Double Reflection Mirror and Easy Chairs

This being my last night in Costa Rica calls for reflection on the past weeks. I realize I already reflected in a prior post, but there must be some kind of double-reflection mirror, and it is into one of those that I'm looking.

Work at the nursing home changed my entire perspective on life. Raul, the man who bit and spat at me, was homeless for years living with a pack of dogs who waited patiently outside the nursing home doors hoping he would rejoin their group but never did. What a heartbreaking story. 

I learned to give more thanks than during opening prayers on Thanksgiving for living in the United States and not San Jose. The street vendors there do so out if necessity and desperately attempt to sell knockoff clothing for cheap to scrape by. It reminds me that every day for me is a day in paradise. Even  if I try harder than the Little Engine that Could (shouldn't it be WHO could, since the little engine is personified?) I will never miss being blasted in the face with exhaust from busses (my poor pores are still clogged with black soot), almost hit by cars due to a lack of right of way for pedestrians, sharing rooms with geckos and cockroaches, and walking in terror of being mugged at all hours, day and night. 

I made truly lifelong friendships and got a minor glimpse into how many compassionate people there are in this world of ours. My roommates hailed from different parts of the United States, Canada and Australia and each earned a coveted easy chair in the sitting room of my memory. Okay, I suppose it is a little bit pretentious to assume that an easy chair in my memory is coveted. There are a limited amount of chairs in my imaginative sitting room (do people still have sitting rooms anymore? I imagine if so, they are now for people to sit and mess around on their various social media devices. The art of the conversation is undeniably dead. Sorry, that was a cynical little side note) and sometimes my memory chairs get backordered. It can be worse than Home Depot, I swear. No one wants to deal with the chair ordering people in my memory. Wow I need to quit elaborating on this analogy and move on.

Naturally, you meet all kinds while traveling, and not all acquaintances I made became inhabitants of the easy chairs in my memory. Few, but still some individuals I met get to sit in the uncomfortable, filthy seats with backs that pitch forward and too little leg room on the long distance bus of my desperate attempts to forget.

I won't dwell on the negative. I've been fortunate enough to meet sloths, monkeys, agoutis, tropical birds, green sea turtles, and other exotic creatures (I feel okay leaving centipede off the list), zipline through a tropical rainforest, visit volcanoes and beaches on both coasts of Costa Rica, help the less fortunate, and realize how much I have to be thankful for. Wow, that was cheesy. I hope none of my readers have lactose intolerance to words....

Devoted Reptilian Mothers

Trivia time: what's the best way to start off a trip to Tortuguero National Park? A good ol' rush of cortisol pumping through the body. That was a joke, for anyone having issues detecting my cyber sarcasm. I understand that they adhere to a different schedule here, Tico time (that is to say, arriving fifteen minutes is the norm). However, when the travel agency through which I booked my tour tells me to be somewhere at 6, I'm not going to risk it. So there we were, waiting at 5:50 AM. 6 rolls by, nothing. 6:15, the anxiety begins to set in, 6:20, I'm on the verge of a panic attack. Finally, the tour company arrived at 6:30. A foul mood instantly befell me. It was only after the five hour journey to my hotel that my spirits lifted and my woes poured in the form of sweat from my skin's new exposure to humidity. 

Tortuguero National Park houses good mothers and mothers that would immediately bring social services banging on their doors. The former- the green sea turtle. What a woman. Witnessing first hand just what they go through to bring life into the world gave me a memory to hopefully calm me down as I dig my nails into my future husband's hand as I'm in labor. After swimming mile after mile to reach the beach on which they were born, they scuttle slowly and discreetly about 100 feet up the shore, dig a nest for their enormous reptilian bodies, and only then does the real work begin. Crossing her metaphorical fingers that a jaguar or poacher doesn't rip her exposed head and flippers off in the process, Miss Sea Turtle lays a good 100 or so eggs deep in a hole she dug with her drill-shaped tail. This lasts about 45 minutes and to witness it in real life fills you with an emotion that no nature special could dream of capturing. After the egg laying, she spends at least an hour flopping about to bury the eggs to really try and deter predators from eating her young. She flops about and all wanted to do was help her- ease the process along, and all. We were instructed specifically not to. Eventually, she charged on out of there like a greyhound from its box at the start of he race and rushed as fast as her flippers would carry her back to the ominous dark waves.  

This reptilian Mom of the year repeats this process four to five times a year. Thankfully for her and the male, she has a special sperm-storage pocket so consummation only need occur once. I say thankfully for the male because if it doesn't kill him, it severely weakens him. In these four to five egg laying sessions, she deposits about 500 eggs. Guess how many survive? If her intense amount of work didn't bring tears to your eyes, perhaps the fact that only 1% of every 1000 baby turtles survives. Now that is one depressing, Zoloft-inducing statistic. 

This hard-working lady was on her way back from hours of work when she was mauled by a jaguar. Now she is a rotting carcass serving as potential for vulture food. Sad.

The bad momma? I forget the scientific name of the bird, but she is better known in Costa Rica as "la mala chica" or, the bad girl. She's earned this name by making a nest, laying her eggs, and bouncing outta there, leaving the papa in charge. All the feminists on the boat tour hooted and hollered their appraisal at this fact- you go, girl!

I don't have kids! I'm off for cosmos with the ladies

And So it Ends...

The tone of this blog is about to get more emotional than the end of Marley & Me (no idea why my mind just went there since I haven't read it... maybe Old Yeller is a better example. Apparently I've got depressing dog literature on the brain). Now that my time as a volunteer is officially filed away in the file cabinet of life, (that metaphor sounds way too administrative- a completed chapter in my autobiography? Better...) I can begin to reflect on my experience. As the memories formed here in Costa Rica play out in my mental movie theater like a highschool graduation slideshow, I recognize them as trying times and life lessons brought to life by unforgettable characters forever earning a place in my heart.

Some things I won't miss. It scares me that showering with cockroaches, spiders and geckos no longer phases me. I can't wait to throw toilet paper in the toilet again (here, it all goes in the trashcan), go through a day without rain, hang up wet clothes and have dry ones mere hours later, be able to control hot and cold water in the shower, and breathe air uncontaminated by black bus exhaust thick as fog. I'm yearning for the ability to have the right of way as a pedestrian and not be terrified riding in a car like a young child yearns for Santa on Christmas. If I see another grain of white rice I will scream. But these "problems" are first world problems- mere discomforts. Witnessing first hand the often times atrocious unsanitary conditions and complete lack of patient privacy at the nursing home here quickly catapulted me from my cushy little life and into a completely different reality. I desperately want to know the secret of the nurses and other staff at the nursing home. How could they look at a suffering old man screaming as they cleaned his wounds and smile kindly at him while stroking his back even as he tried to hit them? I told one of the nuns that she was a saint and she merely laughed off the compliment saying it was simply her duty.


My last day at the nursing home was, sorry for the overused adjective, bittersweet. The hardest part, leaving Sor Isabel, wrenched my heart. Here was this little lady dressed in white who barely knew me and clearly, as could be seen in her eyes, cared for me. She took me by the arm and walked me to the door- the theme from The Hulk, that emotional song The Lonely Man, played on a loop in my mind as we strolled arm in arm- my final walk through the halls of the nursing home. As she left my at the door, she hugged me with immense strength and told me to be careful in this scary and dangerous world and thanked me profusely for my help. Tears welled behind my eyes as she turned and departed from my life forever.

Living the Frogger Life

Costa Rican drivers play their own version of Frogger called "Hit or at Least Attempt to Hit Thus Scaring the #%^* Out of the Pedestrian". Yeah, I admit that game title could use revision- for that reason I am staying away from that industry. The scoring system seems pretty basic- hit a pasty American, 10 points. Hit a ballsy Costa Rican, 5. Wobbly old Asian lady with a dog tucked under her arm? 100 points. You get double points if you ambush them by turning a corner without a signal super fast as they attempt to cross thus making them scamper in terror to avoid your bumper.

My life in a nutshell...

Hailing from a city where pedestrians rule the roost to the point of pushing drivers to the brink of insanity, I find it impossible to adjust to a place where the opposite is true. My naive mind likes to think the cars won't actually hit me, but I'm not so sure- they've pushed the boundary so much its more terrifying then the cinematic love child of The Exorcist and The Ring. The other day my mind switched back to United States mentality and I stepped in front of a taxi thus incurring the wrath of the driver who didn't hold back his feelings and laid on the horn while actually driving closer to me. Not an obituary I want- Marisa died suddenly last weekend, squished on the bumper of a red San Jose cab. Silly gringa American....

Tied neck and neck for which is scarier are riding in a car in San Jose and trying to cross the street. I learned that following stray dogs or sticking with packs of locals are the best ways to ensure a safe passage across the road. From living a life on the street, those canines developed a keen sense of street-crossing knowledge and I trust them far more than I do myself. Almost every car ride I take here has me white-knuckled in the back seat, digging my own nails into my palm. I is similar to riding a Disneyland roller coaster except you are far less sure of your survival. Last night, the rain cascaded out of the sky onto the taxi driver's windshild as he stopped behind a huge truck carrying poorly secured lumber in bumper to bumper traffic on the highway on a hill so steep he had to use the parking break (they drive manuals here) so as not to go careening backwards. My life flashed before my eyes as I recited a few Hail Mary's. Thankfully we survived that one...Next time, I may not be so lucky.
 

Crema de Rosas

The late Billy Mays would have been the perfect man to endorse the favorite product of the staff at the Cartago nursing home: crema de rosas.

Ah yes, I can hear his migraine-inducing bellows now: "Billy Mays here to tell you about an exciting new product in healthcare! Crema de Rosas does it all! Got a bleeding open sore? Scaly dry skin making an alligators look like a baby's bum? Blisters oozing multi-colored pus? Even dry eyes are no match for this multi-purpose cream! As if that weren't good enough, this cream smells overwhelmingly like the perfume of an oblivious elderly woman who can't tell she is surrounded by a cloud of it! Call now!"

Despite my lack of medical training, I still possess the common knowledge that one should not put dry skin ointment on an open, bleeding wound and then cover it tightly with gauze in order to really vaporize any chance that some healing air could enter thus helping the formation of a scab. We wouldn't want that, now would we?

Maybe the whole "use one product forever to cure any ailment" is a Hispanic culture thing. The use of crema de rosas as an ointment, lotion, antibacterial (despite its lack of antibacterial properties ), dry eye cream and more (nothing would surprise me anymore- maybe it's a toothpaste, too) triggered a memory of fizzy tabs in Spain. When I studied there, I found that the doctors suggested fizzy tabs, like Alka-Seltzer to alleviate any reported symptom. I went in for a brutal sore throat and cough combo and left with a box of fizzy tabs. My friend clearly had the flu and guess what she was plopping into her glass of water at dinner? Bacterial infection, fungal disease, merciless virus, sore muscles, joint pain- these magical fizzy tabs apparently took care of it all. You could have knocked me over with a feather I was so surprised they didn't cure my illness (sarcasm). About as surprised as I am every time a patient's bandage is peeled away an the wound looks the same, if not worse, than when previously treated. I am no less than profoundly grateful for US healthcare. 

Rain, Rain, Get the **** Away From Me

The first few pages of Life of Pi descibe the tranquil life of the sloth. At one point, the author notes that sloths forever have a smile on their face. My heart did a somersault as I read this- that smile beheld by my own eyes is forever ingrained in my memory thanks to my time here.

On a completely different note...

For some reason, seeking shelter during a torrential downpour seemed the perfect time to keep writing my blog. Perhaps because the possibility I will be stuck here forever seems more and more likely. Every time there is a slight break in the cascade of water, I put my foot in a "ready to walk" position and the downpour begins anew. It is as if Mother Nature is cackling at me and relishing in the fact that today is the day I am sans umbrella and raincoat. 

Having grown up where it doesn't rain, I am still a complete rookie when it comes to this climate. Until now, living in a place where it rains every afternoon on cue, I did not realize the strength of my passionate love for a dry climate. There are so many things I wish I had been warned about prior to my time here. 

For instance, I wish that the packing list bestowed upon me by my volunteer organization placed "umbrella" at the top. I can only assume its absence altogether is just an inside joke amongst the employees wanting to mess with us. "Raincoat" would also have been a nice addition to the list, as well as "patience" for dealing with the seemingly endless storms. Patience could also come on handy for waiting on clothes an shoes to dry in a humid climate. 

When my shoes get wet here, there isn't a chance of wearing them the next day, or even the day following. Stuffing them with toilet paper and placing them in the windowsill doesn't even seem to speed the process. And hanging laundry to dry? Yeah, you won't be wearing those clothes for almost a week. At altitude in dry air, it's more like two hours. Yet there we use dryers, and here clothes lines. 

This intense rain scoffs at umbrellas and "waterproof" raincoats. I feel moronic attempting to stay dry against such odds. Yet attempt I must- for example right now...

Don Juans in the Nursing Home

Costa Rican nursing home men lie on one of two extremes on the spectum encompassing male attitudes towards women. Some are romantic charmers to the point of eclipsing Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge and then some are creepy, slimy, macho chauvinistic pigs who shout durogatory statements and lick my hand.

In the past week, I have become a swinger of sorts at the nursing home. On Monday, a particular Don Juan named Miguel (or Manuel? I already forget) saw me standing alone during the first of many dances this week to celebrate Independance Day like the loner girl at prom. He pointed at me from across the room, flashed me a smile and a wink and performed a "come hither" gesture with his left hand. Well, I wasn't doing anything better so I shrugged, pointed at myself to confirm he didn't have his sights set on the elderly lady beside me and upon recieving his nod, I headed over for a dance. He certainly had a spring in his step; I felt like I was on Dancing with the Stars, Nursing Home Edition. During our multiple dances, he asked me to be his wife for the day. I'd never been asked to be a temporary wife before, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

On Thursday, I took a break from cutting gauze strips to go check out the hip n' happenin' festivities in the cafeteria at lunch. Unfortunately, the entertainment turned out to be nothing more than a creepy Stephen King-esque clown making balloon animals and playing a colorful guitar. One of the male residents walked over to me and bent my ear for awhile asking me about myself and eventually he shared with me the same sentiments pertaining to clowns and we bonded to the point he asked me to be his wife. I agreed to be another 24-hour-wife. I sense a new TLC drama! Polygamy in the nursing home. 

Finally, on Friday I was sitting and watching the local school kids doing a typical dance and not giving off any particular "I'm looking for a man" vibes, but all of a sudden my seat neighbor, an elderly man named Miguel, asked me if I would be his wife. I'm sure Carlos wouldn't mind...

Pulling a Steve Irwin

I hope that a simple reference to the late Australian crocodile hunter falls into the "bad taste" or "too soon" category. If that reference offended you, just pretend I referenced a different wildlife show host. One of my goals while galavanting around Costa Rica was to see as much exotic wildlife as possible. Before departing on my estuary tour yesterday, I checked sloths, lizards, chameleons, howler monkeys, spider monkeys, sloths, toucans and myriad crazy insects off my list. In fact, I bonded so strongly with one particular sloth that I'd consider our relationship much more than a mere acquaintanceship- he was the kind of cool dude I would enthusiastically call up to meet for a beer or some other form of chill session. I'm not on the up and up with what sloths do for enjoyment. 

At this point, no animal cameo surprises me. Six geckos commingling on the ceiling? Seen it. An iguana over a foot long clumsily strolling by the pool in which I'm swimming? No big deal. Tropical birds squawking outside my window all night? I barely hear them anymore. Yet for some reason, being about a foot away from a wild croc got my adrenaline pumping like it does while running a 10k race. 

My friends and I wanted to do a sunset sail in Tamarindo, but the rain and the fact that we were the only three who called with a reservation somehow deterred the sailing companies from embarking. Shock, right? So, an estuary tour seemed to be the next best thing. Our guide brought us within feet of crocs, herons and other birds, and took us on a breif stroll to see a family of howler monkeys. The babies were cuter then Honey Boo Boo with a baby kitten. 

Volcanic Hike

The tone in this blog may come across as inadvertently aggressive as the environment in which I am writing it is far from conducive of any other emotion. My  tired feet are considering carrying out a mutiny against me, as I have been standing on a bus for which they sold too many tickets for about an hour now. The worst part is this only makes up about one fourth of the journey back to San Jose from La Fortuna, the home of the Arenal volcano.

The worst part is not the standing, really. This far from pleasant experience has taught me that I can do myriad tasks while standing on a bus- read, write a blog on my iPhone, listen to music, observe the scenery... The true pitfall is the heat generated by commuting Costa Ricans clumped together like cranky canned sardines (how's that for alliteration?) in a bus lacking air conditioning on a tropical climate.

Parts of my body are surprising me with sweat glands that I did not previously think existed. The mounting discomfort of this trip is almost making this comical, emphasis on almost. Give it a couple of years. The thing that caused a delay wasn't construction, nor traffic but rather a parade of cowboys on horses blocking the passage of cars. Where the heck am I?

My tired feet are not the only limbs plotting a mutiny. My thighs, knees and arms all feel at least a minimal degree of pain from my adventurous day in La Foruna yesterday. I can't recall having been so active as I was after hiking a dormant volcano and swimming across the crater after going for a run and before spending three hours swimming in natural hot springs. 

It is hard to impress someone accustomed to hiking the Rocky Mountains at elevations exceeding 12,000 feet. My increased level of red blood cells served as a major advantage to me and trekking ahead of the group became the norm. The trail could not have been more of a stark juxtaposition to the trails I am used to. In Colorado dry dirt and rocks compose the trails, in Costa Rica, thick mud and jutting tree roots acting as stairs. Large, mossy rainforest flora replaces the various species of pine trees and aspens. Geckos, frogs and monkeys are the Costa Rican fauna counterparts of squirrels, deer, and chipmunks. 

If I had to describe this hike in one word, it would have to be epic. Rain pelted our sweat-drenched and mud-slathered bodies as we climbed up steep makeshift stairs and back down what looked like a sheer drop off from the top. Thankfully, the hike ended at the now water-filled crater of a dormant volcano and nothing feels more refreshing than jumping into water after a truly exhausting hike. 

The Nursing Home Gods

It seems the gods of nursing homes felt remorseful for messing with me like the Greek gods messed with Odysseus, for today they cut me some slack and dealt me a fine hand. Astonishment came over me when I realized my shift had ended, which is a welcome change after the past few days of hours passing at a snail's pace (actually I'm in Costa Rica, I should say a sloth's pace).

At the start of my shift, one of the Sors, or Sisters, led me into the pharmacy and told me to sort the drawers full if prescription drugs by expiration date and type. The thought "am I even qualified to do this?" Immediately began to creep up, but I whacked it back down with a mental baseball bat because it seems that in Costa Rican nursing homes I'm qualified to preform surgery if I want. I've already cleaned and dressed every wound you can imagine, restrained the senile elderly, taken blood pressures and attempted to analyze the results, and now sorted drugs. I drew a thick red line when a nurse asked me if I wanted to give an old lady a butt injection. 

While excersiing my OCD organizing pills,

I got a chance to chat with Sor Delia, the head nun nurse. She is the absolute sweetest woman with such a loving soul and talked to me about her travels all over the world. All of the nurses there are so inspiring and the work they do makes me think twice when I consider complaining about my cushy privelaged life.

My Project

Here is where everyone who donated to my volunteering gets to find out what those dollars are being used to fund. This way, you don't have to worry that I scammed you out of your money like some sketchy fake charity that uses contributions on extravagant vacations.

My hand stings quite a bit at the moment, pain which serves as a reminder of my shift at the nursing home today where I was scratched by an old man living there as I aided in his restraint. What surprised me most as I put forth all my efforts to hold him down as his open wounds were cleansed was the contrast between my expression and those of the nurses, nuns, and doctors caring for him. Whereas my face bore a look combining fear and sadness, they exchanged smiles and were completely unaffected as the patient screamed profanities at all of us and spit in our faces.

I work in a small town called Cartago, about 30 minutes outside of San Pedro where I live. Going to Cartago from San Pedro for me parallels traveling to San Diego from Los Angeles. Cartago is quaint and picturesque with far less crime and traffic. It is a lovely little place. The nursing home, run by Catholic nuns, takes up an impressive amount of space in the town and is a peaceful little place. Granted, they are extremely low on supplies and rooms and for this reason, the residents lack privacy and the facility lacks the sanitation we are used to in the US.

I arrive at work around 8:30 and begin my day by wheeling residents up to mass which takes place daily. Afterwords, I find my favorite nurse, Luciana, who is in charge of wound healing every morning. I have to be honest, I had no idea what to expect while volunteering- I did assume, however, that my lack of medical experience would leave me with hardly any hands-on tasks. Yet on my first day I was already taking blood pressures and cleaning open wounds.

The residents are all characters in one way or another. There are kind, loving elderly individuals who just want to chat. There are some whose minds are far from clear. On my first day, my volunteer coordinator warned me of a man in a wheelchair who has gotten in trouble for sexually harassing nurses, but said she did not know which one he was. I rapidly found out when a man reached out for my hand, I gave it to him, and he licked the entire back of it. Let's just say I completely avoid him now.

More to come, but I just figured you'd like a taste of what I am doing over here in sunny and rainy Costa Rica!

Sloths!

As I sit here amid the oh-so-charming sounds of San Jose (cars roaring past my window, children screaming, dogs barking, you name it), my mind has already begun to reminisce about the warm, serene waters of the beach in Puerto Viejo which, just this morning, caressed me like a giddy child. Prior to my trip to the Caribbean shores of Costa Rica, I assumed transparent blue waters with gentle waves only existed in tourism ads for Hawaii or pictures to swindle you into buying a time share in Florida. I can now attest to the validity of their existence.

Puerto Viejo is the image I held in my mind of Costa Rica before my arrival. Shockingly, I did not anticipate being stuck in a constant torrential downpour walking around a dirty city constantly fearing for my life and my belongings as is the case in San Jose. That reality melted away this past weekend- I spent two days among friends and colorful locals enjoying the sun under the exotic palm trees. I felt like I was in Blue Lagoon without all the teen drama or Cast Away without Wilson and an improbable plane crash. The pristine water sparkled like nature's Tiffany diamonds and moved gently towards the coast, unlike other beaches I've been to with violent waves ravaging ceaselessly and pulling swimmers asunder in rip tides. I felt like a baby being rocked by its mother as I floated in the Caribbean.

Prior to spending time on the beach, my body was jonesing like a heroin addict for some good ol' endorphins of which it has been seriously deprived lately. Therefore, when I awoke from a surprisingly sound sleep in a hostel bed, I decided to go for a run along the beach. Back home in the US, the wildlife I passed included squirrels, birds, domestic animals and the occasional deer and fox. Here, it is not uncommon to run past a sloth chilling in a low branch, hoards of insects that star in horror films, monkeys, and crabs. It truly is a wild kingdom down here. One of the most exciting moments for me during my weekend came unexpectedly and involved a sloth. Previously, the sloth was as elusive as Sasquach to me, and I therefore placed at the top of my bucket list "see a sloth in the wild." While in Manuel Antonio last weekend, I saw one but at a large distance. The sloth in Puerto Viejo trumped this experience by a landslide. While eating breakfast, someone from my volunteer program informed me that there was a sloth in a low branch right next to the hostel. Thankfully, sloths move slower than a handicapped snail through molasses, so I took my time finishing my eggs and fruit and headed over to the tree. Sure enough, there he was hanging from the bottom branch, a mere ten feet away. It was surreal to reach out and touch the little lazy guy, and my surreal giddiness was quickly shattered when someone told me they are super dirty and bite. Thanks for raining on my parade, Debbie Downer of a local...

If anyone reading this ever finds themselves in this robust little seaside town, make sure to stop at the Zion Cafe for a meal or a smoothie at the very least. Owned and managed by a Toronto native, this inconspicuous seaside eatery offers healthy vegetarian options alongside seafood specialties and some carnivorous entrees. My lactose intolerant-ometer went off like crazy when it say the words "soy milk" under the smoothie section on the menu, so I ordered a banana smoothie with soy milk to sip on while waiting for my coconut curry. Never have I been so ecstatic over brown rice before- here, they go ever-so-slightly simple carb heavy- white bread, white pasta and white rice. It is truly a mystery to me how Costa Ricans obtain a substantial amount of fiber in ther diets.

 

Well, a screeching car alarm just valuted me out of my daydream. Time to face facts, Puerto Viejo has gone to rest in my memory and I start my volunteering tomorrow... oh life...