News from Palmera

After six months of unanswered emails, worrying lack of news and uncertainty, we had admittedly began losing hope regarding any positive results from our work in Palmera, our first project of this trip. We had sent countless emails to the Costa Rican Humanitarian Foundation asking for news from the Cabecar Indigenous Reserve, and for the report we had written for them, so we could perhaps attract investment, tourism and volunteers to continue the process that the Foundation had started and we had enhanced during our nearly two months living with a local family. We had found a magnificent community, rich in resources and culture, but lacking in infrastructure. A very promising land where a terribly apathetic mindset obscured the vision of the future for the youth, despite their eagerness and commitment to education.
It was exactly with education, the bridge between preserving their ancestral history and bringing positive development to the community, where the key to the gate of the future lay for Palmera and the majority of its inhabitants. Although we focused our activities on strengthening the link between these two factors and improving local understanding of their importance, we hit a massive road block very early in the form of corruption.
The newly appointed principal of the high school had taken advantage of the seeds planted by his predecessor, now working a few hundred meters away as principal of the elementary school, and didn't take long to harvest the rewards. There was factual evidence that he was repeatedly using school funds for personal use, buying personal hygiene products, food and alcohol, as well as rather heavy accusations of drug use on school grounds and in the presence of students. In addition, the president of the board of education, otherwise known as the town drunk, had taken a liking to the methods of the new principal and soon became involved in these insidious activities. The most worrying result of these acts was the constant cancellation of classes, three or four times a week for lack of food in the school cafeteria, and the inability of the faculty to buy teaching materials. Teachers had to use their own money for such purchases.
The students displayed a flagrant mistrust in the educational system as was demonstrated by the lacklustre attendance, which was well under fifty percent. Many of the young boys would rather work with their fathers in the nearby plantations. The girls, many of whom were already mothers, could not afford to waste their precious time at a school that didn't provide a meal nor an education, and preferred to tend their domestic duties, as Cabecar tradition dictates.
Infuriated upon realizing this, and urged on by members of the community, teachers and students, we wrote a letter to the regional authorities and the local board of education, asking for an internal investigation, a new directive and a series of conditions in order to achieve transparency and a more efficient administration in the years to come.
The effects of the letter were immediate, although not as impactful as we had hoped. As news of a board meeting to assess the situation spread through the town, fierce tension invaded the faculty, the student body and the general population, as everyone began dividing between those who supported the principal and those who quietly disapproved. Fortunately, there was a third group: those who had taken a stand against the principal and the president of the board. Unfortunately, the group only consisted of our host family, the school cook, as the teachers who had initially inspired and incited us to take action, ultimately denied everything in fear of losing their jobs. The board meeting, which was dramatically similar to a court trial was hindered by the principal, who made sure it was scheduled during school hours so that the few students who were willing to take a stand against him would not attend. Much to our dismay, Leo, the father of our family forbid us from attending, fearing an angry reaction from the two characters involved, who had proven to be rather unpredictable.
As we had expected, without lack of support for our cause, the principal asserted his position at the board meeting, gaining support from the board members, whom he and the president had appointed. The appointees were illiterate, an unlawful situation, as we came to find out.
Our projects at the school became severely hampered on account of our actions, as we were no longer welcomed at the school. Some of the teachers were certainly reluctant to be seen speaking to us, so we spent most of our time with our family.
What had begun as an emotive and devoted campaign, ended quietly as we left Palmera without any visible results to our actions. Eventually, once we had the time and resources, we extended our letter to the Ministry of Education, but only received an acknowledgement of receipt from them. The past few months we had often wondered, albeit hopelessly, what had been of the situation in Palmera, and whether Leo, his family or anyone in town had fed the fire that we had ignited.

Surprisingly, yesterday we received a great piece of news from the Costa Rican Humanitarian Foundation.
The principal of the school has been sanctioned, and is being very carefully watched by the Ministry of Education. They are assessing the situation and may fire him in the coming weeks. From now on, the principal is not allowed to cancel classes, nor does he have access to funds, as it goes directly from the Ministry to the suppliers. The members of the board of education are now named democratically by the people and the student government has been given additional support and power. The people of Palmera are satisfied with these changes, which they directly attribute to the document we drafted in early November.

We left Palmera more than half a year ago, with an amazing experience to remember for the rest of our lives, but disappointed at being unable to make a lasting impact. Over the past few months, a mountain of disappointment had began to build on the foundations created during our time in Palmera as we poured our hearts and souls into several projects along the way but failed to see the end results. Thus, as you can imagine, it is extraordinarily rewarding and fulfilling to receive these news.
We can now see more clearly the importance of embroidering experiences, even the most marvelous ones, with actions which will last beyond memory.

"They are small things. They don't bring an end to poverty or lift us out of underdevelopment, they don't enforce social responsibility in means of production and exchange, and they don't expropriate Ali Baba's caves. But perhaps they set in motion the joy of doing, and translate it into specific acts. And, when all is said and done, acting on reality and changing it, although just a little bit, is the only way to prove that reality is transformable." - Eduardo Galeano (Uruguayan journalist and writer)

You can find the report we wrote to the Costa Rican Humanitarian Foundation and the letter to the Ministry of Education in our new 'Documents' section.

Soloy: Part 1

I beg you forgive me for the late deliveries of this blog. Although it would be ideal, and fairest to you readers, to update our experiences in a timelier manner; time is the most ephemeral of things, and it is extremely difficult to keep up with it. As time vanishes, thus escape my memories of events, from the most transcendental to the most banal. We promise to keep up with our stories, if you promise to transport yourself to the time at which they happened. The line at which our experiences develop is much faster than my pen.

In a young, yet promising 2013, we found ourselves motivated as ever, but gasping for a breath of fresh air in the form of tangible results to our work. Everything we had done so far had been well intentioned, but lacked the outcome we desired. However, we hoped to steer in the right direction despite waves and currents diverting us from our course. We try to remember that obstacles, like waves, always seem most intense, imposing, and unconquerable from the trough; before confronting them. But once you reach the crest, descrying from above, you can see the sea with clarity, and the wave soon becomes part of your wake. Sailing through calm waters is for those who lack wind to power their sails. Thus, we let the challenges that arise tempt our motivation and skill, ready to witness our path from atop the wave.

Returning o dry land; in February, we traveled to Soloy for our next project.  There, the summer threatens to dry up the mightiest river or the most resilient crop, and the wind never dwindles. The gusts of wild wind, or 'breeze', as the locals call it, steal anything that isn't tied down. Sadly, despite an abundance of real wind, many members of the community do lack the aforementioned metaphorical wind. Although to a lesser extent than in Palmera. There are a number of individuals in the community who are properly organized and informed, who work hard to achieve what they want. However, apathy and abandon reign as the leading philosophy for the majority of the population, who aspire to little more than brief moments of material satisfaction without regard for long term consequences. Ironically, it doesn't land too far from the description of more 'advanced' communities in 'developed' countries.

It is really sad to witness natural beauty being ruined by pollution, unity by violence and the future by greed, ignorance or addiction. But the thing that saddens us the most is witnessing a great potential walking head down, unarmed, hidden in the shadow of these problems.

As our voyage progresses, and thus our experience and education – unlimited and insufficient and unlimitedly insufficient – I realize that there are no insurmountable problems; only unwilling people. Having said that, the most positive aspect of our trip has been the people we have encountered. It's a pity, therefore, that the answer is the same to the opposite question.

So we found ourselves in Soloy, wedged between the two landmarks that intersect Panama. Symbols of the prowess of man and nature alike, the Interamerican Highway and the Continental Divide proudly form the spine of the country. In the Western section of the Divide, growing softly from the flat lands resting at its sides, the Serranía de Tabasará is dominantly poised; an acutely eroded arch in which peaks were formed by volcanic intrusions, of which, Volcan Barú, the nation's tallest summit, oversees the slow industry developing around its fertile soil. Its skirts, abounding with meandering creeks, commanding rivers, and a nuanced spectacle of shades of evergreen jungle full of intricate vines and exotic animals, have long shared their secrets and protective mantle with the Ngäbe Indians.

Today, like so many other indigenous populations throughout the world, the Ngäbes fight an everyday battle against the overflowing currents of modernity and the industrial exploitation of natural resources. As fortune has it, the Ngäbes are settled on the nation's richest soil, a magnet for foreign mining and energy companies as well as government leaders of questionable principles.

Soloy is one of the main towns in the Comarca; not much more than a strip of pavement with houses lined up at its edges, like buttons on a shirt. Located at the end of the main road plunging from the Interamerican Highway into the Comarca, Soloy provides a meeting point for merchants, artisans and farmers. The center of town, which has two multipurpose stores and a restaurant is also a transfer point for the transportation system, as the public bus stops there and taxis, cars and horses transit the area taking people – and food – to and from communities inaccessible by bus.

We lived in a particular section of Soloy called Boca Miel, about 2 km away from the center of town, where the pavement ends and dirt paths ramify in every direction. The Ngäbe Buglé Comarca is divided into seven districts. Soloy is one of eight corregimientos (a country subdivision for administrative purposes; in other, simpler words, a town) in the District of Besikö, located in the south-west of the Comarca. The Comarca is populated by the Guaymi Indians, and receives its name after its two linguistic subgroups, the Ngäbe, and the Buglé, whose languages are mutually unintelligible. Most of the adults speak their native language regularly, as well as Spanish, albeit rather limited in some cases. However, the youth pose a cause for concern, for many do not know more than a few basic Ngäbere words. Worryingly, their Spanish is often a carnage of the already mutilated Spanish spoken by their elders.

The comarca hosts approximately 160,000 people in an area of roughly 7,000 km². Soloy is home to some 1,500 people, most of which live in terrains with a few structures ranging from huts to concrete houses and about half a hectare of arable land. The houses vary in form and material, with concrete, zinc, bamboo and other timber used interchangeably. Zinc roofs, often deemed in Western society as a sign of underdeveloped neighborhoods, were proliferated in the Comarca as a substitute for traditional palm roofs.

More durable, stable and expensive, zinc became a luxury item when it was first introduced a couple of decades ago. An irrevocable trait of human nature, envy, soon converted this developing world architectural icon into a must-have throughout Soloy and other neighboring towns.

Although most households have stable concrete structures where the family sleeps and stores their valuables, many still have traditional "ranchos" in their properties, under which they have hammocks and usually sleep there on warm summer nights. Since there are only two seasons in Soloy - dry and rainy – the hammocks out in the open air are still the preferential sleeping arrangement for the majority, especially nostalgic adults who see their childhood lifestyle quickly fading away.

There are two sections of the town which are distinct from all the others. The center of town, and Barriada 2000. The latter is an infamous aglomeration of huts, people and trash which constantly emanates a profane smell of burnt plastic. An accelerated image of the development of the area, the Barriada was created in response to the establishment of the new school in Soloy at the turn of the century. As the news of the educational center reached the more remote, isolated villages of the Comarca, an influx of families arrived in Soloy.

Ready to sacrifice whatever commodities they had at their permanent residences, they built temporary huts in a space provided by the municipality so they could live during the school year. However, temporary plans gave way to permanent relocation, and soon, an entire hillside, once washed by a crystaline creek, fertile and brimful with handsomely robust mango and orange trees, became a ghetto where somber shacks are separated by still streams of black, garbage infested mud, and dirt paths occupied by curious, energetic children weary of an insipid, mundane life confined to poverty.

Mocked and degraded by their neighbors and forgotten by local politicians, the Barriada 2000 is obviously a source of shame, and to some extent, disgust to the rest of the community. Unresourceful and abandoned, the people who dwell there have little to do in the face of the structural disaster in which they live. Initiatives have been proposed and outside organizations have declared their intention to improve their conditions, – beginning with latrines – but sadly, the rythm of affairs, already slow in this section of the world, is nearly stagnant.

In many aspects, Soloy is very different from other Indigenous Communities we have visited. The road and the proximity of the houses attract businesses and tourism, opening a large gate to the outside world. This has a noticeable effect on the people, who are distinctly less timid than in more secluded places. The first contact we made with the Ngäbes was in the bus station in David, minutes before departing to Soloy on a yellow school bus, one of many specimens sent to Panama after their retirement in the US.

There, I found a scene worthy of a commercial. Three middle-aged Ngäbe women sitting on a bench, jauntily drinking soft drinks while waiting for the bus. They were naturally dark, with long, radiant black hair flowing casually in the wind and dipping behind their shoulders, playfully appearing over the colorful tones of their traditional dresses, which covered their bodies down to their ankles. 

I couldn't resist the urge to take a photo, thinking what a glorious photograph this would have been a few decades ago, yet ready to hear a nearly inaudible "no" for an answer, or a shy affirmation which would result in them turning their faces the moment I snapped the photo, as it so often happened elsewhere. My bold request caused them to giggle like young teenagers, which prompted me to respectfully back away. However, as I turned my back, they all said "sí, por favor!" At that moment, once again deceived by the wrong idea of what we would encounter in the mountains, - this time caused by the official website of a local NGO which hadn't been altered in more than ten years - I believed I had captured a photographic jewel.

After spending one day in Soloy, I came to realize just how mundane that image was...

10 Simple Hitchhiking Tips

To go along with our last post, we have decided to write down a few tips for hitchhikers, which for us have become rules.

We hope this can be useful to those of you who decide to hit the road.

1. Be informed.

    What is your final destination?
    How long does it take to get there?
    Know the roads.

2. Plan your journey.

    If you don't reach your destination in one day, have a backup plan to sleep in a safe place.

3. Safety backups.

    Make sure someone knows where you are.

4. Quantity matters.

    Two is the perfect number for hitchhiking. Being alone can be a little risky, and not every car will have space for three people plus luggage.

5. Don't hitchhike at night.

6. Placement matters.

    Some believe that hitchhiking is best done in well populated areas, because more cars go by, and the amount of bystanders will somehow fend off any evil doers.

    We believe the opposite. Hitchhiking is most effective in less traveled roads. We suspect people are more willing to pick up someone if they believe that person will have a tough time finding a ride. However, if a lot of cars drive by, most will discard the thought of picking a hitchhiker up by thinking "someone else will do it."

7. Don't get in cars with tinted windows.

8. Check the car for signs.

    As soon as you get in, check for things like religious symbols, the driver's clothing, baby seats or anything that might let you know what kind of person has picked you up. Also, the initial conversation is rather revealing.

9. Keep your belongings close and accounted for.

10. Look friendly, be friendly.

   Be kind, thankful and well mannered, the people who pick you up will be more willing to pick up the next hitchhiker they see if their experience with you is enjoyable.

 Drivers are also scared of picking up strangers, so look polished and SMILE A LOT!

San Isidro del General

There's a current stereotype circulating through the Central American isthmus which declares de Ticos to be arrogant, condescending and materialistic. In our three months in Costa Rica we met a wide variety of people of all ethnicities, professions and economic classes. Granted, we didn't visit the entire country, nor did we meet the entire population, but the people we did have the fortune of meeting proved otherwise.

The fact is that, like most stereotypes, it is the stigma -and often the people whom adhere to it - that results as superficial and condescending. It seems ridiculous to expect a specific behavior from the grand majority of a population as soon as you cross the threshold of a country.
It would be interesting to investigate how such general judgments of character come to be, for, through traveling - or meeting travelers - one discovers that every person is unique, and that there are personality types of all sizes and colors in every country, region, city or neighborhood.
Of course, there are distinctive features in different cultures which set us apart from one another, which are often confused and called stereotypes. These are not stereotypes, they are traditions.
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We learned this the easy way, by tuning our daily routines in accordance to local conventions, in one of Costa Rica's most traditional towns. The most important city in the south Pacific region of the country, San Isidro dwells in the Valley of the General, cradled by the mountain ranges which forge the backbone of the country - a topographic spectacle. Comfortably sized and located, it offers an ideal alternative to the hectic, thick agglomeration of San Jose. On all sides, nature's elegant grandeur is expressed in variant forms.

The mountains host several types of ecosystems; lowland, cloud and highland forests, which alternate with each passing mile, as one circulates the torturous roads intersecting them.

To the east, the beaches offer a convenient escape, only half an hour from the city. To the west, the highest peak in Costa Rica - Cerro Chirripo - oversees the development of the whole nation. At its feet, the steady traffic of the interamerican highway and the organic plantations; in the distance, volcanoes, jungles and the two oceans compete to attract international tourism.
During our stay in San Isidro del General we became acquainted with many people whom we will remember for a long, long time.
 Everyone we crossed paths with during that month provided us with an opportunity to discover just how the stereotype strays far from the truth.

The main contributors to making our sojourn such a special experience were Rafa, our coworker and flat-mate, who casually and gleefully shared his appartment and his humor with us; Beate and Federico, the founders and directors of Planet Conservation - the reason we were in San Isidro; and of course, our sweet and affectionate neighbor, Ester, who was accomodating beyond belief, and endued us with a sense of familiar belonging which is often longed when one is away from home during the holiday season.


At last but not least, are Diego and Karina, a young and spirited couple with a perennial duet of smiles and laughter. Not even Diego's blossoming music - an original fusion of the smooth warmth of bossa nova, the irreverent passion of a Latino and the soul filled energy of writing about one's own intimacies and skepticism - could surpass their immaculate attitude towards us.
Whether we were out having fun, working, or at home, all of these people and many others made sure that we had a home, friends and family.

Despite working in an office - a rare setting for backpackers - we felt the mellowed detachment of a vacation much more than in Palmera. The main factor responsible for such an irreverent attitude towards standard office etiquette was the flexible ambiance of Planet Conservation. Federico and Beate have created a special atmosphere to work, perfectly adapted to the typical informality of the town. Music, jokes and laughter would blatantly eclipse the rustling sound of keyboards and printers. It was a rather enticing mood to work in, without being a time-consuming distraction. After all, at the end of the day, the work that needed to be done, was done.
Planet Conservation is a young organization specialized in serving as a link between tourists and students seeking to volunteer or intern at community based environmental and sustainable projects. In addition, they offer consulting to local businesses and hospitality establishments seeking to obtain green certification.

In celebration of their five year anniversary, they want to institute their own programs in order to directly participate in the preservation of the planet. Aside from routine office work such as translations or accounting, our main collaboration was in that department. We researched, drafted project proposals and searched for funding opportunities for two programs: turtle conservation and environmental education for children. In addition, we built a playground made of recycled materials in a kindergarten for children from low-income families; for which we gathered donations throughout the town.

Overall, our time in San Isidro was educational, interactive and inspirational. We were able to visit the mountains and the beach, made lifetime friendships, and met people of all characters and backgrounds, all willing to share their lives and homes with us.

Boruca - New Year with the Devils

On the last day of 2012 we boarded yet another bus in our long list of ill-fitting buses and headed to Boruca, the main settlement within the Boruca Indigenous Reserve. Do not be mislead by the use of ill-fitting, for, despite their leisurely pace, the quality of the buses is more than sufficient. The problem at hand is that the seats are designed bearing in mind the average height of Costa Ricans, which, for men, is nearly 20 cm less than the stature of yours truly. As you can imagine, negotiating bumpy roads with barely a few inches of meager legroom and a vacuum behind your head which lets your neck wobble like a boxing ball is not a pleasant experience.

After a two hour journey during which we constantly had to ask our neighbors where we had to get off, the driver informed us that we had reached the entrance to Boruca. Unbeknownst to us, we were twelve kilometers of devastatingly steep, arid dirt away from the actual town.

In hindsight, we regarded the sheer path ahead of us and the gleaming noon sun with too much disdain. We nearly paid for our foolishness and disrespect when, after half an hour, unable to find a shade to rest, we began questioning if we had made the right decision. Luckily, a kind family coerced us into riding in the back of their pick-up truck and turned what would have been a painstaking five hour hike into a 30 minute rollercoaster ride through the jarring unpaved hills.

Once in the town, we installed our camping tent and proceeded to discover what the town had to offer, including a majestic waterfall and an ancient blend of dancing and bull-fighting.

Submerged in the Talamanca Mountains and encircled by the scenic valley of the Rio Grande de Terraba, this secluded site was once part of a vast territory. Before the arrival of the Spanish Empire in the 16th century, the Coto, Turruca, Borucac, Quepos and the Abubaes feuded over the region of the Pacific coast of Costa Rica, from present day Quepos to the frontier with Panama. Today, the Boruca are a composite group of nearly 2500 people, formed by the descendants of the dispersed tribes, who are said to have survived the invasion thanks to the aid of natural spirits.

Despite crowning a captivating mountain range and proudly boasting a phenomenally picturesque cultural tradition, Boruca is dreadfully indistinct from any ordinary Costa Rican town. Granted, this characteristic has positive and negative aspects.  

The first indigenous reserve to receive government aide, Boruca has been endowed with electricity, well equipped schools and a centralized structure for a quarter century. The view, otherwise rural and organic; adorned with banana-leaf-roofed ranchos, is abhorrently obstructed with cables, a massive cross, satellite dishes and a devastating amount of garbage.

Tourists, often deceived into visiting insipid cultural sites, may consider the town fairly unexceptional if they visit during any other time of the year. But, peculiarly coinciding with the end of the Christian year, from the evening of December 30^th until the twilight of January 2^nd, the Borucas celebrate the Fiesta de los Diablitos (Festival of the Little Devils) in commemoration of their survival against the forces of Spanish conquistadors. This ritual with a side of party and a pinch of brawl is anything but dull. The festivity is a flaming showcase of their culture and spirit.

Minutes before midnight on December 30^th, the town’s elder summons all the diablitos – basically any male over 15 years old – to his house. 

Once there, the diablitos commence parading the town stopping at every house to drink chicha (fermented corn liquor) and eat tamales. The diablitos wear intricate hand-carved and painted balsa wood masks and burlap sacks covered with jute and banana leaves. The procession is marked by the relentless collisions against a bull – a few of the men take turns carrying a heavy costume and bashing the diablitos– which represents the Spaniards.

The name ‘diablitos’, the horned masks, and the fighting symbolize the shrewdness, guile, courage and ardor that served them so well in resisting invading forces, while the sharing of drinks and food is indicative of their undeniable hospitality, not only among themselves, but with the few tourists who venture into the town to witness this astonishing display.

The masks are the main attraction and source of income throughout the year, when the diablitos drop their costumes and work in the fields, in San Jose or manufacturing masks and totems. However, during the festivity, it’s the evolving interaction with the bull that draws the most attention, as the diablitos, increasingly inebriated and aggressive, rampantly quarrel with the 40kg structure of the bull.

Adding to the uniquely vibrant imagery of Boruca during these dates, each diablito proudly and carefully carves and paints his own mask with colorful feathers, dramatic images of trees, flowers, animals and of course, hostile, menacing horns. Each mask is exclusively ornate, especially during the pinnacle of the feast, on January 2^nd, when approximately 100 locals dress up and taunt the bull until it eventually gains ground and takes down all the diablitos. 

Then, the bull runs away, but the diablitos, inspired by the animal spirits that aided them centuries ago, rise from the dead, hunt down the bull and toss it into a blistering fire as they soar around the flames celebrating the victory. The revelry that ensues is even more exhilarating than in the previous nights, as the citizens of Boruca put on their best outfits and party well into the night.

So far we’ve had the chance to meet members of three different indigenous groups, while visiting two reserves. Despite being branded with the name ‘indigenous’, each of these groups is very different from the others, not only regarding cultural characteristics such as language, art and organization of society, but also with respect to progress and development – where they find themselves at this moment in history. 

Their openness to the world outside their barriers, their knowledge of world events, acceptance of tourism and external influences, as well as other aspects beyond their endemic culture are shaping their societies in ways undeterminably good or bad. Time will be the judge.

These groups continue to be called indigenous but the meaning and usage of this word has loosely dissipated in modern times. The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines indigenous as “having originated in and being produced, growing, or living naturally in a particular region or environment”.  

As for ‘indigenous peoples’, there is no universally accepted definition, but according to Wikipedia, there are three elements used to describe the term: the voluntary perpetuation of cultural distinctiveness, an experience of subjugation, marginalization and dispossession, and self-identification. However, according to these two definitions, most of the world’s population is indigenous. Surely, there must be something more to the essence of the word.

Colloquially, ‘indigenous’ is used to describe a close relationship with nature, respect for all things living, separation from the modern urban society, and the upholding of ancient traditions as core community values. Through the experiences of the last few months we have come to the realization that perhaps ‘indigenous’ is no longer a term to define a place of origin, but rather a way of living, a philosophy and a sentiment.

The indigenous people of Boruca, as well as many others throughout the world are in danger of extinction. ‘Being indigenous’ is not passed on genetically. It requires education, reason, sacrifice and determination.

Thus, the inhabitants of Boruca will continue to be called indigenous because they live in the land that their ancestors fought and cared for, and have the physical traits of their parents; but must of them won’t be indigenous in regards to the colloquial understanding of the word – unless they consciously choose so.

‘Being indigenous’ is not about being different, about suffering from marginalization and racism, but about preserving the unique and valuable elements of their ancestry. We’ve met many ‘indigenous people’ who do not enjoy a traditional way of living, or who do not respect nature, just as there are many ‘non-indigenous people’ throughout the world who share the indigenous philosophy.

Progress will come not through imposing or opening the doors to the modern world, but by building a bridge through which education, information and respect can travel both ways.

Infiltrated volunteers: Matapalo

It’s remarkably inspiring to witness the amount of people who gladly sacrifice their time, and often money, to become part of a cause much larger than themselves. Since arriving in San Isidro in early December, we have had the chance to meet and work with several volunteers. Whether they are committing their efforts entirely selflessly or as a way to expand their knowledge on a specific subject, the result is undeniably constructive.

Volunteering is able to decrease the disparities in society, such as poverty, segregation and exclusion. The pillars of volunteerism; solidarity and commitment are comforting constants upon which we can rely as the driving force for the crucial adjustments we must make to our way of living; both as individuals and as a society. The principles of volunteerism are remarkably pertinent in increasing the competence of those exposed, vulnerable and weak so they can attain a safe and sustainable living situation as well as to improve their physical, financial, spiritual and social well-being. 

Although by many standards we are considered volunteers, we have decided to create a different term for our specific situation to be able to differentiate ourselves from the many charitable people we have crossed during our work at Planet Conservation. We have recently begun calling ourselves “freelance volunteers”. By no means do we intend to emphasize our work with this differentiation. In fact, our work lacks any real, or quantitative, value until we finish the journey and are able to produce substantial and defined conclusions, while ‘regular’ volunteering yields direct results.

In fact, we began calling ourselves this rather pompous name when we attempted to explain the type of work we have been doing and not many people seemed to understand that we have traveled here on our own account. While we have the most sincere respect for genuine eco-volunteering and ‘voluntourism’, we are not in the business of paying to do work. Our trip has different goals.

The benefit of being freelance volunteers is that – so far – we cohabit and collaborate with a broad assortment of people with different perspectives, backgrounds, ideas and knowledge and learn about countless topics. By volunteering with different organizations, we can improve our understanding of the obstacles, the solutions and the issues faced by enterprises intended to promote and improve the global well-being.

We do not intend to limit our work to foundations, NGOs, or government projects. It has been repeatedly but appropriately recognized that small acts can have a huge impact. Groups of organized neighbors, families and even individuals can immensely influence other people’s lives, communities and the habitat that surrounds them. These actions, born out of altruism are perhaps more effective than those of massive, institutionalized, bureaucratic organizations.

After only one week of living in San Isidro we got to discover just how powerful a relatively small act can become. Not only in the purpose of the act itself, but in the economic and moral improvement of a whole community.

Twenty-five years ago, in Matapalo, a small fishing village in the Pacific coast of Costa Rica, a humble, ordinary family dared to confront a shortsighted and selfish tradition and changed the future of a whole town and innumerable creatures. The mother, thoughtful and loving as mothers ought to be, acknowledged a problem where others only saw food and business. Attentive, she had witnessed how year after year, the sea turtle arrivals in the colossal esplanade of Playa Matapalo were no longer counted in the thousands. The locals, who eagerly awaited turtle season to consume and sell the delicious and expensive eggs, had perhaps never considered that those eggs would eventually grow to be the turtles that fed them.

Moved by what she considered a problem of utmost significance, she convinced her family to build a makeshift hatchery in their backyard. Judiciously, they would patrol the beach at night in search of nesting mothers. As the turtles placidly descended towards the ocean after finishing the phenomenal, yet arduous task of laying eggs, they would run in and carefully excavate the camouflaged pits and take the eggs to the hatchery, where they could shelter the hundreds of unborn hatchlings from menacing predators.

The family turned a deaf ear to the complaints, threats and general unhappiness of their fellow citizens and continued with this process for nearly 6 years until, in 1991, a local Costa Rican Organization stepped in and elevated the project to another level. Now, the ASVO Matapalo Turtle Conservation Program is the oldest communal turtle conservation project in the nation's Pacific coast. An area which once suffered a 100% loss of nests is now down to almost zero.

Our placement at Planet Conservation was opportune enough that we were able to spend a weekend visiting the project before turtle season ended. The motive for deploying us at the Matapalo Project was to examine and analyze how a turtle conservation program operates. For three days, we lived and worked as regular volunteers in the ASVO house. We were ecstatic about the prospect of witnessing a turtle (although not an arribada, a communal arrival of hundreds of turtles for a few nights) or perhaps the birth of a nest; but our chances were faint, given that the season was practically over. Our main hope resided on the mere eight nests that remained in the hatchery.

The first night we patrolled the beach in complete darkness for two hours, covering the four kilometers under the auspices of ASVO with the guidance of a young, but experienced volunteer. Robert is one of thousands German high school graduates volunteering abroad. A sign of a progressive country headed in the right direction, the German government subsidizes young men and women who wish to expand their knowledge and gain a bit of expertise in a chosen subject before beginning the next step of their academic career.

It was too much to ask to see a turtle, but we did enjoy the serenity of walking through a misty beach depending only on the stars and a couple of fishing boats for illumination. Patrolling is only one of the many duties of the volunteers and staff. Depending on the month, various teams ranging from one to three people keep their eyes peeled as they march through the sand retrieving nests.

The other important duty is done in three turns of four hours. From dusk till dawn, teams of two must watch over the hatchery in case of births and to keep any predators – human or otherwise – away. The rest of the volunteer responsibilities are domestic, such as cleaning the house and washing the dishes.

On Saturday, our second day at the project, we participated in cleaning duties, played a rough football match on the beach and celebrated an early Christmas with the staff and volunteers, who joined hands to cook a lavish feast of local dishes. In the afternoon, we visited the edge of a natural park; where a river, a beach and a forest have created a peaceful sanctuary. We accompanied a crew of volunteers and staff to this remote location with an honorable purpose, to liberate a young raccoon. A few months back, a local farmer had brought Miko, a cub, and his sister to the ASVO volunteer home, hoping that they could heal their wounds. Miko, unable to bury his instincts, had grown into a young, quarrelsome and rebellious pet. Sadly, the female didn’t survive surgery. After a passionate debate, the staff had decided that the most humane solution was to set him free.

On our second and final night we were appointed to guard the hatchery from midnight until four in the morning. Since we didn’t want to miss the possible, but improbable birth of baby turtles, we asked the volunteers taking the first shift to warn us in case of any hatchings. To their surprise, they encountered a nest full of nervous hatchlings, zealously waiting to flee for the open ocean.

 With the fresh, luscious taste of passion fruit mousse lingering in our palates, we eagerly bequeathed our unfinished plates and sprinted towards the hatchery.

Methodically, but unable to conceal our enthusiasm, we counted the 85 newborns and moved them to the beach in a large container. Our hands were tremulous with excitement, as we set the bucket down six meters from the water and carefully placed every single courageous little creature on the sand. Once the last of the instinctive wanderlusters had departed, the nervous giggle we had uttered throughout the process was suddenly amplified into a triumphant, exuberant laughter to escort the turtles past the breaking waves as it echoed in the dark.

We couldn’t help but compare our lives to those of the valiant young turtles. The adorable, even jocular display is a rather didactic event for us. Yet to taste the sweet tenderness of a mother’s care, they must confront many of nature’s most bitter lessons. The friable pack embarks without any deliberation on a quest towards a most unsure and ambiguous objective; life. Granted, instinct, not reason, is the driving force of their actions. But wouldn’t our lives be more valuable, and worth living if we devoted them to do what we know to be right without fear of the obstacles that may stand in our path?

Cahuita

Lulled by the sound of calypso and reggae drifting through the heat of eternal summer, Cahuita lies in tranquility between Limon, the most important port of the South Caribbean; and Puerto Viejo, a haven for nonconformist renegades, surfers, tourists and backpackers. It is is escorted by an uninhibited, paradisaical black sand beach to the northwest and the monumental jungle of the Cahuita National Park to the southeast. This minuscule town is, metaphorically and geographically, wedged between two worlds.

Originally, the animals that are currently found in the National Park roamed freely, exempt from hunters. Visitors are easily delighted by the sloths, caymans, monkeys, snakes and several species of colorful birds that approach the jungle path conquered by ants and mosquitoes.

However, the green and hawksbill turtles that once chose the secluded shore to lay their eggs have long been absent from this breathtaking ecosystem.
In the 1750s, when only the most fearsome pirates dared navigate through the sheltering reef outlining the coast, the Miskito Indians of Nicaragua traveled south following the migration patterns of sea turtles in search of food. By 1828 they had permanently settled in the prominent tip, naming it “kawe” “ta”, or “point where the Sangrillo trees grow.” The sangrillo trees were of special significance to the new dwellers, for they used the red sap emanating from the trunks to dye their fishing nets, thus avoiding the reflection of the sun on the nets through the pristine waters.

In the 19^th century, the slave ships traveling near the coast often collided with the treacherous reef. The natives, attentive and considerate, rescued the auspicious survivors who had just evaded a life of forced labor in the cocoa plantations. This altruistic practice gave birth to the current community of Afro-Caribbeans that give Cahuita its soul and essence. Today, the exotic cuisine, the long dreaded surfers, and the centenary, colorful wooden houses built on pillars serve as reminders of the town’s heritage. 
However, the traditional carefree demeanor of the Afro-Caribbean population has transformed into a lazy and detached attitude which has paved the roads of the picturesque town for foreigners trying to escape from their stressed and burdened lives. 

Increasingly, local businesses and jobs are seized by Europeans and North Americans, who arrive with more capital and proficiency. While the locals complain about the lack of job opportunities, the new residents blame them for their lack of interest and organization.

Nonetheless, there is one local whose interest in the progress of the community is unquestionable and whose struggle and determination are exemplary despite his years. His name is Winston Brooks. In an ironic parallel to his restaurant, whose superb quality is not demonstrated by its usually void tables, Winston is a man who projects intelligence and vigor beyond his humble and rusty appearance. "A duck wishing to be a chicken," he prefers the life of a farmer despite his private education and versed dialect. Thus, he hermits away in his farm, choosing the other Cahuita. The one that smells of sugarcane, labor and tar.

Although there is much to reveal about Winston and Cahuita's internal issues, we must first explain how we arrived at his doorstep.

On the morning of November 29^th, we found ourselves wistfully but eagerly descending the mountain in pursue of our next adventure; leaving behind not just a remarkable family, but friends that would live in our hearts forever. Before exiting the Indigenous Territory, we picked up Irene, the campestral and buoyant Spanish teacher at the local high school. We had helped Irene with personal and professional matters during our time there, and in return, she put us in contact with Winston, who gladly invited us to stay at his Posada. As the usual route was obstructed by the flooded river, we were 

forced to deviate and hike for three hours through an infamous location known for armed robberies which ended with a hanging bridge much more frightening than any delinquent.
For this reason, we accompanied Irene on the way out, as Leo guided us through the dodgy, yet scenic trail.

After a hasty goodbye with Irene, one of many in our incipient journey, we arrived safely in Limon, following a quiet bus ride with Leo, as the three of us certainly contemplated our imminent farewell. Although we had lunch with Leo in Limon, the lingering feeling of separation made the meal a delay of events rather than an enjoyable final feast. Happily, before we realized, we were stepping off a bus in an intriguing new destination with an incurable air of summer bliss; Cahuita.

In Cahuita, we were met by Sonia, a spiritual nomad with a distinct Spanish guise. As she would likely say, life had taken her there, where she lived in Winston’s ancestral home with her boyfriend and Winston’s ex-wife, Lucy.

The home, worthy of a museum, is a 150 year old wooden structure which appears to stand on wishful thinking and temperament, rather than firm foundations. Adjacent to it is the Posada; erected but unpainted, and the restaurant; full with potential rather than clients.

During our time there, we walked through the streets, spent hours in the idyllic white beach of the national park and befriended a few charming locals, who were pleased to converse with visitors concerned with local events. Apart from being devoured by mosquitoes and marveling at the devastating force of the laboring ants, we spotted a baby sloth, iguanas, a basilisk, troops of howler monkeys and white-faced capuchins, caymans and a friendly talking parrot.

Whenever Winston was able, we would sit down with him and enjoy a captivating conversation about local politics, imperialism, or any relevant topic about which he could offer an opinionated view. During the day, he would work in his organic plantation, where he took us once so we could learn about the difference between bananas and plantains and how to plant them.

Our experience in Cahuita was brief yet unforgettable. There, we met all kinds of interesting characters with incredible backgrounds and stories. Its rich diversity – despite its minute size – is both an obstacle towards communal understanding and progress and an attraction for tourists of any kind. Its cultural and natural wealth is an ocean of fascinating creatures and tales, where one can spend days upon days wading through stories and adventures before realizing that time has swiftly gone by.