Not as photogenic as John Oliver’s sloth but if you look close you’ll see the little guy she’s nursing.🐒
Author: vivitronv
Exploring (by chance) the Community Center
When I first moved to San Ramon I was an explorer. I went everywhere walking, running or by bus. There was a lot to see and do and every neighborhood had its charm. Nowadays I like to pretend I’ve seen it all which unfortunately means I have fewer experiences like these:
One day during my first few weeks I lived in San Ramon, I was out jogging around when I made an innocent right turn and proceeded down a deep ravine road to see where my next adventure would take me. Bystanders on the street gazed at me as I hustled along down the road, like a dog retrieving a stick, and a few of them yelled some words of encouragement. Feeling more upbeat than a kid on the last day of school I picked up speed on the decent and nearly crashed head on into a big yellow wall just before regathering my footing. What was with all the barbed wire around the top? Was this a jail? The immensity of the site puzzled me as it stuck out raw in a neighborhood of residential makeshift homes.
I took note of it and continued my journey a few more blocks when I realized I wasn’t in the San Ramon I knew anymore. Every house had barbed wire, walls and barking dogs. Children were in the street, shirtless with no shoes, and old beater cars with souped up stereo systems were taking turns rattling their chassis across the street from one another with pounding reggaeton beats. The subwoofers had to be worth more than the cars.
This was all fine and dandy except for the way they were looking at me. It didn’t take too long but I realized I may have made a wrong turn back up the road, that maybe those kind words weren’t encouragement but rather words of warning. I was alone, in a new neighborhood and I doubt I would have been able to walk past them and come out on the other side without incident. I quickly faked a side ache and turned to head back up the hill, palms sweaty not knowing if I was being pursued but too scared to look back. At that moment the big yellow jail doors began to open. This is only going from bad to worse, I thought.
Well there was no stopping for me and at the moment the doors opened I caught a glimpse of a playground as I sped by the entrance. A playground? Inmates don’t have playgrounds, what could this be? In a split second I decided my options were better heading towards the playground then trying to outrun whoever might be pursuing me from down the hill.
I entered and saw that in addition to that playground there were soccer fields, basketball courts, reading 
rooms, computer rooms and classrooms. The big barb wired yellow complex was just a cover for a safe haven for the children of the roughest neighborhood San Ramon has to offer. Founded in 2008 and run by a Christian ministry, this community center provides education and spiritual guidance for those in need.
Since then I have volunteered on and off at the center, mostly on playground duty without really poking my nose around too much. I know that just my presence at the center is a big lift for the kids, even if I don’t always feel so special pushing kids on swings for hours or jumping rope. Any hours you can keep the kids off the street are hours well spent no matter what you are doing.
That had been my role until I bumped in the center’s coordinator in the street last week and she invited me to come to an open house they were having for the community. Even though I thought I knew what was happening at the center this would be a good opportunity to go for a visit. It became clear to me that what you see as a volunteer is quite different from what you see as a parent of a child that uses the center. This is not just a daycare for when children aren’t at school, this place requires work before you 
make it to the jungle gym.
The center’s focus is reading and math so therefore everyday when children arrive they must first go to the reading room and read for a certain number of minutes depending on their grade in school. Those who are too young to read are read to by volunteers. After that they go to work on math. It was very interesting to hear that learning the multiplication tables are what they work on the most. Once they have completed that they are able to go to the playground or stay and work on other homework. Students enrolled in the center are required to come at least 3 times a week to qualify for year end
parties and activities which is the best thing about their program. Everything is earned whether a pair of shoes or a pencil eraser. In a community as rough as this one with a lot of government subsidies it is important for children to earn their keep in order to break the cycle of poverty and value the things they’ve earned.
It’s amazing how many things I think I know just from the surface but when taking the time and digging deeper there is actually a whole lot more going on then what meets the eye. Makes me wonder if I should dust off the cross trainers and return to my old trailblazing routes. I’ve probably missed some things along the way.
Taking the Costa Rican out of Costa Rica
See you later San Ramon….. Follow us the next two weeks as we take 11 Costa Rican students and 2 teachers on a cultural exchange trip to Wisconsin. They’ll be visiting high schools and experiencing the best that Wisconsin winter has to offer. Departing 80 degree Costa Rica at 5:30am and should see the snow by midday. Should be interesting….
Small town social media politics
It was late at night when the phone rang. I didn’t bother answering it because it’s always for my wife and since I feel confident in my secretary Spanish I just let her get it. This time though after about a minute of talking she turned and handed the phone to me. In a look of astonishment I tried to read her face as to why I needed to get involved.
Was it a telemarketer? Somebody trying to prank us? Or some lost tourist calling out of desperation? I fumbled with the phone and slowly raised it to my ear. “H-Hello” I said not even sure what language I should be speaking. I received a poorly articulated, mumbled response that sounded much more like gibberish than Spanish or English. After repeated attempts to establish who this person was and what they were asking me I was about to write this person off as a prank artist when their was a sudden change in the tone of the voice.
Gone was the soft, mumbled whisper now replaced by a deeper more polished tone. “Dustin, what is the password to my Facebook account?” Stymied I was still trying to piece together vital information. First off, who is calling me and why at this time? Is this person safe? For all I know maybe he was being held for ransom by computer hackers… “It’s me. A, Ale-le-jo, ejo, Alejo..” Alejo? I thought for a moment and that’s when it made sense.
A few days earlier I had received a call, during normal business hours, from my wife’s uncle about help setting up a Facebook page. I was a little perplexed as it’s not everyday a middle aged banker starts a social media account. There had been rumors circling the last month or so that he would be running in next February’s elections for mayor of San Ramon. It wasn’t quite Joe Biden buzz but it was to the point where even I was getting asked in the street. Something had to be up.
Well, when he arrived later that afternoon he came sporting bumper stickers: Alejo Castro Mayor 2016, thus putting to rest the rumors that had been circling the last month. As far as a social media announcement he had his heart set on Facebook.
I didn’t think he knew exactly what it was for or how to use it, but he knew that he needed it. Like he read it in a campaign strategy book or something. He probably also read somewhere that nothing is officially official until Facebook says so.
I mean this is the uncle that comes over on the weekends to hang out with his sister and brother in law, the one who invites us to go ride his horse. This is the one who visited my parent’s house and was most amazed by how green the grass was and how beautiful it looked when it was all mowed and swept up. This guy couldn’t be farther from social media than Pluto is from the Sun.
Our first meeting couldn’t have been closer to the truth. He sat in the living room with my in laws and yelled instructions to me while I sat at the kitchen table making the page. Occasionally he would use my wife as a messenger when I couldn’t hear him over the roar of the TV or the dog barking for attention. I felt like I was at my grandparent’s house where my Grandpa would yell at us from his armchair instead of getting up and walking over to see what we were doing.
I felt honored that he would trust me enough to make the page for him. Maybe that was a sign that I’m now part of the family and it felt good. No one close to me has ever gotten involved political so much that they started a campaign and it was great knowing I had successfully made my contribution to the campaign, well, up until the phone call. The following day I was working in my office when there was a knock on the door. I went to the door and there was the banker. Dressed in a suit and tie and flashing around his smart phone, he was really trying to act the part now.
“Chito (a Costa Rican word for boy) how do I get all my social media friends to ‘like’ my page?” I was taken aback. “Is that your smart phone?” I asked, or was he borrowing it from someone? After corralling his wavering arm I managed to take a look at his phone and it turns out it was indeed his and he even had the Facebook app installed. However still no page likes.
In Costa Rica the term “pobrecito” (you poor thing) is used when people notice that you are not achieving what you want to achieve. Usually right after they say that they will offer to help in some way. I didn’t say it but I was definitively thinking it so I invited him in and we figured out how to get ‘likes’.
Since then I haven’t been awaken in the middle of the night with any social media emergencies and I’ve also seen that he’s been adding content to his page. I’m not convinced I taught an old dog a new trick but I think I’ve bought myself some time until the next campaign event. I just hope he doesn’t ask me to open a Twitter feed for him, then I’ll be the pobrecito.
If I had a penny every time this happened.
This blows my mind how the yellow line has no significance at all in Costa Rica. Why even bother? It follows the same guidelines in North America yet no one ever gets a ticket, much less towed. Think how much revenue the town could generate if they just enforced the yellow line? On the bright side I love being able to park wherever I want…
A Sacred Pilgrimage or a Walk of Shame?
As my wife tugged my shoulder, she urged me on impatiently.
“Come on, come on just a little bit further!!” she said. “My uncle was at this bar last night, and he said there were a bunch of fights, so I want to see what it’s like today.”
I quickened my pace but not my expectations. I’ve been to enough festivals and block parties to know I’m probably not entering a battle zone, but then again it’s not every day there is this much excitement in San Ramon.
We sped up the sidewalk toward the bar. There was music blaring in the parking lot and a DJ reminding patrons they could only consume alcohol if they were under the tent surrounded by police officers. We figured we might see some blood on the wall or teeth on the floor and even though it was a Sunday morning, maybe another throw down.
However this wasn’t like a heavy metal concert, or even the beer tent at my local hometown days festival back in the US. This was part of the annual Lady of Los Angeles pilgrimage, a Catholic tradition that involves people walking to the basilica from all over Costa Rica to pray to the Lady of Los Angeles and ask for help and guidance.
The street party was completely unaffiliated with the tradition, of course, but it was obviously taking advantage of it. And it wasn’t unusual. The condensed version of the Lady of Los Angeles story goes like this: A young girl found a small statue of the Lady of Los Angeles in the forest and took it home with her but couldn’t find it the next day. She returned to where she had found it and it was there again. That happened over and over. As a result, the town decided to build a basilica at the site, and every year people make the pilgrimage from all parts of Costa Rica to ask her for forgiveness and help with their lives. They walk for days, some barefoot, and some even on their hands and knees.
In theory, this should be a beautiful, sacred event. They close the main street for miles leading up to the basilica, and even if you are not religious, you are welcome to walk along with the crowd. Many people choose to go with friends as a fun way to spend the day. Some use it as an excuse to get in some exercise, and others, well, use it as an excuse to get drunk and fight.
I was really baffled seeing people walking around with plastic cups with what I thought had to have been ginger ale. It was a hot day, so soft drinks would make sense. But it began to dawn on me that there was a little more going than casual ginger ale drinking.
You didn’t have to look far from the basilica to see signs advertising beer. There are only two bars in the small town and it seemed like they needed to make all their sales for the year on this weekend. Panning down to the street, I started to notice people pulling up in the back of pick up trucks in cowboy boots and hats as if there were a parade. Here there were people who have walked miles, maybe for days and others were acting like it was a tailgate party. Nowhere would I have imagined a scene of this kind.
The Catholic church has events year round in San Ramon, and they are always family-friendly. They have a parade of saints where they march each of the surrounding town’s saints around the downtown area. They have Holy week processions. They even have a big two-week “hometown days” type event where they have concerts and carnival games.
At none of those events have I seen consumption of alcohol. So I was puzzled and beleaguered at the amount of alcohol at this event. I can see people walking along with friends just for fun, but the amount of alcohol was overwhelming. I saw groups of teenagers walking down the street with bottles of liquor in paper bags. There was a first-aid station set up for the pilgrims but if I had to guess they probably attended more drunk than sober people.
Maybe this was too big of a culture shock for me. This was my first time participating, and despite everything that was going on the pilgrims didn’t seem to mind. Or maybe the ones who feel disgusted just don’t even go anymore. We visited some friends who lived down the street from the basilica, and they didn’t even seem to notice the event was going on.
I didn’t come across any evidence of violence and didn’t stay long enough to see if the fighting resumed, but I saw enough to know that a fair number of “participants” are hurting the image of this sacred pilgrimage. I know God works in mysterious ways but even He should have been upset. I was half expecting He would send a lighting bolt to fry the DJ’s sound system. That would have sent a message.
University of Minnesota – San Ramon, Costa Rica Capstone course
This January the University of Minnesota will bring a group of students to town to create a project proposal for an organization in need. Coordinating with Costa Rica Frika they have been able to work with women’s centers and orphanages in the past and this winter they look to tackle proposals from yet another orphanage, a nursing home, and a parks and rec project with the University of Costa Rica. Check out their project site for this year and their video from last year.
Tiptoeing through the trap of a tourist mecca….
We all have a fairy-tale fantasy of vacationing on an exotic beach.
Sipping juice from coconuts with the cute little cocktail straws as we watch the waves wash over the white sands. Relaxing in the harmony of finally getting away from it all.
That is until your paradise is interrupted by a scream. And then another, and another.
I was living that fairy-tale fantasy, and while the screams fortunately were neither a shark attack nor a coming tsunami, it was just the start of a strange day in which I got a firsthand look at a bad combination of nature and tourism.
After the first few screams, I could see tree branches waving wildly back and forth despite the otherwise calmness of the day, so I decided to check it out. And I wasn’t alone. By the time I got to where the commotion was, the whole beach had congregated in the area to watch the show.
A group of monkeys had climbed down from the trees and had stolen a backpack from one of the tourists on the beach. They were up in the trees going through everything. Watches, cell phones, books and panties all fell from the tree as the monkeys carefully examined everything, eventually discarding anything that wasn’t edible.
For a first-time visitor to Manuel Antonio National Park, this was quite entertaining. However, this ended up going on all day – screams coming from up and down the beach, large gatherings, followed by photos and laughter. It was like we were in the middle of a circus run by monkeys.
By the end of the day nobody could leave anything unattended on the beach.
It might sound fun, but it is having a damaging effect on the beach’s monkeys. Monkeys are not accustomed to chips and crackers, and they have lost all fear of humans, making them aggressive and unpredictable at times.
It’s a delicate situation, as this national park depends on the revenue from the visitors to protect not only this park, but other less visited parks in Costa Rica. As a result, it has catered to the tourists by building changing rooms and providing picnic tables for people to have lunch. And that has led to the animals becoming accustomed to a different diet, one that is harming their health.
Don’t get me wrong; it’s great tourists can come and see animals in the wild, but it’s too bad money-making opportunities are preventing better measures from being taken to not damage that very same environment.
With the massive tourism to the 5.5-acre park – about 150,000 visitors a year – money talks in the beach towns around it, as well. The day before our visit to the park (which charges $3 for Costa Ricans but $16 for foreigners), my wife and I had gotten an exhausting introduction to that, starting with a Spanish man pleading desperately with us.
“Just give me one opportunity, one opportunity! Come on man, one opportunity!” he said, hands up in the air.
Trying to get the two of us into his restaurant for dinner, he had eyed me up pretty quickly and had the sales pitch prepared.
He began to speak to us in English, highlighting that his restaurant was the only one in town that included all taxes in their prices. Then, after showing us the menu, he began to make remarks in Spanish to my wife – who he apparently thought was my tour guide or escort – suggesting that if she got me to eat there, he would give her a free drink.
His patience quickly grew thin, though, and he yanked the menu out of my hands to give to a bigger group of tourists walking down the street.
Unfortunately, this became the theme of the weekend. Everyone we talked to was working for some kind of commission and was ready to tell us anything to get us to buy at exorbitant prices. Even when checking into the hotel, they had to walk us through their tour packages before they would give us our keys to our room.
It was hard to even walk down the beach without being hassled. If I looked too long at a surfboard, they’d come after me. If we stopped under a beach umbrella to fix a sandal, we were frowned upon. Even sitting underneath a tree, beach chairs were placed strategically to tempt people to take a load off and start the meter.
The only conversation we had with a local that didn’t end in a sales pitch was with one who happened to be from the same town as my wife. Had that not been the case, I’m sure he would have been all over us to rent a beach chair.
As we departed the park area to head back to San Ramon we passed by many luxury hotels, condos, and restaurants, all touting the beauty of being one of the most beautiful beaches and national parks in the world.
I’m not going to say I didn’t enjoy my weekend – despite all the less desirable aspects of a tourism buildup the park is still quite beautiful. However, I think will take my coco juice and sippy straws on to the next beach, where hopefully, I’ll feel like an outside observer instead of the center of attention.
Returning to the U.S. is no Foregone Conclusion
People almost never ask me if I will leave Costa Rica, but they really should.
As upwardly mobile as society is, nothing is ever set in stone, and I’m no exception. I’ve cliff-hanged about my intentions of staying in Costa Rica many times. But no matter how many times I’ve wanted to stay, something has always come up and forced me to leave.
Recently, I was put on the spot by a visiting colleague of mine from the United States. It was her first time to Costa Rica, and she decided to come visit me and my family her first night here.
She started with a softball: So how does a twenty something year old gringo end up in tropical Costa Rica?
I get asked this question about as often as it snows in winter, so this was an easy one. This time, I chose to go in chronological order: The first time I was in college, the second time I was volunteering, then I met my
girlfriend, started a business and married my girlfriend and rode off into the sunset.
It was my best explanation yet. It included all the highlights, the tense, do-or-die deal-breaker moments and the realization of my new life. Had I had a pen and paper, this would have been the first draft of my autobiography.
At the end of my tale, which she had shown great interest listening to, there was a brief pause, followed by her question: “So when do you plan on going back to the U.S.?”
I was mildly startled by the question. “What kind of question is that?” I thought.
“Of course I plan on… I mean in a few ye-ye-years… This will all… eh, eh… When I get a job with CEO pay!” I finally blurted out to dodge the question.
I didn’t know why that was so hard to answer. I should have been prepared. Wondering why I wasn’t kept me thinking the rest of the night.
I came to the conclusion that it was quite a loaded question.
Had I planned to go back, I couldn’t expect people to think what I’m doing here is serious. It would seem this almost 10-year voyage that led me here would be for nothing. And if I didn’t go back, would I be running from the American dream?
I’ve never thought much of what other people think of me, but this was heavily influencing my answer. How I answer might cause people to form a different opinion about me.
The question reminded me of a couple I met once in Costa Rica. They had been married for 15 years and had no children, and every year they are still asked about having children.
They had no children because they didn’t want any – and I’m sure they decided that a long ago and that it is a non-issue for them – so I imagine they, too, are caught off guard when the question comes up.
I wonder if they ever make up an excuse just so people won’t think it is so different. Maybe that should be my strategy, too. Maybe what I am doing is a little too off the norm and people unconsciously assume this will all end.
Well, here’s one reason that’s a faulty assumption.
From 2004 until 2013, I never had a single address for more than 10 months at a time. Whether I was at college in Minnesota, teaching English in Spain, riding out the recession at home or traveling throughout Central and South America, I never had any intention of settling down.
So you would think that now after over more than two years in one place and one year of marriage I would be itching at the sides to make a change, if only to go back to the United States. But that thought has never really crossed my mind.
I still travel back a few times a year, and I have a place here for my parents to stay whenever they want to visit. Plus, with technology, a video call is never more than a moment away. If I do get lonely there is more than enough family to go around.
Over the years, I’ve been “adopted” into many families and married into one whose family tree is bigger than a sequoia. I don’t know in what moment the question became irrelevant but other than in the CEO salary scenario, I think I am pretty well settled in.
My colleague really stumped me that first night with that innocent, curious one-liner, and my answer probably wasn’t satisfying at the time. But redemption was served up fresh the next week, when my colleague, now back at work, messaged me: “Oh my gosh, Costa Rica was so wonderful, I can’t believe I was only able to stay for a week.”
I’m sure now she doesn’t even recall asking me that head-scratcher in the first place. Maybe that is why no one really asks. Spend any amount of time here and you’ll forget you had that question for me in the first place.
Immersion Experiences 
