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!