it doesn't suprise me how careless people here are. It almost makes the natural beauty more beautiful, somehow, to see how undervalued it is by the people who live off it. Here the water is full of dead yellow-tailed sardines that the fishermen have killed while netting shrimp, and which the pelicans didn't dive to catch fast enough. The beach is littered with intricate bones and shining fins, and the water in the heat smells like the jellyfish and fish bodies that have melted into it. Or maybe that's the sand. There's glass in the sand, as well as plastic bags, and the majority of fishing boats are tied giant fallen logs. The plastic soda can holders that I remember learning would strange seals are snagged on the logs, and this is the one place I've felt very stupid to be walking barefoot. I'm relatively sure I won't step on any needles here - I don't think there's the steady rconomy here for that kind of drug use - but between angry dogs protecting shanty homes, and broken pottery and shells from and full of littered food remains, it's pretty stupid.
But just so beautiful. I didn't find a good photo of the coast line, but picture the Pyrenees (layers of shades of light to dark navy blue jagged mountains) surrounding a clear pool of bright ocean water. That's the Gulf of Nicoya. And at sunset, which I got to watch last night from a friend's house on a nearby mountain (nbd) picture the blue mountains interrupted by bright shocks of red, orange, yellow and pink light streaming out of the clouds and onto the red sea.
And Daniel took us in his boat across the bay to feed crocodiles old fish gills, and the first time we went out he drove us through a flock of 200 albatross.
I have to go for a walk!
That was a great walk!!!
I went with my host mother and her sister, who I've added to my list of these amazing strong women I meet whenever I travel anywhere and who always blow me away with their life stories and the fact that they're interested in what I'm doing and what I have to say. This one was married at the age of 15, and had her first three babies in the next three years, and was the first person I've talked to here about my project who made the connection to self-esteem for young women. Which was great since I somehow didn't know the word autoestima, but immediately recognised it for what it was.
But she also emphasized teaching so much, while I dragged my heels and was all about the not-aggressively-going-in-with-an-agenda-since-I-am-nobody, but her emphasis made a really big impression on me. They also opened up more than anyone else has to my probing about the machismo that was rampant here years ago, with marriages arranged by fathers and women being forbidden from leaving the house. It all seems surreal to think and hear about, especially due to the passive way with which they talk about it, like it was Cinderella or something but she's okay now. I don't expect whispers about it either, but I do wonder about sensationalism sometimes. I don't know what women would have to gain by sensationalizing the past - maybe some sort of collective strength.
But on the other hand, the machismo here is WILD. I have never in my life been cat called and had so many vulgar things said to me in the street, especially not by so many old men. It was absolutely wild to me the first time I stepped out of the house to take a walk and some deep breaths (it was chaotic getting here to say the least), and suddenly I was surrounded by men breathing down my neck. Obviously I understand that I am a stanger, and that the townspeople know that at first glance, and that it is oh-so-fun to sit and check out ladies and make them uncomfortable, but it still is not something I can let go of easily. Some of these guys I just want to start screaming my lungs out, or push them off the fence post they're sitting on, or spit in their faces.
But that wouldn't be very kind, and in a small town like this it would probably not be very good for business. When we were coming back though, I did get a marriage proposal by ways of translation. Some random 14 year old asked my host mother whether I'd like to get hitched with a real Tico.
What else? Over dinner a gecko ran across the table and ate a beetle that was near my arm. And tomorrow I am going to translate more questions and head over to the CINCINAE to start doing interviews. I need to also go to the clinic tomorrow, if there's time. Which of course there will be, but accounting in the extreme heat as well as the trip home to eat with my host family (ceviche, ceviche!), some hours will be lost along the way.
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