Following is the account of the first couple of days of the 4th term 2006-2007 choir tour of Sharon Mennonite Bible Institute to Costa Rica.
Passing time in the airport
Our flight from Reagan National Airport in DC to Miami was overbooked. It also got delayed, first 1.5 then 2 hours. We got to Miami with just the perfect amount of time between flights—just enough to run from one gate to the other. When we got to the gate we discovered that the flight to San Jose was fortuitously delayed by about half an hour as well, so we had plenty of time. On the flight down to San Jose, I sat beside the country manager of IATA—the International Association of Travel Agents. I enjoyed talking shop with him for a bit. When we landed in San Jose and were standing in the line for passport control, several screens were running a segment about bungee jumping and zip-lining. They also ran a really absurd segment about keeping your passport from pickpockets. It caricatured really stupid Americans in loud Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts dancing around like a bunch of idiots and getting smoothly pick-pocketed. It was most unusual to put it mildly—we schputted (mocked) it for many hours after. Passport control and customs were both a mere formality. We were met by a funny Mennonite guy (last name of Hoover) originally from Lancaster who ushered us to our chariot—a retired Blue Bird school bus. The soul patch on his jolly face bobbed up and down as he told us that he was a genuine Mennonite because he liked scrapple and Lebanon bologna.
Hilarious Hoover
We twisted through the narrow streets of San Jose as the bright, colorful Spanish signs flashed by. Costa Ricans thronged and coursed through the streets as a vibrant nightlife exhibited itself. The unique Costa Rican architecture served as a strange and wonderful backdrop for this night ride. However, the metal bars that covered all the windows and the fenced, gated, and barbed-wire-topped courtyards reminded us of the greater propensity toward robbery. Most of the bars and restaurants we passed were open sided to allow the cool mountain air to flow through. San Jose is located at a fairly decent elevation and remains very, very temperate throughout the year.
For the night, the bus twisted its way up the mountain to Elijah’s Cave—a retreat center run by Pura Vida ministries. It was so named because the building was built partially underground. The men’s dorm was generously stocked with rows upon rows of three story bunks. The third level bunks each conveniently had a small one or two foot rail which made so that your head wouldn’t fall out of bed, even if the rest of your body did. It was a plain block building with few amenities. Apparently hot water wasn’t one of them. The shower room was directly off of the men’s dorm and many wry comments wended their way to our ears. The most memorable were ones relating to the helpful little sign that asked us to please limit our showers to 3 minutes or less. Ben Yoder remarked, “Do we have to stay in there three minutes?” Darren Nisly chimed in about the signs, “It’s a joke!” Compounding the hilarity of the situation was the thin walls between our shower room and the ladies shower room. We heard their shrieks and moans, as did they of us. We also sang in the shower—in four part harmony. It’s not often one gets to sing in the showers with the ladies. When I went to take my shower, I was both jubilant and quite cautious to discover a device attached to my shower head of which I had seen terrifying pictures on the internet. The device’s putative purpose was to heat the water, but the wires, without their outer insulation, feeding into the device made it look like it could be an instrument with which I could experience a shocking and electrifying end. I cautiously turned the water on and stuck my finger into it, being careful to have my feet firmly planted on plastic not touching water (which touched the drain). The lack of a life-ending jolt coupled with the equal lack of warm water dimmed my fears and crushed my hopes. With reluctance, I sprinkled some of the icy water across my body, soaped up, and stuck various appendages under the water one at a time. Gasping for air as the intensely cold water hit my body provided much amusement to the ones who had already completed their hygienic duty. Needless to say, the shortness of that shower was only exceeded in my personal history of cleansing baths/showers by the dip I took in a Rocky Mountain lake which had snow as its edging and whose source was entirely composed of that snow melting. Such a shower does something for you—it must have some sort of nerve activation effect. I could feel every part of my body and it had never felt more alive. It also has the effect of thoroughly waking one up. Our assistant choir director, Benjamin Good, was the lucky inhabitant of a shower in which he discovered that while the red knob issued cold water, the blue knob issued warm water! He was in the shower loudly rejoicing about his being the only warm shower—he was the last to shower and alas, his discovery could not be shared—which joined in blending with our bitter regrets and casting aspersions upon his macho-ness for luxuriating with a warm shower. We decided to rectify this gross inequity by dumping some cold water on him, which Sean proceeded to do, much to our stated delight and much to his, very loudly stated, dismay.
Shannon and Norma eating fresh pineapple
We proceeded to the small chapel and had a time of morning singing and devotions. We then proceeded to the mess hall and had a delicious traditional Costa Rican breakfast of gallo pinto. We also had some rich Costa Rican coffee. Rumor has it that Starbucks gets 75-80% of their coffee from Costa Rica, and it tasted as if it came from the same such fields. At breakfast, our gregarious Hoover host informed that he had forgotten to turn on the water heater until the end of the morning. He was greeted with an appropriate cacophony of moans. We were joined for breakfast by a dog named Fred who trotted down the steps into the hall and nosed among the tables. We then went into the retreat office to exchange our Norte Americano Dolares for Costa Rican Colones.
The San Ramón cathedral
We then traveled down to the part of the country which, fortunately for showers sake and unfortunately for air temperature and humidity sake, had less elevation. We pulled into the quaint colonial Catholic town of San Ramón. We parked the bus right in front of the town cathedral, right next to the plaza. The plaza is a wonderful Latin American tradition of a beautiful shaded park right in the center of town. As we pulled up, we saw three boys—two gringos and a native—whom I (and several others) could instantly tell were Beachy (Amish-Mennonite). It was part of Marcos Yoder’s family who was meeting us in San Ramón. We spent an hour admiring the majestic cathedral, eagerly going from stall to stall in the marketplace, and relaxing in the beautiful plaza. From there, we headed several kilometres west up the mountain. At the top, we stopped at a small notched log (unusually enough!) restaurant run by some evangelical friends of Marcos’. The restaurant’s large windows offered a gorgeous view of the valley and the surrounding mountains, as well as a distant, hazy glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. They also offered some wonderful traditional Costa Rican cuisine that delighted our ravenous palates. We also had a wonderful juice—fresco de tamarindo—made from the tamarind fruit.
View from the restaurant
In the slums
Little girl in the slums
Next we trundled back into the bus and headed back for San Ramón. We then headed for the slum section of town. In America, the slums consist of dense housing, but the opposite is true in Costa Rica. The slum area has less dense housing—little tin and wood huts—surrounded by rutted dirt streets. Our bus strained its way up the very steep incline and descended down others. On it’s way up, every fiber of the bus’ engine strained to pull the heavy load up the hill with the tires grasping, mostly successfully, for traction. On the way down the steep and rocky dirt avenue, the brakes, indeed the entire bus, groaned to keep the bus from joining what seemed to be an imminent avalanche down the slope. As we cautiously inched into town, curious brown faces peeked out of doorways and turned to look from whatever their interrupted activity. We disembarked and trooped through the narrow dirt streets, avoiding the sewer in the gutter. The sharp, acrid smell of smoke from burning trash strung our nostrils as we walked along. We soon stopped and formed our double-row flattened semi-circle. Urie, our director, motioned for the pitch from the pitchman. The sharp electronic tone sounded strangely out of place considering our tropical/slum surroundings. We sang of Jesus’ love, of our desire to praise Him, of our desire to serve Him, and of our desire to go be with Him. We had a small audience of 7-15 people. After 5 or so songs as well as some preaching by Marcos, we moved on. We came to a more main intersection and sang several more songs. There our audience was more like 15-25 people. We arrived just as the local bus made it’s stop. It disgorged people dressed in startling contrast to their surroundings with suits, ties, and beautiful and elegant dresses. (When we went back into town, we discovered that a large wedding had just concluded.) The gorgeous little children flocked around those giving out candy and the huge smiles on their faces were priceless.
Brianna handing out candy
The ride was long and weary, but the roads were in pristine condition—better than the pathetic job that PennDot does. One of several disconcerting things, however, was the many one lane bridges. We would often barrel toward these bridges at nearly full speed with little view of what was on the other side. Occasionally we had to come to screeching halts as someone else was coming. The other disconcerting thing was the total disregard for those little suggestions called yellow lines in the middle of the road. It mattered little whether the line was double yellow or dashed. When our bus driver—or anyone else—came upon a vehicle driving more slowly than him, he would straddle the double-yellow line and wait for an opportunity in which he could see at least 3 bus lengths ahead, and then he would pass. This included up (or down) steep, twisting mountain roads and entailed many, many near head on collisions, which did not seem to faze any of the natives a bit. A particularly long blast by our bus driver on his air horn in the face of a stopped vehicle—which we narrowly avoided—on the other side of sharp turn reminded me of a salient fact that someone explained to me: Costa Ricans view the horn as a perfectly legitimate communication device which does not have a stigma with its use.. However, all these things which were somewhat different than the American style of driving was more than offset by the lush tropical surroundings, the beautiful mountains, the majestic volcanoes, the colorful houses, the strange and wonderful culture, and the company of many good friends.
That evening we drove back to the small town of Chachagua—the home of Marcos Yoder’s and the small church he pastors (he is also the bishop of five churches spread throughout Costa Rica). We had another good supper of rice topped with a vegetable and beef stew along with papyas and pineapples. Marcos is my dad’s first cousin and I stayed at his house for the night. I had a lovely evening and wonderful time catching up with the cousins. I offered to help milk the goats, but they agreed with my assessment that my skillset was somewhat less than ideal for such a task, though I did offer to try to learn.
Benj and Justin relaxing on top of the bus as we waiting for a tractor trailer that had become disabled at a very strategic spot at the bottom of hill, on a sharp curve, and next to a one lane bridge, which kept even our skilled driver from passing
2 Responses
April 2nd, 2007 at 11:47 am
Looks like you people are having an interesting time. I forgot how wild bus rides in other countries can be. It’s great to see the pics!!!
April 2nd, 2007 at 10:17 pm
Sounds like fun! Central america is a completely different culture for sure. Somehow I started to get used to the driving habits in the short 2 weeks I was in Guatemala a year ago, but it certainly is more comfortable to drive at 70 mph around 695 or 495!
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