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[onthegreenmountain]

remarkable the similarity; remarkable the difference

When I began displaying symptoms like a fever, a cough, and severe fatigue, my body scrambled to recover. I don’t know if you’ve picked this up, but I have a physical disability. Even as a student in the States, my body fights hard to keep up, but here? Here, I am an agricultural worker. Here, I lift and pull and carry every day. It’s incredibly difficult, but that’s how I was earning my keep here. That is, until two weeks ago yesterday, when I caught the flu.

What is wrong with me? I’m still recovering from the flu.

I continued going to the stable with a fever each morning at 6 AM, until my pharmacist mother implored me to stop before my flu worsened to bronchitis. Instead, I kept working every day, but on my computer. Some days, a few hours of tasks like indenting the paragraphs of my 17-page report were all I could manage.

As I slowly returned to my farm duties, I hoped for an encouraging welcome back. Not so. M recites many stories of his hard physical labor--while vomiting, with fever, after a back injury, etc. Again and again and again he recites them.

“Don’t you remember how hard-working I have been, M? Do you remember how I always sang to the chickens as I fed them? Do you remember how I came to the stable at 5:30 just so I would have time to help you milk cows after cleaning all ten pig pens?”

“Yes, I remember. So what happened? Why did you stop working hard?”

This breaks my heart.

I said that I was still sick. I asked if he wanted me to ever recover from this illness. I explained that I have been working on a project to improve his working conditions. I told him it was due in two days. I begged him to understand. He didn’t. I eventually fell silent. I had no more words. I breathed heavily with exertion as I slowly walked alone to the chicken house.

This afternoon over coffee, he spoke to me in his gruff, graveled voice, the one he reserves for conversations about work, referencing my laptop screen as I asked him questions for my greenhouse project. I glanced at his eyes as he peered at the screen. Dark, warm, sleepy, with tiny wrinkles appearing at the corners. Comfort to me. So many times, his face symbolized comfort to me. Remarkable our similarity. And now? In the past two weeks, because of the flu, I've been confronted by more cultural difference than I saw the full two months previous. Remarkable our difference.

Any way I try to explain it, the fact remains: my best friends in San Luis are blue-collar employees. Many have never traveled outside Costa Rica. Most have lived their whole lives in San Luis. Only two speak English beyond basic greetings. And when I caught the flu, I experienced a difficult truth of their lives. The Costa Rican blue-collar worker says, "Work with your hands and feet under every circumstance. Work that way until you pass out. Then, when you come to, stumble to your feet and keep working.”

I have a lot of grit, and I’m a very hard worker--most of you know some of the story--but this is an entirely different conception of hard work. Until this, I happily shared in all their joys and sorrows. With these blue-collar kitchen workers, maintenance men, and farmhands came my only moments of happiness at the UGA Costa Rica; with everyone else it has felt like a mess. So naturally, since I’ve been here, I’ve wanted to participate in everything of theirs. But not this. I didn’t want to participate in this. I respect it enormously, and I feel the weight of the difference between the demands upon ‘developed’ and ‘developing.’ But I don’t want to participate.

That is where our difference ceased to be a curiosity. That is when my work ethic, forged in the mental stress and anxiety of the word ‘developed’, and his work ethic, forged in the physical exhaustion of the word ‘developing,’ were made painfully distinct. I am unwilling to volunteer my physical labor while I can barely stand with the flu. Unwilling.

Correctly managing oneself. With people in a developing country. With people in a developed country. People. In countries. Remarkable the similarity; remarkable the difference.

Something I never considered until yesterday is the fact that I’m going home. I’m going back to a temperate climate, to fall leaves, to crosswalks, to graduate-level courses. At home, the wind does not carry a faint scent of livestock and citrus.  I won’t have to walk outside at 4:30 AM to reach the bathroom. I’ll have WIFI connection in my room. When I start a sentence with the words “because of my disability,” people will listen. When I tell them I cleaned pig pens each morning at 6 AM, they will wrinkle their noses.

I’ll be less challenged. I’ll be more accepted. I think I'll probably be relieved.

[onthegreenmountain]

a matapalo tree when Marlon and I took the long way down the mountain to lunch

[onthegreenmountain]

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Making the milk happen

Marlon says I have a gift for milking--imagine the talents we all have that we’ve never even discovered, just because the activity is uncommon in our culture

[onthegreenmountain]

the view outside Marlon’s house

[onthegreenmountain]

esa Ashley es una bicha, a que sí

Una unión libre, una unión de hecho, juntado con mi compañera, mi señora, mi pareja, mi novia.

This unión libre is a concept I’ve been learning about since I arrived in Costa Rica just under 2 months ago. I’ve learned this set of terminology from ticos both rich and poor, educated and uneducated, overprivileged and under. But what eludes me, what challenges my assumptions, are the bounds of the commitment implied by such a relationship.

Cohabitation—he’s living with her, she’s pregnant out of wedlock, they’re living in sin—I know that it varies by region and subculture, but I was raised by the law of a playground rhyme: first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage. In Costa Rica, that order is not so fixed. When a couple moves in together, they are often already pregnant. They live together; they raise children together; they attend mass together; they are faithful to each other; they never marry. Not before the church or the state, at least. But what is marriage? Isn’t it this?

“I mean, why don’t you just get married?” I asked Silvia, the kitchen employee.

“What is the benefit?” she replied. “There is none for us. A wedding costs a lot of money: you have to get a marriage license, and you have to pay for a big party with a lot of people. And if it doesn’t work out? Pay even more money for a divorce. We don’t want to use our money that way.”

Many mornings in the chicken house, my mind wandered to ponder this concept. In the United States, at least in my family’s culture, ‘living together’ has a negative connotation. But when it implies the same fidelity, isn’t this type of free union simply the lack of an expensive certificate? In practically every other sense, it’s the same.

On a similar topic, a new friend of mine, Manuel, is the one-armed guard of the campus. He lost his arm about 15 years ago, after a tragic malfunction of agricultural machinery. After the accident, he received no pension or support neither from his former employers nor from the state, so he continues to work for a much lower wage in the guard house at the entrance of the campus. So it goes for the disabled in Central America.

Manuel is friendly and kind, and he sometimes leaves his post to join me and Marlon for afternoon coffee. One day last week, he was explaining to Marlon in quick, colloquial Costa Rican Spanish about a woman with whom he had a brief relationship a few months ago. He clearly assumed I could not follow the rapid flow of his telling of the story.

“She keeps saying she is pregnant with my son,” exclaimed Manuel.

“Well,” I said, entering the conversation for the first time, “Is that possible? Is it possible that you are the father?”

Manuel’s jaw dropped. He looked at Marlon.

Marlon smiled and shrugged, “She understands a lot of Spanish.”

Manuel paused for a moment, weighing how to continue what was meant to be a conversation between men. He decided to just explain the whole situation. This woman, he said, has been threatening him with photos of her supposed pregnant belly. Two problems: the belly in the photos is too far along in the pregnancy, and the photos never show the woman’s face.

“What, does she think you’re stupid?” I laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“She’s crazy,” Manuel agreed.

“She is obviously lacking something in the head,” I said. “You need to show her. Here’s what you should do: take a photo of your gut right after eating.”

Manuel was beginning to smile and Marlon was already starting to giggle, as they guessed how I would finish.

“Then,” I advised, “Send your photo to that woman. Tell her you’re pregnant—“

“Pregnant by her!” screamed both Manuel and Marlon in unison.

They both erupted into laughter, obviously very entertained by this suggestion.

“You know, I never would have thought of that,” said Manuel, looking at Marlon.

“She’s smart,” he said with feigned humility, as if showing off his entry in a contest for ‘best gringa’ at the county fair.

“I mean, I’m gonna do it. It’s a brilliant idea,” repeated Manuel.

“Oh, she’s brilliant,” said Marlon, lifting his eyebrows as he became more confident in the quality of his contestant.

I beamed.

Manuel and I exchanged numbers, and he texted me the photo he sent to the unfortunate ex-girlfriend. It’s a scream. Her response was also quite entertaining.

As Manuel and Marlon walked out of the building, they were still laughing. I barely heard Marlon say to Manuel, “She’s great, isn’t she?”

This happens often enough. The Costa Ricans assume I don’t understand because I usually listen quietly—that is, until I make an unexpected but witty quip that shows I understood the whole conversation.

That scenario happened this morning. Chico, who, especially for a maintenance man in a developing country, is an outstandingly picky eater, picked out all the tomatoes from his rice, to the detriment of his social standing at the breakfast table. Several of his coworkers teased him for being delicate and prissy about his food. The conversation moved on to animated discussions of fútbol and the inner workings of a motorbike, two subjects which hold absolutely no interest for me. Several minutes later, the kitchen manager asked the maintenance workers if they wanted the leftover eggs. Some assented; Chico declined.

“Chico wants more tomatoes,” I dryly called over my shoulder as I stood up for the coffee pot.

The entire table exploded into laughter.

To me, it wasn’t that funny, but they all laughed loudly with appreciation. Chico melted into his pile of rejected tomato bits.

Marlon chuckled heartily, “Oh Ashley, she’s a trip, ain’t she?”

I’m going to Marlon’s house for lunch on Sunday. He excitedly invited me a few days ago. I’ll finally meet his wife Ana and their daughter Melany. I already know their son, Yuriel. I can’t wait.

[onthegreenmountain]

in case you were wondering...

I have read before about the intelligence of pigs, but I observe it each afternoon as I spray down the pig pens.

The pigs’ brains may be relatively intelligent, but their bodies are not flexible, and by the afternoon they are often covered with a thin film of filth and a few dark marks of grime. As I spray their pens, I like to rinse them off too. If the hose pressure is not too high inflict pain on their nearly bare skin, the pigs enjoy this daily rinse.

They recognize the purpose of this rinse and move their inflexible bodies to reflect that purpose. When I come around with my hose, they face toward me their grimy spots until the hose washes them away. They often turn in a full circle, pausing at the dirtiest marks, until they are again pink and covered in fine blond hairs.

[onthegreenmountain]

the scapegoat

I mentioned in my first reflection that a taxi driver unconditionally excused any problems tourists encountered in Costa Rica with the scapegoat of racism. The nica (Nicaraguan) immigrated to Costa Rica for one reason: to do harm.

The nica, he assured me, has no heart.

I asked my acquaintances among hotel staff and Uber drivers to share their views, which were more moderate, on this issue. However, the consensus from my questioning in Alajuela had a common theme: a border wall should be constructed.

A good political opinion should not be formed solely on anecdotal evidence and personal experiences, but I cannot but feel swayed by my companion at work and unofficial teacher of many subjects, a nica immigrant named Marlon.

You may notice Marlon’s name from earlier entries; we work together on the farm 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. He only speaks Spanish.

Although he talks with his mouth full, there are few men I more confidently classify as gentlemen. Although he has worked his whole life cleaning filthy pig pens, he still offers them the tasty cream after he milks a cow just because he wants them to enjoy something rich. Marlon abandoned his studies after fourth grade to work to support his family, but in completing his duties, he takes a perfectionist’s care, and his habits of conversation and work reveal him as intelligent and thoughtful. He believes that I am unreachably more intelligent, but I know that I simply had many more opportunities to succeed.

I recently began a project to maximize yield and ecological sustainability in one of the greenhouses on the university farm. Marlon and I spend every morning in that greenhouse. As I needed to take a few measurements on the dimensions of the greenhouse for my project, I playfully asked him on Tuesday morning to serve as my research assistant by holding one end of the measuring tape. He was very willing to help, and this spurred him to self-consciously make several comments about his lack of education.

“Education is not intelligence,” I responded. “Your intelligence is something I see every day I work with you. You didn’t have the same opportunities in life as me, but that is something we all deal with. There are opportunities you have had that I haven’t. And there are opportunities I’ve had that you haven’t. Your body has never failed you, but I have a disability. I have to spend time and effort fighting to do things that are really easy for you.”

Marlon nodded, then ventured with a reticent eagerness, “But what are the opportunities I haven’t had?”

“Well,” I began, hoping to choose sensitive words in my second language. “I was born an American citizen, with white gringo parents from the upper-middle class. I attended all 12 grades and earned a university degree. Even though I had a severe injury, I received excellent medical care. You didn’t have those things. You’re an immigrant to this country, you couldn’t get much education, and your family didn’t have many financial resources.”

He smiled as one who has been recognized.

“We were very poor, but very happy.”

I glanced up from the greenhouse plot.

“I’ve never been more happy than in those years,” he said wistfully. “If I ever become rich, I will live as if I were poor, because that’s how I know to be happy.”

The nica has no heart.

What a nauseating statement.

[onthegreenmountain]

Una dictadura puede ser buena cuando… (a dictatorship can be good when…)

I spend increasingly more of my time with Costa Ricans here on the UGA-CR campus. I work all day every day with Marlon. I spend about half of my meals eating in the back room behind the kitchen with employees. I help kitchen employees clean up after dinner. Even at the few times I am off campus, I enjoy relating with members of the community, whether at the local church, the community center, or just passing on the road. My Spanish is quite good and always improving, and I feel I can relax, laugh, and understand life in a different way when I spend it with these new friends. The belief systems of my primary culture are challenged several times a day, enough that I usually don’t perceive any competition between the cultures. If I did, I would be a truly conflicted personality. My life here is a continual shifting between cultures. However, the personality of my surroundings informs my own personality.

One conversation that truly did surprise me came last week. Costa Rica’s public employees have been holding an indefinite strike since September 10, nearly a week and a half, to protest a proposed tax-reform bill. This form of protest seems relatively benign when compared to demonstrations of civil unrest in other Central American nations. Nevertheless, it is uncharacteristic of peaceful Costa Rica, and as such, it was the favored topic of conversation for Costa Ricans of all positions and socioeconomic classes. After a morning bushwhacking on the mountaintop, the maintenance workers invited Marlon and me to join them on the dirt floor of the compost shed to share fresh fruit and soda. That afternoon after work, the administrative staff members sat in a circle of rocking chairs, cell phones in hand to reference articles and check facts. The settings were different, as were the income and education levels of the groups, but their topic of conversation was the same. Naturally, I feel privileged to be accepted as a peer both on the dirt floor and in the rocking chairs. But that’s not what I want to tell you about.

“Mae, what we need is a dictatorship,” said Virgilio the accountant, leaning back in his rocking chair, as if to end the discussion.

“A dictator?” asked Fabricio in disbelief.

“Sure. A dictatorship can be good when there is too much corruption in the government.”

“Haven’t you read articles about what is happening in Venezuela right now? Dictatorships don’t stop corruption; they make more,” projected José in his deep, commanding voice.

“I don’t mean forever; only two or three years, to put everything back to zero.”

Fabricio raised his eyebrow, and the conversation continued.

In the US (and when I discussed this with Jacob, he said in the UK as well), openly suggesting a dictatorship as anything other than detestable is taboo. I wish I knew more about political science to be able to speak more about why it is taboo in my country but not in another. However, it got me to thinking about how a dictatorship starts and why. It also made me wonder where a dictatorship is more likely: in a country led by a charismatic personality strongly disliked by at least half the population, or in a country with a population so disgruntled that around a third of them refuse to work.

[onthegreenmountain]

measuring trees with Gabriel, a fellow forester conducting research on shade-grown coffee agroforestry

[onthegreenmountain]

gaining ground

The newest naturalist intern is an Englishman named Jacob. I have much less free time than the naturalists; I usually work around 40 hours each week. My responsibilities make it more difficult for me to connect with the naturalists, but I am fortunate that Jacob is friendly and we connected early on because we have both lived in Spain. He taught English in Catalonia through a program very much like mine (my program, available through the Spanish Ministry of Education, was not offered in Catalonia because of political turmoil).

Recently, Jacob asked me about the differences in communication between Central America and Spain. I told him that I did not realize initially the enormous differences that exist.

In Spain, people speak very openly and candidly, so the dialect of Spanish that I know best would probably be very offensive to a Central American. For example, I learned in Spain that I should almost never say “por favor” or “gracias” or “me gustaría que….” Spaniards are often brusque and loud, using many curse words in normal conversation.

This is just a different way to communicate, and for the people who learned this dialect, it seems normal and friendly and good. In Spain, politeness in conversation is unfriendly and strange.

When I first arrived in Costa Rica, I was open, warm, and not extremely polite. This was my way to offer friendship. In general, my attempts at friendship to Costa Ricans have been very well-received. People are kind and friendly, and they are always thankful for my comfortable, colloquial Spanish, but when they notice these differences in our dialects, they usually ask where I am from, thinking I am from another Spanish-speaking country. After almost 3 weeks of working with Marlon about 40 hours a week, that question comes less and less often. Marlon himself told me that I sound less Spanish than when I arrived.

In my opinion as a traveler, the Costa Rican dialect is very likely the best to learn, because it is well-enunciated and easier to understand in most cases. However, the Spanish are very proud of their own dialect, regarding it as the original and therefore the only correct form. This is not exactly true, since even the dialect of Spain has drifted significantly from its truly original form, and in some respects Latin American dialects are truer to the Spanish used at the time of colonization. However, I jokingly complained to Marlon that he was corrupting my Spanish! Because I want to work in Latin America, not Spain, I know it is for the best, but it is still with a divided heart that I relinquish the beautiful northern Spanish accent I worked so hard to achieve in Galicia.

Each day here, I feel more integrated into the fabric of San Luis de Monteverde. On Sunday, I enjoyed my first mass at the local church, where I met new members of the community and saw familiar faces. I am not Catholic, but I am Christian, and I find that my experiences at the place of worship in any community is a great way to place my finger on the pulse of the culture. I rode home with a family that works for UGA-CR, and I received a warm invitation to have coffee at their home one afternoon after work. It was lovely to report to the dining hall on Monday and have several new topics of conversation for the staff, who were touched by my desire to worship God with them.

I sometimes feel I have more in common with Costa Ricans here than the other interns. Last night the interns traveled to the hot springs about an hour from the UGA campus, and I spent almost the entire time chatting and laughing with the Honduran owner of the springs, her young daughter Camila, and the Costa Rican driver of our tourism van. 

The driver announced that I, like him, am “pura vida.” This is like saying that I embody the essence of Costa Rican attitude toward life. 

Or something like that.

After less than 3 weeks here, I feel I’m gaining ground.

After an hour laughing and sipping coffee after work, Marlon and Júlio, the maintenance supervisor, invited me eat my meals with them in the back. I reason that I’m here to take advantage of the Costa Rican culture and dialect. I would prefer to spend lunchtime with my maintenance and agricultural coworkers in the back. Lunch is in a few minutes, and I think I’ll try sitting back there at mealtime for the first time.

[onthegreenmountain]

a walk around the world

Friday, August 31 was a lovely day. That morning, I went to the stables simply because I was awake and had nothing else to do. I fed the tilapia and helped Marlon milk the cows. He knows I hate cleaning the pigpens, so he said, “Come help me milk.”

After breakfast, along with Fernanda (an intern from Honduras) and Marlon, I scaled the mountain to its peak: Jardín Orgánica El Nino. Here, Marlon scrambled up a mandarin tree to grab oranges for each of us. They’ve just started to get ripe and sweet, but the farm workers have been eating sour, green mandarins for months. I brought fresh water and food to the chickens in the gallinería, or hen house, and I collected eggs. Then, I performed several garden tasks: planting, weeding, harvesting, composting, tilling. The time I spend with the plants is my favorite. Plants don’t poop.

After lunch, I took some time to return to my room and be quiet. I usually sleep during this time (call it siesta), but oddly I didn’t feel tired that day, so I just took the time to meditate. Eventually, I wandered over to the stables again to feed the tilapia, rake the yard, and milk the cows—all to the jubilant sounds of merengue and salsa from Marlon’s favorite radio station.

Next, he told me to grab my phone and follow him. We walked carefully far behind the stables. When I asked where he was taking me, he only said, “We’re going to walk around the world.”

Odd.

“Well in that case, let’s first head north so the circumference will be shorter,” I quipped.

I began to feel nervous as we traveled further and further behind the barn. He pulled out a knife—to cut away the branches of a prickly shrub. My mind was racing.

“But seriously—where are we going?” I asked persistently. Finally, he admitted that we were going to collect the cows.

“Hale, hale, hayk hayk hayk,” he called into the wind. I still felt suspicious.

Then I saw it.

The hills opened to a green valley with comfortable grazing cows. The cows stood at the foot of a tropical, forested mountain. The peak was nearly obscured by swirling clouds. I gasped.

Marlon smiled. “I don’t show this to every ag intern, you know.”

“So you could say I’m special?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

A moment of quiet, then, “The next time, I will trust you to bring in the cows by yourself.”

“Ohhhhh no. No, the next time you must show me again. If not, I’ll get lost. Maybe I’ll go alone my third time.”

He nodded slightly. We stood in silence no more than a few seconds before beginning the long walk back to the stables.

It was special.

[onthegreenmountain]

que caritas más dulces

what sweet little faces

[onthegreenmountain]

My basic schedule, modified to accommodate my disability:

6:30 = early morning chores at the stables: clean the 5 pig pens, open the drains, fill the pens with fresh water. Skim the leaves off the surface of the tilapia pond, feed the tilapia. Rinse off cow hooves and udder, help Marlon milk a cow. **ONLY ONCE A WEEK**

7:30 = breakfast.

8:30 = late morning chores at the vegetable garden: clean the chicken coop, give them fresh water and food, collect eggs. Put fresh compost, plant seedlings, harvest crops.

12:00 = lunch.

1-2:00 = nap.

2:30 = afternoon chores at the stables: clean the 5 pig pens, close the drains, fill the pens with more fresh water. Feed the tilapia. Rinse off cow hooves and udders, help Marlon milk the remaining 4 cows. Filter the milk. Help Marlon carry the milk back to the kitchen.

3:30 = have coffee with other farm workers in the back of the kitchen.

Marlon works for UGA-CR as the main employee in charge of managing the sustainable farm.

Last night over dinner, I spoke to Gabriel, another student who is designing an agroforestry plantation for the campus. He was very nice, and there seem to be many ways I could participate in that. I’m not sure how that will affect my schedule, but it’s exciting because it’s more relevant to my studies.

[onthegreenmountain]

Left to right: Me, Thomas the receptionist, Gerald the chef, Eugenia the bartender

[onthegreenmountain]

Lo que no tiene el nica (What the Nicaraguan Does Not Have)

The sun rose quickly on the morning of my fourth day in Monteverde—an eighth day in Costa Rica. I arrived in SJO, Juan Santamaria Airport, on Monday afternoon. I spent the rest of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday staying in the city of Alajuela, where I bought things like a Costa Rican SIM card, shampoo, and a few examples of Costa Rican literature. While there, I recovered from jet lag, became comfortable with the Costa Rican bus system, and adapted my ear to the Central American dialect of Spanish. I had several enlightening conversations with taxi drivers, waiters, and hotel staff that helped me understand much more various perspectives of major national issues and how these manifest in the lives of regular Costa Ricans living in the city.

Oddly, the information and opinions I learned from my least favorite interactions led to many of my subsequent conversations. 

On my first full day in Alajuela, I first thought it would be a good idea to take a walk through the area. Within the first kilometer (0.6 miles) of my seven kilometer (4 mile) walk to the town of Alajuela, I accidentally passed through an impoverished neighborhood called El Infiernillo—The Little Hell. There, I was pursued for a short distance by a group of vagabonds planning to rob me—or worse—and narrowly escaped back to my hotel. But that’s another story.

Safely back inside the concrete walls of my hotel complex, I asked the receptionist to call for a Red Taxi, the official taxi of the San Jose-Alajuela area, to drive me to downtown Alajuela. The taxi driver, when he learned that I was a new arrival to his country, explained that Nicaraguan immigrants are responsible for all the problems I encounter in Costa Rica.

“El nica,” he explained, “no tiene corazón.” The Nicaraguan has no heart.

When I coughed at the absurdity of the statement, he explained. Before the recent large influx of immigrants from Nicaragua and Colombia, there was no crime in the whole country. Since their arrival, murder and rape have become increasingly commonplace. Worst of all, he said, the Nicaraguans target tourists, the main source of income for Costa Rica. If the Costa Rican government does not take severe measures to limit immigration, the taxi driver warned, gringo tourists will stop thinking of Costa Rica as a nice place to vacation, the tourism industry will collapse, and Costa Rica will descend into poverty.

During his long exclamation, I tried my best to stay neutral and to say “hmm” at the appropriate moments. His perspective was interesting albeit prejudiced. I wanted to remember his words to present to my new acquaintances-- the hotel night staff, a friendly group of Costa Rican young people-- that evening.

Eugenia, Gerald, and Thomas operated the reception desk and small restaurant adjoining the hotel. Both areas were nearly always deserted in the evenings. Eugenia was the small, dark bartender—a very young woman, pregnant, single, and living with her parents. Gerald was the quiet, tall, and chubby chef. Thomas was the spry receptionist in his early thirties, head shaved to hide a growing bald spot. Since the first evening, I showed friendliness and a desire to learn about their experience as urban Costa Ricans. They soon opened up to share with me about their lives, their problems, and what they liked about their homeland. They also seemed curious about me— my life in the United States, my plans for the future, and the average salaries of hospitality workers in my country. Since their knowledge of English was very basic, they appreciated that I spoke Spanish so well; though despite my efforts to feign neutrality, my dialect was still decidedly Iberian. It helped me to hear them speaking the Central American dialect in an easy, conversational setting.

Because of the repoire we had established, I felt comfortable sharing with them about the conversation I’d had with the taxi driver. I knew them to be reasonable people from the two previous nights, so I was more likely to trust their opinions. However, I did not betray my own emotions toward his statements.

“What is your opinion?” I asked. Eugenia and Thomas shared their thoughts clearly and openly, and even quiet Gerald emerged from his kitchen to explain his silently held opinions on the context of the situation. As I had already noticed the AlertTraveler app, San José served as a place of protest and unrest  for Costa Rican citizens around the country displeased with the unmonitored and increasing influx of Nicaraguan immigrants, the rising rates of Costa Rican unemployment (believed to be caused by the former), and recent fiscal forms instituted by the current administration. The three staff members explained to me that while not all Nicaraguan immigrants are bad people, the average Nicaraguan is harder and meaner because of his culture, and many immigrants come expressly to do harm. They also expressed major concern at the lack of jobs.

“I know a few Nicaraguans,” said Gerald. “They work in tourism and agriculture, and they work for nothing—much less pay than the Costa Rican.”

“Many of my Costa Rican friends would love to find work in those industries, but Nicaraguans work hard for a small salary, so owners prefer to hire them,” Eugenia reflected.

Of course this Costa Rican situation has many parallels to the current immigration crisis in the United States. Like President Trump, Gerald suggested the construction of a border wall. Eugenia grieved that Costa Rica had always been a place for the impoverished and politically oppressed Latin American to start over, but under the circumstances, she agreed with Gerald.

I considered their opinions the next morning, trying to consider the situation as a collection of empirical facts while minimizing emotional reaction, as I rode transportation north from Alajuela to the campus of UGA in Monteverde. I had not considered that in Monteverde my emotions toward this issue would be again be engaged.

[onthegreenmountain]

brb busy turning 26