Monday, July 27, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Cultural Adjustments and Compromises
My bus ride from San Jose to San Isidro was supposed to be a relaxing; looking out the window watching everything pass and listening to my music.
Well I climbed on the bus. 11, 12… both seats were open, sweet, I decided to take the window seat. The beauty of a half empty bus is that everybody gets to enjoy a window seat. No sooner had I managed to slide across the seat when a lady in front reclined yanked her seat back.
A Warning, the seats in Costa Rica are particularly small, and if your ever behind somebody that reclines their seat back, (they go right back) you’ll feel like your doing the splits (the back of the seat wedged awkwardly between your thighs). I look like im on a leg-exercise machine I’ve seen at the gym a couple times. – cmon is this joke.
Sure the window seats great but now my legs were bearing unusual pressure, and the man sitting had me pinned to the side of the bus like a sharp turn. My legs felt crushed from all sides and my ass was being wedged into a shoebox.
I couldn’t reach into my pocket to get my Ipod. Unthinkable. My jeans were tighter than spandex. To make matters worse, the lady in front had a friend further down, and every few seconds she’d strain herself up yell something. I didn’t mind the screech of her voice and I thanked god every time she leaned forward because I could feel the blood coming back to my legs.
My knee caps were digging so hard into the back of the chair I’m sure she felt them. Maybe they were comforting like a massage. I remember being seriously concerned though- Jesus if this lady keeps bobbing like that I’m going to need a wheel chair to get off this bus. At the first stop I wobbled off like bambi.
So in Costa Rica I´ll compromise the window seat. If you’re big like me at least you can extend your legs into the aisle. I don´t care about the view anymore
Well I climbed on the bus. 11, 12… both seats were open, sweet, I decided to take the window seat. The beauty of a half empty bus is that everybody gets to enjoy a window seat. No sooner had I managed to slide across the seat when a lady in front reclined yanked her seat back.
A Warning, the seats in Costa Rica are particularly small, and if your ever behind somebody that reclines their seat back, (they go right back) you’ll feel like your doing the splits (the back of the seat wedged awkwardly between your thighs). I look like im on a leg-exercise machine I’ve seen at the gym a couple times. – cmon is this joke.
Sure the window seats great but now my legs were bearing unusual pressure, and the man sitting had me pinned to the side of the bus like a sharp turn. My legs felt crushed from all sides and my ass was being wedged into a shoebox.
I couldn’t reach into my pocket to get my Ipod. Unthinkable. My jeans were tighter than spandex. To make matters worse, the lady in front had a friend further down, and every few seconds she’d strain herself up yell something. I didn’t mind the screech of her voice and I thanked god every time she leaned forward because I could feel the blood coming back to my legs.
My knee caps were digging so hard into the back of the chair I’m sure she felt them. Maybe they were comforting like a massage. I remember being seriously concerned though- Jesus if this lady keeps bobbing like that I’m going to need a wheel chair to get off this bus. At the first stop I wobbled off like bambi.
So in Costa Rica I´ll compromise the window seat. If you’re big like me at least you can extend your legs into the aisle. I don´t care about the view anymore
Detailed explanation of my bombed intervew
Thursdays at York are party nights, and the week prior to my interview was the opening night for a new club off-campus.. Talk of1.50$ tequila spread around campus like a wild-fire.
I didn’t go out that Thursday night. With stern self-discipline I committed myself to greater interests; my grades. But I devoted this year to A-grades - and my friends had just a hard time believing it as I did. So I ended up scouring over youtube videos that night. The clubs launch was a huge success. No big surprise.
The following Thursday rolled around and I wrote my exam.
Reeling off my success, I walked home feeling like million bucks. I just wrote an perfect exam and soon I’d be off to central America courtesy of York International and their generous bursary. I was unstoppable. I threw in my iPod, cranked it up and strutted around campus like a jackass. I was gliding. I paid no attention to anybody in my crowded path, My eyes focused intensely on some indistinguishable vanishing point in front of me. I am the shit. I sang out loud passing by people on the sentinel road strip- I felt like the star in a music video. Some sort of retardedly cool York music video though. Any second I could bust into dance like M.J’s thriller video, and I wanted to. I could have jumped up and swung myself horizontally around a street pole and keep walking without breaking pace. This shits a joke. That’s how confident I was.
Nonetheless when I got home, after a bit of bragging, I humbled myself for a few minutes. I prepared myself for my Internship interview which was 10 o’clock the next morning. I remember the York interview two years ago- I was going to Spain for a study year abroad. That was a cake walk, and this year I was more enthusiastic and even more qualified. With confidence, I wrote down the reasons why I’d be the best person for the job– Now prepared, I then decided I was going out because I sure as hell wasn’t going to miss out on 2 consecutive pub nights, or worse off, let my friends down.
When I set out that night I was determined not to party too hard. I was even doing a good job of it. I had a few pre-drinks at my friend’s house, enjoyed the music and the company – quite moderate, and then I got a phone call. It was a friend from work. This girl created envy among my friends, she was tooo attractive, and I was the only guy working with her. Now she wanted to join the party. When she arrived she said she wasn’t drinking- she had work the next morning. That’s fine I thought - not everybody was obligated to bask in the glory of my perfect exam or my soon-to-be internship placement.
When we went to the bar it was true- the shots were 1.50. But I didn’t go crazy. I only made the mistake of letting my guard down for 1 second – then the circumstances changed- My hot friend started encouraging me to drink- yes she caught a wind of energy and decided to make up for her unenthusiastic pre-drink. She decided I should be her chugging partner. Well this is never a good idea I thought, or should have… but I went for one..
Somewhere between a sober-entrance, some harmless drinks, and then overly-engaging myself on the dance floor, I tipped my party-hat a little too far. My work-friend hunted me down on the d-floor. Again, I was dragged to the bar . Again I was her drinking partner. Absolutely no resistance to be found. As she explained days after, she needed a drinking partner because she didn’t want to be seen chugging by herself, this of course would make her “look bad”. As the case with most lovely attractive girls, I agreed, and the focus stayed on her with no attention paid to my quickly deteriorating state … Either way, if somebody told me I should stop right there, Im not sure I would have. The spirit of this spontaneous and badly-timed makeshift New Year’s party was flowing through me. So I chugged along w some type of retarded determinism- as if chugging solo was a mortal sin I was gonna save this girl from .
So continued the fiasco… the dancefloor, the bar, wherever the party took me. My guard now completely down-
This carried on too long until a friend , a very good and responsible friend ( named Gabriel), came up and gave my head a shake. Although it didn’t work, he reminded me of my internship. The job interview? Ha, At this point I was more confident about the job interview than I would be had I already been accepted.
….ok to wrap this long story up ,
– So in my completely inebriated state we took the taxi home and I wouldn’t stop boasting about the blurry job-specs of the internship - now obviously and completely secured in my mind. I don’t remember anybody objecting, or telling me how stupid I was for partying the night before an interview. They may have got a tongue-lashing for being irrational.
.. I don’t remember but either way but I went to sleep a champion and woke up a disaster . I was awaken when one of my house mates ( a good friend Rania) poked her concerned head through the door and told me I had my interview. ‘Wow’. I got up and looked around. ‘Yea no kiddin’.. A stupid, dense look on my face. Finally something clicked and I jumped into the shower. I scrubbed vigorously, as if I could take off the drunkenness. The alcoholic cloud still filled my head. I strained my blurry eyes on the page I had written the day before. It was useless! I had to wing it! I walked nervously down the street – the same street that had been my dance floor the day before. When I entered the room, I looked across the long table at the sober faces staring at me. I felt very awkward- like strangers shuffling around in an elevator after somebody farted. Silence. Ok Concentrate! alcohol filled the room. I wasn’t able to properly connect words with thoughts. I felt like I should be shouting on a dance floor , laughing, or yelling across a bar- not sitting in a silent room trying to talk sensibly. Damn..
As I said my last parting words, I made one last attempt to express my devotion and aspirations for the internship, nobody looked sold and it didn’t win me any assurance. One particular glance I got from Larissa seemed a little peculiar. I left the room still not sure if the interview was a complete disaster, or just my head . I knew I had solid credentials but my gut instinct was flashing me some serious warning signs. But was I busted? without doubt.
I didn’t go out that Thursday night. With stern self-discipline I committed myself to greater interests; my grades. But I devoted this year to A-grades - and my friends had just a hard time believing it as I did. So I ended up scouring over youtube videos that night. The clubs launch was a huge success. No big surprise.
The following Thursday rolled around and I wrote my exam.
Reeling off my success, I walked home feeling like million bucks. I just wrote an perfect exam and soon I’d be off to central America courtesy of York International and their generous bursary. I was unstoppable. I threw in my iPod, cranked it up and strutted around campus like a jackass. I was gliding. I paid no attention to anybody in my crowded path, My eyes focused intensely on some indistinguishable vanishing point in front of me. I am the shit. I sang out loud passing by people on the sentinel road strip- I felt like the star in a music video. Some sort of retardedly cool York music video though. Any second I could bust into dance like M.J’s thriller video, and I wanted to. I could have jumped up and swung myself horizontally around a street pole and keep walking without breaking pace. This shits a joke. That’s how confident I was.
Nonetheless when I got home, after a bit of bragging, I humbled myself for a few minutes. I prepared myself for my Internship interview which was 10 o’clock the next morning. I remember the York interview two years ago- I was going to Spain for a study year abroad. That was a cake walk, and this year I was more enthusiastic and even more qualified. With confidence, I wrote down the reasons why I’d be the best person for the job– Now prepared, I then decided I was going out because I sure as hell wasn’t going to miss out on 2 consecutive pub nights, or worse off, let my friends down.
When I set out that night I was determined not to party too hard. I was even doing a good job of it. I had a few pre-drinks at my friend’s house, enjoyed the music and the company – quite moderate, and then I got a phone call. It was a friend from work. This girl created envy among my friends, she was tooo attractive, and I was the only guy working with her. Now she wanted to join the party. When she arrived she said she wasn’t drinking- she had work the next morning. That’s fine I thought - not everybody was obligated to bask in the glory of my perfect exam or my soon-to-be internship placement.
When we went to the bar it was true- the shots were 1.50. But I didn’t go crazy. I only made the mistake of letting my guard down for 1 second – then the circumstances changed- My hot friend started encouraging me to drink- yes she caught a wind of energy and decided to make up for her unenthusiastic pre-drink. She decided I should be her chugging partner. Well this is never a good idea I thought, or should have… but I went for one..
Somewhere between a sober-entrance, some harmless drinks, and then overly-engaging myself on the dance floor, I tipped my party-hat a little too far. My work-friend hunted me down on the d-floor. Again, I was dragged to the bar . Again I was her drinking partner. Absolutely no resistance to be found. As she explained days after, she needed a drinking partner because she didn’t want to be seen chugging by herself, this of course would make her “look bad”. As the case with most lovely attractive girls, I agreed, and the focus stayed on her with no attention paid to my quickly deteriorating state … Either way, if somebody told me I should stop right there, Im not sure I would have. The spirit of this spontaneous and badly-timed makeshift New Year’s party was flowing through me. So I chugged along w some type of retarded determinism- as if chugging solo was a mortal sin I was gonna save this girl from .
So continued the fiasco… the dancefloor, the bar, wherever the party took me. My guard now completely down-
This carried on too long until a friend , a very good and responsible friend ( named Gabriel), came up and gave my head a shake. Although it didn’t work, he reminded me of my internship. The job interview? Ha, At this point I was more confident about the job interview than I would be had I already been accepted.
….ok to wrap this long story up ,
– So in my completely inebriated state we took the taxi home and I wouldn’t stop boasting about the blurry job-specs of the internship - now obviously and completely secured in my mind. I don’t remember anybody objecting, or telling me how stupid I was for partying the night before an interview. They may have got a tongue-lashing for being irrational.
.. I don’t remember but either way but I went to sleep a champion and woke up a disaster . I was awaken when one of my house mates ( a good friend Rania) poked her concerned head through the door and told me I had my interview. ‘Wow’. I got up and looked around. ‘Yea no kiddin’.. A stupid, dense look on my face. Finally something clicked and I jumped into the shower. I scrubbed vigorously, as if I could take off the drunkenness. The alcoholic cloud still filled my head. I strained my blurry eyes on the page I had written the day before. It was useless! I had to wing it! I walked nervously down the street – the same street that had been my dance floor the day before. When I entered the room, I looked across the long table at the sober faces staring at me. I felt very awkward- like strangers shuffling around in an elevator after somebody farted. Silence. Ok Concentrate! alcohol filled the room. I wasn’t able to properly connect words with thoughts. I felt like I should be shouting on a dance floor , laughing, or yelling across a bar- not sitting in a silent room trying to talk sensibly. Damn..
As I said my last parting words, I made one last attempt to express my devotion and aspirations for the internship, nobody looked sold and it didn’t win me any assurance. One particular glance I got from Larissa seemed a little peculiar. I left the room still not sure if the interview was a complete disaster, or just my head . I knew I had solid credentials but my gut instinct was flashing me some serious warning signs. But was I busted? without doubt.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Working with Eugenio at theTrapiche
Today I decided I was gonna help the host father and work for a day at his buddies sugar mill. I hopped on the back of his tractor (chapulin) and down the hills we went. I had to wedge my two feet on the small tractor hitch. I kept looking at the 8 foot wheels on both sides and wondered which way I’d die if I was to fall. The bumps on the dirt road sent the hitch sliding from left to right, I had to hang on for dear life. Eugenio didn't even look back so apparently this was normal. I extended my body over the roof of the tractor but the black fumes blew in my face. I decided the spine-compacting position was better for the moment . I wasn’t sure why I was putting my life on the line so early in the morning.
We began with a 22 by 12 foot pile of sugar cane. The sugar cane grinder – called trapiche - was hooked up to the tractor engine and fired up. No more than five pieces at a time and don’t stick your hand close to the grinders because if your finger get caught it would suck your whole hand in. The sugar cane was loaded with ants that left nasty bites!
The locals seemed to enjoy the sight of me working and said that I was doing so good that I needed to come back. Hmmm. We continued work at the never-ending mountain of cane until something between the engine and the grinder started to smoke. The emergency key was pulled out and everybody gathered around.
Trying to show that i knew what i was doing I pointing at some bolts and spurted some meaningless banter in spanish. Nobody gave my comments any attention- for due cause- so i kept my mouth shut i tried to learn something...
Well the only thing that I did learn was that I jammed too many sticks of cane in the grinder. The motor was screwed. Apparently those weird noises were the motors forewarning that we were pushing it too hard.
I wasn’t solely responsible, I was working with the older man; a guy with a huge beard that hadn’t said anything all day.
The problem was we couldn’t defend ourselves against the accusations or say anything to redeem ourselves- the grinder's motor was frozen -the sticks of cane were left sprouting out of the grinder like a chia pet.
We waited for a long time until the damaged part of the motor could be welded. Everyone standing around-gaping jaw, blank look, I figured it was the bodies only defense mechanism capable of masking the boredom everyone was suffering from.
We had already grind thousands of the long sugar canes and the adjacent tub was almost full of the sugar-water produced from the cane. The sugar water is passed through to another huge open container where it is boiled. It continues to be boiled down until eventually is formed into a sticky caramel which is hardened into “tapas” – small cylinders.- four tapas can be bought for about 1000 colones- about 2 american dollars. Mostly they are used for making agua dulce, a local drink.
At the end of the day I had eaten so much sugar cane.I was sure I’d spent the night on the toilet with some seriously debilitating belly ache. Finally I got home- exhausted and dirty. Back at the house I tried to convince the host mom that this wasn’t the first time I had gotten my hands dirty.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Costa Rica
Right now I’m in Costa Rica in a small community called Santa Elena. It is in the south of Costa Rica about 20 km from the nearest city, San Isidro. The community consists of simple houses, twisting dirt roads going up and down, and lots of green mountains. Within the community there is a rain forest reserve called the Biological corridor Alexander Skutch which brings bird watchers from around the world. Although the tourists come to visit the corridor they leave the community after and don’t visit the small restaurants, horse farms, properties with cabins, coffee and sugar farms, natural hot springs, and other small businesses that the community has to offer. Our work here has been to visit the owners who belong to a group called Ture-Cobas. Ture Cobas is a group of young locals who wish to help market the area so that more people come into the community. Since we have been here, we have been working for Ture-Cobas. So far we have visited the business owners in the area, and talked to them about our plans to create two marketing campaigns to target the locals from the city close by, and the foreign tourists who pass through the area. Out of all these businesses almost all are just in the starting stages of development. They all have the hope that more people will visit and help support their modest incomes which derive from farming the land. The projects are developed at a very slow rate because in almost all cases there is very little money to finance the development, and right now there are very little people who come into the community from outside. As the director of Ture-Cobas described, this is a grass-roots campaign because there is very limited funding. So far we have created brochures and are working on a webpage, posters, flyers, and arranging for radio and tv interviews to familiarize the locals with this area, and also bring foreigners.
Aside from lots of waking far distances the day-to-day work hasn’t been too strenuous. Now that we get to know people in the community quite often trucks will stop and we jump in the back of the pickup and get a free haul up the road. All the people we meet are very friendly, humble people who are more than happy to show their property, pour you a coffee and explain there hopes of developing some type of tourist attraction.
In the house where we live there is large extended family. This means theres always somebody on a four-wheeler pulling in our out, or neighbours visiting. As well, there are two small children 2 and 3 years old. In Costa Rica they are lots of coffee farmers, and children are given coffee at about 8 months old. Not surprisingly the two children we live love coffee and usually be spotted darting around the house from one room another. It is always busy and rarely quiet. The family is always making sure we are well fed, and going out of their way to make us feel comfortable at all times. You get the impression that if you asked they would give you the shirt of their back.
Often on the weekends the host father takes us to a small city called Dominical where there is a nice beach along the pacific coast. There, the host father likes to go harpoon fishing. The spot is beautiful –overhanging coconut trees and huge waves are always crashing in. There are lots of exotic fish, and exotic animals, large lizards, monkeys, and “perezosos” – (lazy’s) which hang in trees and look like a huge ball of cotton. When they move they unfurl and actually look like a mix between a monkey and a small bear.
Across from the street there is a small cemetery which has above-ground tiled caskets, and every 8 years the corpse which has been deteriorated is taken out and the casket is refilled. Behind the you can see the tall clouded hills in the distance which consists of patches of farming properties and the Pan American Highway which cuts across. At night you can see the lines of lights from the houses and streets which are scattered on the mountainous hills. Behind the house there is a coffee plantation which stretches out until the start of a closer mountain range. This is the start of Los Cusingos, and its dense rain forest stretches high up the mountain until its clouded top. It’s also a real calm view so I usually spend sometime sitting out side and enjoying the tranquility.
Aside from lots of waking far distances the day-to-day work hasn’t been too strenuous. Now that we get to know people in the community quite often trucks will stop and we jump in the back of the pickup and get a free haul up the road. All the people we meet are very friendly, humble people who are more than happy to show their property, pour you a coffee and explain there hopes of developing some type of tourist attraction.
In the house where we live there is large extended family. This means theres always somebody on a four-wheeler pulling in our out, or neighbours visiting. As well, there are two small children 2 and 3 years old. In Costa Rica they are lots of coffee farmers, and children are given coffee at about 8 months old. Not surprisingly the two children we live love coffee and usually be spotted darting around the house from one room another. It is always busy and rarely quiet. The family is always making sure we are well fed, and going out of their way to make us feel comfortable at all times. You get the impression that if you asked they would give you the shirt of their back.
Often on the weekends the host father takes us to a small city called Dominical where there is a nice beach along the pacific coast. There, the host father likes to go harpoon fishing. The spot is beautiful –overhanging coconut trees and huge waves are always crashing in. There are lots of exotic fish, and exotic animals, large lizards, monkeys, and “perezosos” – (lazy’s) which hang in trees and look like a huge ball of cotton. When they move they unfurl and actually look like a mix between a monkey and a small bear.
Across from the street there is a small cemetery which has above-ground tiled caskets, and every 8 years the corpse which has been deteriorated is taken out and the casket is refilled. Behind the you can see the tall clouded hills in the distance which consists of patches of farming properties and the Pan American Highway which cuts across. At night you can see the lines of lights from the houses and streets which are scattered on the mountainous hills. Behind the house there is a coffee plantation which stretches out until the start of a closer mountain range. This is the start of Los Cusingos, and its dense rain forest stretches high up the mountain until its clouded top. It’s also a real calm view so I usually spend sometime sitting out side and enjoying the tranquility.
Friday, June 5, 2009
banter
1st Assignment, define your culture... my culture is identified not by what i do , but what i don’t do. I won’t try and control a conversation. I feel weird constructing sentences around I..I.... Im interested in other cultures, more so than my own. And at the end of the day, I often contradict myself.
I believe we’re softer spoken than our neighbors, less confrontational, socially frigid before drinks, and despite everything we still manage to get the job done. At the end of the day we’re just that; Cocky. Just more subtle about it. We do define ourselves different from Americans, but in a lot of aspects theres no difference; Your girlfriend probably needs a new phone, despite the fact that right now she has a fully functional internet-accessible blackberry. And your boyfriend probably feel like he should be at the gym right NOW because his pump has worn off, our he just feels scrawny in general.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
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