The three other volunteers and I that shared the same training community of San Juan Sur were a pretty tight group. There was Penelope: the only girl in the squad, soft spoken, a computer whiz, and a baking legend. I swear she has cookies with her at all times and there was never a computer problem she couldn't solve. There was Leif: the one no one would peg for a Peace Corps volunteer as he ran around cussing, talking about his dirtbikes, the bar his mother owned and ran, and crazy stories about that time he went rafting/camping/drinking (or any combination thereof). There was me: the tall, skinny, lanky one who was often caught daydreaming during class, if not actually asleep. If anyone else cracked a fart joke, I was the one found hunched over, barely able to breathe from a giggle attack. I quickly picked up the nicknames “girafa” and “gigante” as Ticos stared when I walked down the street.
Then there was Dan: the calm center of the storm. While the rest of us were generally just out of college, Dan had graduated a couple of years earlier and had worked in the “real world” as a court clerk. He had the pedigree of a Peace Corps volunteer and, although he claims there was never any pressure from his faimly to join, you can sense that it's in their blood. His parents met each other in Peace Corps and even got married during their service. His brother served for two years in Guatemala and Went on to Become an Immigration Lawyer. Even His grandmother has gotten in on the action and is serving in Lesotho, as rumor has it, considering serving again in the near future. Dan Was the mature One That Kept His Head on His shoulders. One day DURING English class we where supposed to watch a movie. While Penelope fiddled with the speakers and computer cords and Leif Told a story about That Time I Went on the dunes dirtbiking I Was off and daydreaming of Ways to figure out the Tico whistle, Dan sat at the center of all, calm and collected.
When site assignment
day rolled around we where all nervous. I Could barely That morning eat my breakfast and WAS onlbean side, right next to Panama. The four of us couldn't have been any farther apart if we had planned it ourselves. But one thing was certain, all of us were secretly jealous of Dan. In the project of Rural Community Developoment volunteers tend to take pride on how rural their site is.
My site, by other volunteers' standards, is pretty damn rural – 130 odd people, bus once a day during the week, and almost no traffic except for the occasional moto or truck full of piña. Leif's site easily beats mine though, with a population hovering around 60 people with very limited transportation over potholed mountain roads. And if Leif's site beats mine, then Dan's easily sinks my After an hour ride and with some fresh new cuts on my face and arms, we hopped off the back of the truck in Dan's community. Although Dan's site is larger than mine in terms of population and the fact that the town has a local aqueduct system for potable water (everyone in my town gets their water from wells), the town is a lot more rural. I thought my site was off the map, but I was wrong. It's not too terribly hard to get into and out of my site if you really want to. In Dan's community you have to plan out when and how you're going to leave and come back. The principal of the elementary school there has to walk across a river daily to get to work from a neighboring town, with water that comes up to his waist. The people also live mu often switch back and forth between it and English. According to people in the town, more people speak Bribrí there because the town is so small and secluded as opposed to the larger towns on the reservation. All of Dan's host family spoke fluently and even told me that is some other small (even more secluded towns) there are elderly people that don't even know English, just Bribrí.
All of the traditional houses in the town are built of wood and up on stilts off the ground which helps to keep the house cooler. The roofing is made out of a certain type of palm leaf woven together. The traditional meeting houses are large circles with seats around the edge with a large conical roof made of the same thatching. The houses also had two separate sections – the main living area as the kitchen, with a small bridge of wood spanning the two. Dan said they do this as the cooking is still done by firewood and thus, if the kitchen section catches on fire, it will be easier to stop it form spreading to the rest of the house. Every meal I had while I was there involved rice, maybe beans, and some kind of banana product. I never knew there were so many different ways to prepare bananas and I was absolutely sick of them after only two days there. One morning Dan's host mom, Ruth, also made a type of bread she called harina , which means flour and led to the following conversation:
ctually sure about the recipe or process, even after both Dan and Chase, another volunteer who lives in a larger town on the Bribrí reserve, tried to explain it to me. I'm very culinarily challenged. (I recently didn't do so hot at making rice. Yes. Rice.)
That first night we sat down and played Uno with Dan's 12 year old host brother, Erick, whom dan calls a payaso (clown). Erick is one of the biggest goofballs I've met in my life and was a continually laughing at his own jokes. Playing Uno, the rules were that Erick had to saw the colors and numbers in English, while Dan and I had to say them in Bribrí. In this way, I actually learned 1 throuHis buddy, the duck, just dumbly Followed quacking. Dan Told me later I've Actually Been Attacked by the goose on Many occasions while His host mom, Ruth, dies in laughter. I, fortunately, Dodge That experience
In the morning we jump up to the school s, which is right next to historical house, and Work on a world map with a member of historical town, Another woman named Ruth, For a few hours before Leading me on to Dan grand tour of the town. The town is more spread out That mine, entre houses with more space, But it is a lot more quiet. In my site, it is quiet Often, pero trucks, tractors, and cars do pass by. In Dan's site, the only traffic is on foot, by horse, and the occasional truck filled with banananas going to the river. It's dead.
After lunch of rice, beans, and bananas, we decided to take a hike to a larger community, Amubri, where a previous married couple of Peace Corps volunteers had lived for two years before finishing their service last May. The route followed a path through the jungle and banana and cacao farms and across many rivers. The biggest river took planning to cross as I wrapped my camera in plastic bags, held it over my head, and slowly maneuvered my way across the river over slippery river rocks and a strong current at times up to my waist. Although I came out the other side with bruised toes, a wet shirt, and damaged pride, I did manage to cross. We walked around A
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