I've decided that I couldn't get used to the hair raising, bone jarring ride on the bus. It's an interesting adventure, for sure. I gathered up my kin and waited for the bus this morning. As instructed by Sheri, when we went to her place, we got there 20 min early (because, surely, if you didn't it would come early). And waited 30 min past it's scheduled time. Down the hill it comes, a yellow school bus painted green. We panic a bit, having been told you must give the hand signal, palm down, waving up and down to tell the driver to stop. I've seen how he stops for the locals and can't wonder if we do it even a little the wrong way, we'll miss the only bus that will take us down town.
Rumble, rumble SKREETCH. I tell the rather surly driver that we'd like to go to the biblioteca- the library. He acts as if he doesn't understand, alternately shaking and nodding his head. The kids look at me like they expect me to know what's happening. I settle in for one of those Zen experiences. At least I know what the end of the line looks like, as that's where Sheri's stop is.
None of us remembers being on as long as we are this time. The end of the line shows up and I have a sinking feeling that he's gone past our stop. sigh. Up to try to communicate again. I think I understand that he's looping around. Raineer told us that sometimes he goes one way, looping around to where we'll want to go, and sometimes he'll go directly there. I guess, for whatever reason today it's the looping way.
One fellow tells us that we should get off in 100 metres. The driver is telling us to get off a el centro. I want to listen to the passenger, he seems to have my better interests. Oh well, the respectful child in me says I'd better listen to the authority. We walk the 100 metres, watching the bus stop ahead of us where we could have gotten off.
It's hot. We're in downtown, by some shops and are directed to the library. There, we met Consuelo, the librarian. she and I have a very halting conversation. I think both of us understand each other well, but are in the same boat language-wise. The library is a beautifully set up little building. With computers in one corner, metal shelves taking up about 1/2 of the 20' x 20' room. there are 3 other rooms, one for English books and one for little children and one that looks like a little conference room.
Consuelo gets Beverly Kitson, the Ex pat American founder of the library, on the phone. We talk about setting up a teaching day, and the possibility of us coming up to Downtown (I know, it should be called uptown. It is situated north east, and is altitude-wise, most definitely higher) to "happy gringo night". This is when they invite Gringos to come and converse with the Ticos to acquaint themselves with different accents. It sounds nice, but is much after dark and again, our transportation methods would not be conducive to travel at that time of day.
Beverly suggests we move. hmm. Well, if I had had any communication back from all the people I emailed asking questions about proximity, I might've been able to better make the decisions about where to plant ourselves. I became very frustrated at the lack of help that way, and am a little less than happy taking advice now.
Moving on. The English lessons are set in stone. The people they have from a US college have a fairly regimented curriculum, and they are not welcoming any help. Sorry, Uncle. We'll find somewhere else to use your talents.
The crafts portion of our trip is, I think, set up for next Monday.
~
We took a look a few metres down the road at the house of a fellow I'd met. He and Robin were negotiating his putting together a new sign for the ice cream store. She'd let me look over their discussions, and I was able to understand most of it. He introduced himself as (another) Manuel. He is a carver, an artist, who's shop is right beside the library. Unfortunately, he was not home. We'll have to see if he's there next Monday.
We had time to kill before the last bus. I wanted to stay on the same road so as not to miss it, it'd be a long walk back to the house. The kids were hot. I offered to feed them. That made a little difference in their enthusiasm. We stopped at the first restaurant we saw, Rey Pollo.
To be honest, I was unsure as to whether it was a restaurant, or someone's home. The driveway, sans parking lot, is steep, and lead right onto the standard tree pole and metal roof awninged patio. There are 3 tables, one of which hadn't been cleared, but each with a nice navy blue table cloth. A turkey gwabbles at you in greeting 5 feet away. Past the counter top, there's a 1960s green frigde. Grandmother sits in her apron, rocking a crying baby. A 22 yr old tells me this is indeed a restaurant.
There's no menu. We're told there's chicken, rice, beans and salad. Yes. Thank you, we say. I watch the twenty something girl tell her grandmother something and I'm sure she uses the universal language of "lots of money". I wonder if they'll take advantage of us. I'd pay it either way, but am curious.
The chicken comes out with salad. No rice, no beans. No worries, we're too hot anyway. It was good. We speak a little with the waiter, who tries to give a kitten to Lindsay. I laugh. This is the same trick farmers use. Mark the young kitten-loving girl and sell her on taking the unwanted mouth. This fellow smiled in understanding. He has a little English, having gone to Universidad 2 years to become a doctor. He wants to come back and practice in Nosara (but maybe has to go to San Jose)
0 comments:
Post a Comment