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I changed my name recently.  Actually, they changed it; they have changed quite a few aspects of my life lately.  When I came to San Martín, Costa Rica in February to give English classes to elementary school students, the name "Lindsay Burcham" just didn't quite roll off their tongues properly.  My new name is "Teacher," or when pronounced with a Tico accent, "Ticher."  Students, fellow teachers, men who frequent the cantina, the group of women who walk in the morning, and parents of my students all call me Teacher.  It has become my new name.  Wherever I am, my head still spins around when I hear any say the T-word.  However, there are some people here who call me Lindsay.

I live with the Jiménez Salazar family in the bright blue house near the top of the hill.  I am the newest addition to their already large family of nine people.  In our vibrantly colored house, there is always music playing, someone laughing, or freshly cooked food sizzling on the wood-burning stove.  Every morning I wake up to the sound of my host brothers and sisters chatting at dawn before they go to work, while my host mother's strong hands flatten masa into perfect corn tortillas.  The family is quite large, and the money is kneaded and spread out thinly just like tortilla masa amongst the nine family members.  The three oldest siblings have already attended college and are currently supporting the rest of the family with their wages.  They also pay their younger brother's college tuition, in hopes that he will be able to support himself and his family without enduring the back-breaking work that his father does.  I am lucky enough to receive the same support that they give each other.  Whenever I need anything, whether it be a ride into town, something to snack on, or emotional support after a trying day, they are always there.  Their kindness and eagerness to help me, a person who they barely knew a few months ago, is one of the most extraordinary displays of friendliness I have ever witnessed.  My experience in San Martín would be very different without their encouragement.

My life has never been more unpredictable.  Will the bus be on time?  Is it going to rain in the morning or afternoon?  If it rains, will my clothes dry?  Will classes be cancelled?  Will anyone tell me that classes are cancelled?  But in the midst of this unpredictability, there are still things I can always depend on.  My students always come to class with a smile and a positive attitude.  My milk always comes fresh from the neighbor's cow, and our vegetables and herbs come from the ground in our garden.  The people of San Martín are always friendly and welcome me into their homes, offering me freshly brewed coffee and baked goods straight from their own ovens.  These are the dependable aspects of my life, the important aspects of my life.  I've realized that being greeting with kisses and hugs from my students every morning is monumentally more important than whether or not my socks will dry on a rainy day.

There has never been a day that I have woken up and not wanted to go to work.  As I carefully walk down the slippery, muddy hill each morning to San Martín School, I am greeted with gleeful shouts and hugs.  My students run up the hill, dirtying their polished shoes, with toothy grins and arms outstretched to greet me.

Inside the classroom, challenges are exchanged.  I challenge my students by speaking a strange language, and they challenge me with their energetic, curious, and outspoken ways.  We sing songs, draw, write and read stories, and play games.  They always impress me with their willingness to learn.  One of my particularly ambitious first graders is convinced that he already knows English.  When asked how to say "vaca," or cow, in English, he furrowed his brow and thought for a minute as the little wheels in his six year-old head began to turn.  Although we have not yet learned animals in first grade, he was certain he knew the word.  "Vak!" he exclaimed.  I chuckled and told him the word was "cow."  He smiled and repeated the word to himself as he ran off to play.

My old life and identity, back in California, seem very far behind me.  Every day I wake up speaking a different language, responding to a new name, trying new kinds of food, and seeking new ways to develop the minds of my students.  I am never rushed, never stressed, and never disappointed.  As I walk down the muddy road, my head turns as a smiling woman calls out "Teacher!" offering me coffee and fresh baked bread.

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Luis José and Fabian had been at each other's throats all morning.  The bad blood stemmed from Fabian's rough slide tackle during a fútbol match the day before, a favorite activity during virtually every free period.  At the moment in question, the two had suddenly begun to wrestle.  They rolled around on the ground like only two 7 year-olds can, and before I could formulate a command to cease and desist in Spanish, a small cheering section had materialized.  Maria Fernanada, Sebastian and Johan had sprung from their seats and formed a half circle of applause and jeers around the rumble.  I descended from the desk where I normally sit during class and began the process of calming the storm in my class of first and second graders.  To my delight, I am teaching English at a public elementary school in a village of 360 people located in the south-central highlands of Costa Rica.

I volunteer through a program called WorldTeach, a well-run and altruistic group of people originally started by Harvard University students in the 1960s.  This year there are 24 WorldTeach Costa Rica volunteers in sites throughout the country.  Each lives with a local family, each has committed to teach for one year of their lives and each is participating in a fantastic adventure.  For me the program offered me my first opportunity to teach, my first chance to walk into a classroom with any semblance of authority.  Since the first day of classes, teaching here has challenged me in ways I have never been challenged.  But my time in the classroom has also taught me a great deal.  Out of everything, the lesson that I have come to appreciate most is the value of patience.

Take, for example, my aforementioned first and second graders.  These are not normal children.  On the contrary, they are children with dangerously high blood sugar.  Twice a day during meals, they are offered full cups of agua dulce, a sure to be orthodontically condemned concoction of raw sugar cane and water.  In addition to this powerful beverage, the town store is within 50 yards of the school's front door and is frequented often by our students on missions to fill their little pockets with candy and gum.  All this sugar at this excitable age translates into fantastic eruptions of energy, manifested in outbursts such as the scuffle between Louis José and Fabian.  I have learned that patience is essential to manage this whirlwind and avoid throwing my head through the chalkboard in utter exasperation.

As helpful as patience is inside the classroom, it just so happens that taking things in stride seems to be the best way to handle everything in my day to day life in Costa Rica.  Take insects for instance.  In Denver, where I am from, there are no bugs like the bugs here. I'm talking about big ones that fly angrily with intent to cause harm.  I usually go to sleep an hour or two after my host family, thus rendering my lightbulb the only one illuminated in the house.  The consequence is a rapid transformation of my room into an irresistible beacon for every crawling, jumping or flying thing within reach of the light's glow.  Because the walls don't touch the roof in my home, bugs from other rooms feel free to enter mine.  Initially when I arrived, this was a major issue in my life.  I lost sleep.  Before long I was fighting back with a rolled up Sunday edition of La Nación, killing anything that moved.  Yet to my dismay these frantic massacres only amplified the problem.  In a stroke of sadistic humor that I only recently found funny, more bugs would arrive to devour the body of the dead bug that had fallen to the floor.

The weeks came and went but the bugs remained constant.  With every night, I began more to accept their presence, to acknowledge their legitimate claim to the airspace above my room.  I have become patient with their humming and even with the unprovoked aerial attacks.  And the more patience I display, the more fitfully I sleep and the less I mind picking one out of my coffee in the morning. 

Another area where patience has proved a virtue is in my home life.  After living on my own for some time, I now share a small space with two parents, three little sisters, one dog, one rabbit, one hen, and more often than not, a significant number of extended family.  Personal time suffers accordingly.  With only the best intentions, everyone is curious about the recently arrived gringo here to teach English.  They want to see my clothes and listen to my music.  They are puzzled at the need for a retainer and laugh when they see the alarm clock that talks.  Ninety percent of the time, the attention is enjoyable and almost always entertaining for everyone involved.  But every once in a while, I find myself annoyed at the 5-year-old nephew who won't stop squirting my shaving cream onto the nearest inappropriate surface.  At times like these, I stop, take a deep breath and remind myself it's just shaving cream.  He giggles and points at the glob of blue gel sliding slowly down the wall and I can't help but smile. 

And so my time in Costa Rica continues.  I continue to run in the surrounding mountains and play games of pick-up soccer.  I continue to get to know my new family and to learn this foreign language.  I continue to make new friends and I continue to teach.  And as a result, I wake up every morning happy to be where I am and eagerly waiting for the day to begin.        

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"Everyone has a story," my Costa Rican host Mom explained as we chatted over a cup of coffee and a plate of gallo pinto.  Being that I was the third WorldTeach volunteer to live in Cynthia's home for a year and the sixth volunteer teacher in San Martin, she was beginning to compile quite a list of memorable events that occurred with each gringa.  After relaying "The Story" that would go down in history with the other five teachers, the smile on her face grew.  "And then there is Elizabeth."

My story developed during what was meant to be a routine weekly trip into Turrialba, the town where I could run errands and escape for an afternoon to use the Internet.  It was mid-March and by this point in the year I had been in Costa Rica for three months and was feeling confident.  Life was beginning to feel comfortable as I was adjusted to my new home and accustomed as much as one could be to teaching English in a rural community. 

I had crossed off the items on my "to do" list and set off towards the bus stop to catch the last bus of the day at 6:30pm back to my town.  Normally I used an earlier bus to return home partially because the bus station isn't the best place to be waiting around in the dark and also simply because one gets into a routine after time.  To my surprise and relief, the bus was a little earlier than expected and I quickly jumped in line.  I turned to the lady behind me and confirmed the fact that the bus was headed for Guayabo, a town that followed mine along the same road.  My Spanish, which still had much to be improved upon, was serving me well.  I thanked the older woman, climbed on the bus, paid my toll, and told the driver where I was going.  However, a few minutes after our departure I noticed that the bus was taking an unusual path.  For a fleeting moment I thought that perhaps I had taken a wrong bus.  But I didn't put much thought into it, being that I had asked and clearly told the bus driver my destination.  Perhaps, I thought, there was another route back and I simply hadn't paid attention before.  But in the minutes that followed, the bus continued along an unfamiliar path, failing to veer in the direction I knew of as home.  My heart began to pound and I could feel my face flush red in embarrassment as I asked a woman beside me where the bus was going.  Yet again I was told Guayabo.  The lady must have sensed my confusion, for she then asked me where I needed to go.  What I had failed to realize is that both a Guayabo Arriba and Guayabo Abajo exist with very different locations and paths of traveling there. 

Hearing the commotion, several of the passengers, including the older woman who had originally directed me on to the bus, began to argue among themselves as to what I should do.  After several more minutes passed, the bus continued to climb towards Guayabo Arriba as did my anxiety level surrounded by the chattering Spanish women whose conversation I could not focus on trying to understand.  Finally, the older woman turned to me and said that it was best if I just went to her house and spent the night.  Shocked by the proposal from a woman I didn't even know, I quickly explained that I needed to go home being that I was a teacher and had class the following day.  She shook her head in response.  There were no more buses returning to Turrialba until 11am the next day.  My head was swirling.  How had I managed to get myself in this mess?  Perhaps I could get off at the next town where she thought there might be a public phone where I could call a taxi.  At that I stood up to inform the driver, feeling all eyes upon the only person with blonde hair for miles.  However, as I reached the town and looked out the window into the pitch-blackness and sparsely placed houses with no phone in sight, all I could see was myself sitting along side the road with my book bag, lost in a foreign country waiting for the daylight to rescue me.  But taking a look inside my wallet, I wasn't going to get very far anyway. 

I waved for the driver to continue on and then turned to the woman with grayish-black hair and missing front teeth to reluctantly accept her invitation.  She agreed that it was the best solution and that she had a phone which I could use to call my town.  Her face began to glow as she said goodbye to her friends on the bus with me trailing closely behind.  I soon was dialing madly away on her phone desperately trying to find a way home.  Fortunately, the host father of another volunteer who lived near my town agreed to come to my rescue in about an hour.  Hanging up the receiver, I picked up the phone again and dialed my public phone of San Martin to send the word to Cynthia that I would be home late. 

Sitting back on the couch of the woman's house, I at last had the opportunity to get a hold of myself and control the nervous shaking of my hands.  She had a lovely house by Costa Rican standards and before I knew it, was ushering me to her table for a generous plate of rice and beans.  Picking up my spoon, I thanked her for her kindness to me, at the same time spotting a cockroach on her shirt.  I debated informing her of the new friend on her stomach in fear of embarrassing her, but in the end her grandson saved me the trouble.

Within twenty minutes of having arrived at her home, her extended family and fifteen grandchildren began to trickle into her house to have a look for themselves at the unexpected foreigner.  The children were adorable and quite excited to practice the few English words that they knew.  Before I knew it, my nervousness and fears had melted away, and I truly was enjoying their company.  In talking to them I discovered that in fact a WorldTeach volunteer had lived in their town two years prior to mine and that since then their community hadn't received another English teacher.  It was neat to share their excitement for the language and to realize how incredible it was that I became lost in what was once a WorldTeach site. 

Shortly thereafter, Miguel, my friend's host father, arrived, and to my great surprise, out jumped Cynthia!  She had been quite worried upon receiving the message and I ran to hug her, just as a lost child being reunited with her mother in the supermarket.  I later learned that they had traveled over an hour to come to my rescue.  Moreover, that same night, Miguel planned to travel another two hours to transport the produce from his farm to be sold the next morning.

In remembering "The Story" I am continually overwhelmed by the unconditional generosity of the people that helped me that evening - The woman and family who opened their home to a complete stranger, and Miguel, who jumped in his car without asking any questions or considering the long night of work that lay ahead.  And then there was Cynthia, who was there to laugh with me at the jokes that sprung up in three different towns about my unexpected venture.  It was an event that surely will go down in San Martin history, and a story that I am likely to not soon forget. 

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Well, if someone had told me two months ago that my favorite things in Costa Rica would be my sleeping bag, contacts and wool sweaters/socks I don't think I would have believed them. (sleeping bag and sweaters/socks because it's so cold at night and contacts because it's so foggy/ 'pelo de gato' that my glasses aren't always practical.) The WorldTeach experience isn't something that we can ever accurately predict. Yet thanks to Animal Planet and Discovery Channel we can't help but imagine Costa Rica as this wild rainforest that suddenly ends with a beautiful white sand beach.

I'm realizing that Costa Rica is much more than rainforest and beach. For example, I live on the very top of a mountain and I'm completely surrounded by Evergreen trees, coffee fields and macate (they used to make coffee sacks from this plant). Here they call this type of forest a dead forest because it doesn't attract anything special. No unique birds, no butterflies, no animals - nothing. Yet the natural beauty and cloud formations that one can witness from the top of this precipice is astounding. (I sometimes feel like Maria in the opening of The Sound of Music. except I'm not staying in a convent and I still can't play guitar. But now you have an accurate visual of my mountain setting here in Entrada La Lucha.)

Entrada La Lucha isn't something that I ever could have predicted, but it's fulfilling expectations that I never knew I carried within me. Each day I realize something new about myself. I reflect so frequently upon the friendships and relationships that I'm establishing in my town that I often forget to focus on the most important relationship that is growing the quickest - the relationship with myself.

The only person that I truly know in Costa Rica has totally changed in the last two months. She has "chilled out". She has stopped planning her life months/years ahead of time. She has re-established her sense of adventure. She has learned to laugh at herself (a lot). And most importantly she has learned to "put herself out there"- to initiate conversation and friendship in order to "suck the marrow" out of the WorldTeach experience. Two months ago this soon-to-be volunteer was filled with passion, but terrified and insecure about how she would survive a year without family, friends, and Alias on ABC every Wednesday night. (I have since come to accept that Alias can be taped and sent to me.) Now this same volunteer has become secure with her Spanish fluency, lost her fear of time and distance, and each day realizes her enthusiasm for children and Latin culture.

These changes within me I never anticipated to happen so quickly, but something in the water here makes me push myself beyond what I thought I was originally capable of accomplishing.  I honestly can't remember a point in my life where I felt this incredibly happy and fulfilled. Sure the experience has its frustrations, but the kids in my community are just so great that the few difficulties I have encountered are the least of my worries. With each week that passes I feel myself becoming more and more a part of the children's lives and I realize how much we have to share with one another. For example, today after class I headed up to the soccer field with a few of my students. One of the 5th graders asked me which I like better, the US or Costa Rica. I answered, "I like them both differently, but my family is in the US so I miss it very much."

Another one of my 5th graders then says to me, "But don't worry. Here you already have a friend. Me!!"

How precious is that? Their curiosity, sincerity, and energy is pretty powerful stuff - to say the least.

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¡Hola!, by Erika Behrends

This sunny day finds me in the lovely town of Liberia: a phenomenon which, while not entirely intentional, has nonetheless allowed me this opportunity to communicate with the outside world. When I say this excursion was not entirely intentional, I really mean yesterday I missed the single bus to my miniscule town and had to spend another night in Hotel Guanacaste: a habitation laced with unsanitary memories from my first journey through Liberia . However, it happens to exist within a five minute walk of the bus station, and since my vision of the world currently centers on catching a bus at 3:00 this afternoon, it proved the logical choice of abode.

I have now taught in the colegio in El Consuelo for three equally chaotic and rewarding weeks. My students can rightly be designated miscreants, but my ability to sing, dance, do gymnastics and generally perform has kept them manageable. Most of the time. In order to share a bit more of my world with you, I have reconstructed four moments from these past weeks in experiential form. So you can live them with me. Know that with this fragmented vision of my Costa Rican world, I send you all my love. You are in my thoughts, and I look forward to seeing you upon my return.

Educative Space:

I clutch the slip of white construction paper—rough and wilting slightly from the humidity—in one hand. I turn my head slightly to glance at it: its surface covered with line upon line of meticulous script. In my other hand, a red dry erase marker lies nestled between my fingers: its metallic surface cool against my flushed skin. I stand beneath the arching branches of a large tree: a tree which defines the physical boundaries of my classroom, but provides only limited shelter from the alternative spattering of rain and the glaring Costa Rican sun.

I see my students clad in their pristine blue uniforms: a vista of uniformity that distinctly clashes with the unorthodox educative environment. They sit on dilapidated chairs behind desks tattooed with years of graffiti: scarred with names of past students, song lyrics, Spanish colloquialisms and claims of undying love—undying love which predictably disintegrates as young couples rearrange themselves daily.

Cows lumber about in a pasture just beyond the dirt road bordering my classroom: the dirt road down which hulking trucks roar. They rattle as they pass, shaking the ground beneath my feet and filling the air with hoots, whistles and hisses proceeding from the local men who have caught sight of me. The teacher.

I turn back to my whiteboard: a two by three foot contraption propped upon a backless chair, which is weighed down with a ten-pound stone to assure it remains upright in the face of the biting wind. It has a tendency to fall, to cause the board to tumble from its perch onto a ground littered with shiny candy wrappers and fern-like plants that shy from human touch.

I turn from the vista of cows, uniforms, and farmers bearing lethal-looking machetes. I write two words on the board. Two separate words. Two distinct languages. One single verb. Correr: to run. I ask for a volunteer to act it out. Dozens of hands shoot up in the air. The game has begun.

Irrational Fears:

I sense movement on the far wall: the rapid sort of scuttling movement that characterizes animals I most fear. Fish with teeth. Spiders. Sharks. Scorpions. I swivel my head towards my window: the gaping hole in the corrugated tin paneling that generally serves as a protective barrier between me and the outside world. A scorpion has entered my enclosed space.

I freeze. My body goes entirely still: my heart pounding to the pulsing rhythm of the 80’s music that fills my house. My mind goes blank. I scream. Softly. Yet distinctly. It moves. I move. Away. For around thirty seconds I remain powerless as unconscious psychological barriers incapacitate me. Then I resolve to act.

I attempt the humane route: shooing it out the window with the tip of an elongated metal screw. It takes a defensive position: its armored, distinctly threatening body coiled to strike. Then it flattens itself and flees. Towards my bed. My sanctified, vulnerable space. In that instant I determine to abandon all thoughts of humane action. It is absolutely unacceptable to share my room with a scorpion. I will annihilate it.

I warily eye it as I reach for the hefty leather hiking boot resting on the uneven stone floor at the foot of my bed. My fingers close around my weapon and I strike what I firmly believe will be a crushing blow. The beast promptly scuttles away into a corner. I regroup and revise tactics, taking up the screw once more; I coax it out of its haven and mercilessly squash it beyond all recognition. Then deposit the remains outside where they belong. Outside my space.

Exercise:

The wind rushes around me, teasing vagrant wisps of hair free of my tight braid and trailing them across my face: a sinuous motion mirrored in the wave-like movement of the long grass rising up to each side of me. My feet pound the pebble-ridden ground creating a rhythm that infringes on the continuous sound of the whispering wind. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. I run past fences fabricated from bits of splintering wood and uneven coils of barbed wire. Cows, their unwieldy bodies glinting in the late afternoon sun, peer at me lazily through the walls of their makeshift prison. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. I feel my braid slapping against my back with every stride: the loose ends tickle the inch of skin between my light gray sweats and my dark spandex tank. Sweat trickles down my neck, creating a glistening trail of moisture that disappears into my damp top.

Suddenly three tiny butterflies dart in front of me: their delicate yellow wings semi-transparent in the glare of the sun as they battle with the ever-shifting currents of air. I pause. Their struggle fascinates me: something so fragile fighting something so immense and unpredictable. I dodge them as the wind buffets them towards me. I continue on, only half aware of the beaming faces of the families waving to me from the chairs ranged outside their homes. I wave back, but my mind remains on the breast of the tempestuous wind, following the uncharted path of three tiny, brilliantly colored butterflies.

Bathing:

Water surrounds me: at once buoying me up and obscuring me from the eyes of my companions. My youngest host-brothers splash in the shallows, their dark skin contrasting strikingly with the deep blue of the river. Rocks, dappled in patterns of alternating sunlight and shadow, pepper the expanse of moving water. I float on my back, looking up at the sky through a canopy of leaves.

I hear a voice. It demands my attention. I force myself upright to face my four-year-old host- sister, feeling water seep through my semi-permeable black and yellow racing suit. She holds out her arms to me, her wet curls bobbing and dancing as she prepares to launch herself into my arms. I catch her and fall naturally into the role of swimming instructor, at once protecting her and allowing her to succeed.

It strikes me, in that moment, that I am still me—still a lifeguard, still a little girl who will always love Disney movies and will always be fascinated by things she cannot control: lightning storms, politics, God. No matter where I am—no matter how much I learn or change or grow—I am still intrinsically me.

Con Amor,
Erika Behrends

Selected as Honorable Mention, WorldTeach Fall 2006 Journal Contest.

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Great Expectations of Mine, Lindsey Noel Lockman

The outings I have taken with my host family here in San Joaquin de Corralillo have not only been moments of great entertainment, but also invaluable lessons on how life should be lived. 

During my time here, I have been introduced to a lifestyle that is quite different from that which I was accustomed to in Southern California...it's called farm life.  The family begins their day at 4 am with the rising of the sun, and irregardless of whether it is Tuesday or Saturday there is still much to be done around the house and on the farm.  Here there's no such thing as dinner and a movie on a Friday night, or sleeping in on the weekend.  So when an occasion arises for the family to go out, this is a big event!

In the middle of my first month, (when I must admit my español was pretty rough!) one of my host sisters began talking about a trip to Cartago my host father was planning for the end of that week.and we were invited along!  Her excitement for this night was contagious, and I began finding myself wondering, "Just what will a Tico family do while out-on-the-town? Maybe dinner, a little window shopping, or even just a walk through the central park!?"  Only time would tell.

The night finally came and I rushed home from classes for a quick cafecito and time to freshen up.  I had no idea what to wear for such an occasion, until I saw my host sister with hair fixed, stretchy jeans on, and make-up of a variety of colors. I knew this was big!  So I dug my black pants out of my suitcase under my bed, and even wore mascara for the first time in Costa Rica.  I saw no reason not to go all out myself!

We jumped in the car (host dad, brother, sister and her boyfriend) and headed off to Cartago.  Around corners we flew, over hills and down the side of the mountain.  About 15 minutes out of town we pulled into an auto shop.  We were having the oil changed in the car.  That makes sense, to get those extra errands done at the same time right?  Then off again, this time a stop for gas.  Well, you won't really get far without it.certainly an essential for a night out.  But it was the next stop that took me awhile to figure out.  We pulled up to the back of a huge warehouse type building, where men in goggles checked our headlights, brakes, and shocks.  Yes, we had made the big trip to the Costa Rica DMV!  Once we had passed the inspection, cheers of gladness rang out from our car, and we were off.back up the side of the mountain.  I had to laugh at myself.I was the only one in the car who had had absolutely no idea that the DMV was our final destination that night. 

Since that trip there have been many other occasions where my expectations were not exactly right on, or even in the ballpark!  I had been trying to put my Tico host family into my American expectations.  But now there is not a single one of these outings that I would change.  Not only can I now not imagine my host dad Don Ney window shopping, but I also cannot imagine who I was before I learned the lessons that I have here.  In my quiet little mountain town there is simplicity of life that is refreshing after years of living outside of Los Angeles. I have an appreciation for time spent with my new friends and second family that is not based on the activity we are doing, but on their excitement to share their life and world with me.  I now am able to appreciate Costa Rican culture for what it is, not what I am imagining it to be.  For with the ability to enjoy life just as it is.without great expectations, there comes much joy and happiness in the beauty of what it holds which could not be imagines or expected!

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Because You Drink Your Coffee Black, by Rachel Feller

Another breakfast at Escuela Rincón de Morales Garbanzo. Not even a month had passed in the school, making each breakfast with the three teachers and my host mother the equivalent of an exam in an advanced Spanish conversation class. My gaze bounced back and forth between the speakers as if I were watching the final round of a tennis tournament and I struggled to catch the new topic. Suddenly, I noticed all stares on me and heard the word “ticher” thrown around in conversation. Thanks to my host mother’s acting skills and her attempts to slow her rapid speech, I picked up on the fact that they were discussing the chronic ear infection that had plagued me since my arrival in Costa Rica. Why my host mother always thought it her business to discuss my health with other people is still beyond my realm of comprehension. But on that particular day, I sat back and listened to her explanation of my ailments.

According to her it was quite simple. I had hot liquid dripping down the inside of my throat from my ears why? - because I drink my coffee black. First, I tried to withhold any conspicuous reaction, then, I thought of how to use my limited Spanish skills to give a more medical explanation. Who knows what I actually said, but it was irrelevant. After a brief discussion, the teachers dismissed my vegetarianism as a possible cause and reached a clear consensus: my coffee drinking habits directly caused my ear infection. The issue was no longer up for debate, and we returned to more important topics of conversation, such as rice-cooking techniques, the unusually cold weather, and the benefits of wearing acrylic nails.

As the daughter of a physician, I had always been taught to dismiss common rumors in favor of logical medical explanations. Little did I know that by moving to la Violeta, I had exchanged a scientific and medical world for one of old wives tales and small town logic. And in a community of 250, where neighbors witness one another’s every move with a critical eye and a gossiping mouth, medical issues - and possible forms of treatment - serve as a discussion topic of primary importance. Thus, through the chain of conversation, the town develops its “scientific” reasoning regarding treatments for common, and not-so-common, illnesses.

Shortly after my ear infection went away, Carolina and I both began to suffer from digestive problems. One evening, without being entirely sure of the destination, I hopped into Gilbert’s pickup with Carolina and Seidy, and went unknowingly towards my first - and hopefully last - rural, medical massage. About half-way through the town, we turned off of the main road, drove up a dirt path, and parked in front of a house. As we walked in and completed the obligatory greet-‘n-kiss, I saw that three of my students lived there. They mocked me, laughing and saying that it was going to hurt and that they couldn’t wait to see my face. I smiled and nodded, still completely unaware of my upcoming treatment.

In walked a very short woman with a long, black braid hanging down to the bottom of her back. She organized the dining room chairs into a row and asked that Carolina, the first patient of the night, come lie down on them. Gilbert laid the two-year-old across the cushions and allowed the healer to begin her therapeutic massage. First, she covered Carolina with lotion. Next, she squeezed her elbows and knees. The resulting screams created immeasurable din that echoed through the house. In order to calm the hysterical toddler, Gilbert sat her on his lap. Throughout the next twenty minutes, I watched and listened as the healer pressed and prodded every part of Carolina’s tiny body, provoking screams with every touch. Her diagnosis: an imbalance in bacteria of the stomach. Now finished with the first patient, all eyes turned towards me.

Since Carolina was only two-years-old, I did not believe that this massage could truly be that painful. So, hesitantly and in order to appease my host mother’s worries, I lied across the chairs. My students sat down for front row seats of the upcoming spectacle. First the lotion and then - OW! No wonder the kid screamed her guts out! Who knew that elbows could be so sensitive!?! The cringe of my face prompted a roar of laughter from the elementary school audience. For the following quarter hour, I gripped the chair with all of my force in order to avoid mimicking Carolina’s screams. My diagnosis: an inflamed stomach. Thanks for the informative massage, but I think that I could have come to the same conclusion myself.

Having learned my lesson for complaining of an ailment, I chose to conceal all following illnesses as best as I could. I no longer wanted my health in the hands of town logic or spread as town gossip. Yet I quickly realized that I could not avoid the subject of alternative healing. The students got sick, my host siblings got sick, the teachers got sick, and the neighbors got sick. With each passing ailment came a new theory and a new solution. Even things that one would ordinarily think would not require extensive medical explanation or treatment often had both.

One problem I could not hide was my worsening acne. In school my students asked me if my zits hurt, and at home Carolina simply asked me what they were. Consequently, the word espinilla, or zit, quickly became part of my working vocabulary. From the beginning, Seidy told me that butter and chocolate caused acne, and that if I stopped eating them, my condition would disappear. I informed her that I did not eat either of those foods, and that, in fact, my condition was genetic and I had struggled with acne since my early teens. Judging by the look on her face, I assumed that she did not believe me, but chose not to pursue the conversation any further.

Soon, Seidy began to do a “weekly cleansing” of the faces of Laura and Roy, who maybe had five zits total between the two of them. I frequently saw them lying on their parents’ bed, Seidy hovering over them, popping their zits with care and precision. She always offered to pop mine as well, but I politely refused, telling her that the doctors urged me not to pop my zits for fear of infection and scarring. Again, the nod of disbelief reminded me that my logic was not worth explaining. One Sunday evening, after spending the weekend away, I walked into the kitchen and saw Laura and Roy sitting on stools, their eyes closed and their faces covered in a sort of shiny gel. Curious, I asked Seidy what they were doing. The answer? Treating their acne with honey. Not just any honey, the honey that I had purchased for my tea! As always, I politely refused treatment, but this time chuckled openly. If I didn’t laugh, I was surely going to cry, and this situation was definitely filled with humor.

After that encounter, local suggestions regarding how to cure my acne began to appear everywhere. One weekend, while waiting with some friends in a bus stop, an old man sat down next to me. Immediately, he pulled a container out of his backpack and announced that if I used his product for ten days, my acne would disappear forever. Great, total strangers offering me mystery creams for my face.

Months later, my mother visited la Violeta and witnessed, through translation, the infamous medical logic. Prior to her arrival, the chicken pox spread throughout the school, and ultimately to Carolina. When we walked into the house, Carolina informed us that, contrary to what her parents said, she did not have the chicken pox. Rather, she stated matter-of-factly, she had zits like I did! Later that afternoon, we sat down in the salon to chat with my host mother, and Carolina ran around with her usual endless energy and unintelligible speech. Seidy informed us that Carolina was born premature and spent three weeks in the hospital. My mom, showing the appropriate level of sympathy, replied that she fortunately appeared to be a healthy and happy child now. I nodded in agreement as I translated. This is important, Seidy continued unexpectedly, because premature babies are more hyperactive, talk more without stopping, and have a greater tendency to touch and break things. Somehow, I managed to translate into English with a straight face, and my mom nodded and exerted much effort in order to maintain her composure.

Upon returning to the privacy of my room, we joked about the “premature baby equals hyperactive toddler” theory and wondered if we would learn more pieces of profound wisdom before going to the city the next morning. Our answer came during dinner, when Laura and Gilbert returned from the Clinic in Frailes. They entered the kitchen with a bag of antibiotics and a lot of answers. Apparently, while we had been at school, Laura’s face had swelled up and she had developed a temperature - a problem which always merits a doctor’s visit. Laura caught a virus that “anda en el aire” - literally that “walks or goes in the air” and Doctor Katia prescribed three days of bed rest. Obviously, antibiotics work wonders in fighting a mysterious, airborne virus.

Throughout the course of the year, my father, the American-trained doctor, laughed heartily at most of the “dos and don’ts” of staying healthy in a small town. Some of the additional, commonly-accepted rules include: don’t open the refrigerator after ironing (or you may develop a rash), don’t shower after eating (or you may not digest your food), don’t put Band-Aids on cuts, only on popped blisters (I’m actually not sure of the consequence of breaking that rule), and don’t eat red beans after undergoing surgery (or your blood may not clot properly). But who can really determine if American medical logic always holds or if Costa Rican health rules are always crazy? What I can say is that my skeptical father now claims that he wouldn’t risk eating red beans after surgery. And who knows - maybe in the future I should think twice before drinking my coffee black.

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