OnBlueUnderCanvas

So far, so good. We had cleared the city limit of San Jose and the darting and swerving of rush hour traffic. This was not like Chicago. Chicago drivers are kittens let out of their cage. San Jose drivers are Dobermans after a pork chop.

And the motorcycles. So many of them. Splitting lanes like reverse tight-rope walkers.

“Good lord! That guy almost lost his left arm,” I said cringing. Near-amputee experiences were happening all around us.

“They drive here like how you’d want to drive back home, but would get pulled over and ticketed for reckless driving if you actually did,” said Kirk.

“Ya, maybe how you’d want to drive,” I replied.

The night before, two very trusting Ticos graciously offered their only car – their uninsured car – to a couple of gringos who wanted to take a trip to the ocean. A trip to the ocean was no afternoon jaunt; it was 350km there and back to the our desired destination: the beach town of Manuel Antonio. And since Natalia and David’s short vacation time was up, Kirk and I were going it alone.

“Don’t stop for nothing,” David warned us the night before. “Keep your camera, your phone, hidden. If the guys see that, they run up to your car and point a gun at you, and say ‘Give it to me.’ You can’t do nothing.”

“Make sure you check the tires after you park somewhere,” advised Natalia. “If they see you are a tourist, they slash your tires, and when you come back and try to leave, they rob you.”

“And the police,” David continued, “if the police stop a Tico, they just let ‘em go. But you, they see you a gringo. They say, you pay a fine. $100 maybe, maybe more. In cash. They pocket it. If the police stop you, say you speak no a Spanish.”

Feeling significant elevation in our personal threat levels, we remained on edge even through San Jose’s suburbs. Finally, after passing the third and final toll booth, the highway thinned down to two lanes and the traffic lightened up. We relaxed and absorbed the passing environment.

We admired the fence-building practices of Tico farmers. Why use dead wood that needs to be replaced over and over when you can grow your own live fence with a handful of seeds?

We drove for another hour or so, passing miles of palm tree farms hanging in the sky like rows of green fireworks.

A semi-truck heading in the opposite direction flashed his headlights. “Was that meant for us?” I asked Kirk. “Maybe there’s police up ahead?”

Rounding the bend, we saw the reason for the warning.

Loose livestock frequently roam New Zealand roads too, but instead of cows, the runaway culprits are sheep.

It was nearly noon, and even with the windows rolled down, the car was heating up. We longed for cool sea breezes and a bathroom break. Some food wouldn’t hurt either. Preferably casados from a soda, a Tico diner, near the ocean.

We turned off the main highway a few kilometers before Jaco – the big tourist-saturated beach town we visited the previous week – in favor of Playa Herradura, which turned out to be a bus stop and a few sodas settled on the edge of a dark-chocolate beach, with fishing boats floating in a bay the color of liquid peacock feathers.

Just perfect.

Seated at a table just across from perfection, we enjoyed a cold Fresca while we waited for our order to arrive. ☼

Next up: Two Gringos in Manuel Antonio…

Last night I managed to peel Kirk away from the TV screen (the Redwings’ playoff game was a nail-bitter) to run an errand in the name of survival.

Next week, we’re going camping. And I don’t have a sleeping bag.

How strange. We humans can’t venture into the outdoors for even one night without dragging along a truckload of man-made contraptions.

Without sleeping bags, we’d be cold.
Without tents, we’d be bug-bitten.
Without groceries, we’d be hungry.
Without camping chairs, we’d be uncomfortable.
Without sleeping pads, we’d be sore.
Without lighter fluid, we’d be frustrated.
Without ice, we’d have warm beer (heaven forbid)!
Without… you get it.

We bring everything we can into the wilderness to replicate the standard of living we enjoy in our “normal” paved, painted, smoothed and sanitized world.

Now, what if we were snatched from our running water, our temperature-controlled environments and – gasp! – our refrigerators, and dropped in the middle of nowhere? Let’s say, the middle of the jungle. Could any of us survive?

These were my ponderings as I bounced around in the back of Rocky over the severely uneven Costa Rican dirt roads, trying to keep a hold of the lunch in my stomach.

It took us four hours of driving deep into the middle of the jungle to get to our destination. And even then, we didn’t quite make it.

We crossed a one-way bridge with a maximum capacity of one vehicle. The guy behind us was pushing his (and our) luck:

After driving a few hours, we stopped on the side of the road to eat the sandwiches and watermelon we had bought that morning from the grocery store. Sofía was happy to get out of the car.

She helped David and Kirk clean up the impromptu picnic.

After some more bouncing around, we made it to a cool, clear river, just asking us to stick our feet in.

Naturally, Kirk needed to go conquer the boulders.

And by the way, see that waterfall in the background in Kirk’s photo? It was actually our original destination. Since it was already late in the afternoon by the time we arrived at the river, we decided to turn back before it got too late.

We had no plans to camp or stay out in the jungle through the night, but as I watched it grow dark on the car ride back home, I wondered what I would have done if I was somehow left out there. I think stranded situations like that occur more on TV (Lost) than in real life, unless of course you go out asking for it. But there’s always “what if…”

I mean, I don’t even think I can start a fire without a match. If I had to forage for berries, I’m sure I’d pick the poisonous ones. And hunt? HA! Yeah right. Even a sloth could evade me.

I’m putting “learn survival skills” on my To Do list.

In the mean time, thank you Rocky, and thank you groceries, you made exploring the Costa Rican jungle just lovely.

And thank you REI, because you make the outdoors fun for those of us who weren’t raised by wolves. (And my new sleeping bag [bought just in time for next week when Kirk's sister Maureen comes for a visit to SoCal] is gloriously warm, and even a pretty color too.) ☼

I returned last Thursday from my 10-day trip to Costa Rica, but of course, the blog runs on its own time (that is, severely delayed.) Because of this, you can expect a handful more Costa Rica posts hitting the e-press in the next week.

All five of us (David at the wheel, Kirk riding shotgun, and me, Natalia and Sofia [in her car seat] squeezed three across the back) took off for a day trip to Cartago. Our first stop: Basílica de Nuestra Señora de Los Ángeles.

Every August, over 1.5 million people make a pilgrimage to this Catholic church in celebration of Virgen de los Angeles Day (The Day of the Virgin).

According to Wikipedia, the story behind the construction of the basilica goes like this:

In Cartago… [a] little girl found the small statue [of the Virgin Mary carrying the infant Jesus] on a rock and took it home. The next morning she found that the statue was not there but back at the rock, so she took it to the priest and he locked it in a small box. The next morning the statue was back at the rock. During the construction, the church was destroyed by earthquakes so many times, it was finally decided to move it to the location where the statue was found and they were able to finish construction. Many people think that the earthquakes were signs that the Lady of Los Ángeles wanted the basilica built there.

The original statue is kept in a golden shell inside the basilica. An official decree declared the Virgin of the Angels the official patron of Costa Rica.

In the picture above, you can see the statue encased in an elaborate display.

Venturing down into the airy basement of the church, we found many display cases full of tiny metal hands, noses, ears, hearts, pelvises and every other body part and organ. When struck with an ailment, a devout Tico Catholic may leave here a tiny metal likeness of his or her afflicted organ or limb in hopes that God will soon heal it.

One need not be a Catholic or even have the slightest religious inclination to appreciate the beautiful architecture of the Basílica.

Finished with our exploration of the church, we all piled back into the mini-SUV. Next stop: the jungle. ☼

“Aaaye, Dios!” says Natalia to the heavens. “Ohh God!”

Sofía tugs again on Natalia’s shirt. “Mami, Mami!” she says, over and over. Even though she’s trying to cook dinner, Natalia hoists Sofía up onto her hip.

Pleading to be picked up with arms outstretched, at 15 months Sofía already reaches Natalia’s waist. She looks like a carbon copy of her mother, with big eyes a shade of blue (unusual in Ticos), curly sandy brown hair (although you wouldn’t know of Natalia’s curls unless you asked, she keeps her hair buzzer short), and cheeks just fit for pinching.

“Te amo,” Natalia says, “I love you,” giving Sofía a loud smacking kiss on her cheek. “Te amo mucho.”

Sofía is David and Natalia’s first child, and as I learned just a few days ago, will also be their last.

“En serio? Por que?” I asked Natalia. “Really? Why?”
“One is enough. It’s a lot of work.”
“I know but, now you know you can do it. No problemo. The second kid’s a piece of cake. That’s what my mom said about having my sister.” (Or, something to that effect, right Mom?)

Natalia laughed. “Talk to me when you have one.”

Touché. But that’s gonna be a while.

I didn’t know what to expect from this little person, who since I’d last visited Cost Rica, had turned my favorite family of two into three. When I first saw her, I couldn’t believe it. “She’s a miniature you!” I said to Natalia.

Sofía may look like Natalia, but she has a distinct personality. She’s one smart cookie and an earnest learner. Her expressions are more animated than a cartoon. She’s got her parents wrapped around her finger, even though Natalia and David may think otherwise.

Sofía loves keys. She points to a set and upon receipt, will toddle over to whatever needs unlocking (or starting up): the front door, the car door, the car ignition, even David’s motorcycle.

She’s already conducting experiments. One evening Kirk and Natalia were seated on the couch, Sofía atop Kirk’s knee. He had just played “Caballo” with her, “Horsey,” bounching her on his leg. His T-shirt had worked its way up above his belt, so a little bit of skin could be seen. Sofía noticed that Kirk had some hair on his belly. She grabbed his T-shirt and lifted it up higher, confirming that yes, the rest of his skin had hair too.

She then lifted up her own shirt. “Ah, no pelo, Sofía!” said Natalia, “No hair!”

Sofía looked at us and giggled. Then, she crawled over to Natalia. She grabbed Natalia’s shirt and lifted it up. “No pelo!” said Natalia again. Sofía looked back at Kirk, then again to Natalia. She grinned.

She slid down off the futon and toddled over to where I sat at the kitchen table. She grabbed a hold of my shirt and lifted it up. She looked up at me and smiled. “No pelo!” I said.

“No pelo, Sofía! Solo Kirk.” Only Kirk.

Sofía’s determination to try new things naturally tests Natalia’s patience. Natalia can only tell Sofía ‘no‘ so many times. And then?

Sometimes everyone needs to make their own mistakes. Even 1 year olds.

Last night I was sitting on the couch when Sofía decided that the front door – a heavy, merciless wooden door that often remains open for air flow – needed to be closed. Then opened. Then closed again. And again, again. Each time she went to close the door, she curled her little thumb around the edge in (what looked to me like) prime finger-pinching position. “Sofía! Quidado! Quidado!” I shouted, “Be careful! Watch out!”

Leaping off the couch and across the room, I slipped my hand around the door just before it slammed shut. I took hold of Sofía’s five little fingers and led her away from the door. What would have happened had I not intervened? Could she have severed a digit? “Hey Natalia, has Sofía ever pinched her fingers in the door?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, nodding. “And she learned. She knows.”

Sofía received the same lesson with electricity. Natalia recalls warning Sofía, “No toque, no toque, no toque,” over and over and over, “No touch, no touch, no touch.” After countless times, Natalia ceased and desisted. “OK, fine, Sofía. You try it.”

And, Sofía stuck her little finger in the wall.

“No way,” I said, rather shocked. Pun intended.
Natalia nodded. “Yes. And oh, she cry. She cry.”
“Ya, no kidding!”

That’s one way to learn a lesson. Natalia said, “Now she knows. I even say, ‘Sofía, look, touch!’ And she shakes her head ‘no’. She learned.”

A few nights before, Sofía had kicked off her shoes and was running across the tile floor in her stocking-footed pajamas. “Sofía! You need your shoes!” said Natalia. After trying a few times to get her to put her little Crocs back on, Natalia gave up. “OK, fine.”

Not more than a minute later, Sofía slipped and landed flat on the tile foor. She looked up at us, a tart cringe forming on her face, and commenced a loud wail. “See, I told you. You need your shoes,” said Natalia, picking up Sofía and wrapping her in her arms. Finally, she wiggled the shoes – this time, no opposition – onto Sofía’s feet.

I haven’t had the opportunity to observe the parenting techniques of any other Tico parents as closely as I have that of David and Natalia’s. Even so, I think it’s a safe bet to conclude that Americans are much more white-gloved when it comes to raising their children.

For instance, I’ve heard American moms talk about how much trouble they went through to baby-proof their houses. The baby-proofing done by Natalia and David? One rubber band, one latch and two plastic outlet plugs (for next to Sofía’s bed.) Granted, their house is much smaller than an average American home, but I still believe distinguishable ideologies exist between cultures. It appears to me that Tico children don’t grow up in safety bubbles. They stub their toes, pinch their fingers and even shock themselves. And because of this, they learn.

This morning, David took Sofía for a short ride on his Honda CBR 945, his primary mode of transportation to work. David put on his leather jacket and tried to slip on his helmet, but Sofía buried her face in his legs. “Papi! Papi!” she cried.

David set his helmet back down on the table and picked up Sofía. He hugged and kissed her, proceeded to set her down, but not before she cried out again. “Okay, okay mi amor,” he said.

Outside, David put Sofía on the motorcycle and started it up. He climbed on behind her, the two of them sittting snugly together in the driver’s seat. Natalia opened the gate.

“She’s riding with him?” I asked, my jaw agape. On a crotch rocket.

“Just to the end of the street,” she replied.

Holy… Ticos loco, I thought. Then I ran to get my camera.

They were back less than a minute later, Sofía still leaning forward, gripping the silver gas tank. “She love,” said David.

I look forward to one day having a little girl (or boy) of my own. Taking on the challenge of teaching her or him about the world. Letting them stick their finger in a wall socket if they want to. Hey, if it doesn’t kill you… right? (It wasn’t until I was 20 or 21 that I had the privilege of touching 120v. It sure wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t as bad as I expected either. So much so that while I was in New Zealand, I chanced a grasp of an electrical sheep fence. Talk about a zing.)

Natalia lifted Sofía off the motorcycle. David reversed back out into the street. “Adios, mi amor!” he called to Sofía through his helmet. He blew both Sofía and Natalia air kisses, revved the engine, and zoomed off. ☼