Part 3

I originally tried to find employment in CR with various English schools, but everyone wants to live in Costa Rica, and they don’t handout too many work permits. So I soon realized that in order to spend time out there I would have to volunteer.

I am going to Costa Rica with an organization called WorldTeach who send volunteers across the world to teach English. They come under the department for Research at Harvard University, and I had to write two essays, have two written references, and pass an interview to get on the program. This of course was followed by a rather large fee.

The fee includes a one month intensive induction where we learn how to teach, how to speak Spanish and where the hospital is. Apparently there is more, but this is all I have been told so far. Then I will go to my very cool placement out on the coast in a village called Garza where I will teach a school of 27 kids English. WorldTeach will provide me with support through out the year, and generally look after me! Somebody wrote me an email wishing me luck and stating that they hoped I made it past January – Thanks mate for your confidence, I hope so too.

I met up with a couple of the girls who will be going to Costa Rica with me. I was really nervous about this given the people I had encountered in the shopping malls. But they seem really normal. In fact they seem pretty cool. Everyone is really enthusiastic about what they are doing, and they have all put in a lot of thought about what to take, and what to bring with them for the children and families.

People keep asking me if I am excited. I am not really sure. At the moment, I miss everyone in London. I even occasionally miss work, but that is usually fleeting and I have had eight or nine glasses of wine by that point! I don’t know anyone in Boston – except Latin man, and he could be the wrong psycho to give my number to. So I am pretty lonely here which makes me needy and tough for my family to be around. I also have to fly again, which I am dreading. And with American Airlines who always crash. Any crash – and somehow its related to AA. They are hopeless (touch large amounts of wood).

And there are all these doubts. What if I am a terrible teacher with no imagination? What if I hate it as much as I hated working with my old job? And believe me there is no greater hell on earth. What if my family hate me, and think I am a horrible person and make the rest of the town hate me. I can picture it now, a slight misunderstanding where I call the mother a whore instead of a hero or some other such language error. It would have the three hundred large town talking for weeks, and I would have to walk on hot coals before they would forgive me.

I keep thinking that I should practice my Spanish, but I don’t think I could cope. I am sure that I would regret this, but that’s life I guess. As my Dad says: lead me chin! And the rest will sort it self out later.

Part Two

My parents have recently moved to Boston. I may not be a true Australian, and I may be an almost Brit but I am definitely, definitely not American. While I have some very good American friends, most of them are Canadian, or South American. It’s a very small minority of people from the USA who I would be proud to introduce to my mates at the Vic. I am currently spending Christmas holidays with them (my parents) in between leaving London and moving to Costa Rica.

I walk into the shopping mall, and my experience as a Californian comes screaming back. As people look at me I am convinced that they know. They know that I don’t shave my legs, that I may be wearing the same clothes as I did yesterday (not underwear), and that I haven’t washed my hair in the past three hours. And deep down they are horrified and disgusted. I hang my head in shame, and run.

Or the woman on the T (a tram like machine which they call a “train” but surely a train is far classier than that shanty thing) who mumbled incoherently to move to count my change so the other passenger could get on. When I didn’t understand what she said and continued to stand where I was she started yelling at me to MOVE, and to not BE SO RUDE, and I should DO WHAT SHE SAYS. Several responses came to mind.

Hey nasty features, I see that this miniscule amount of power which you wield so mightily really gets you off. Or better still I couldn’t understand you, maybe if you spoke English instead of some crappy insider language, you wouldn’t have these communication issues.

At that moment, I really missed my phone, because there was a customer services number on the wall, and I would have eaten raw brussel sprouts to see her face when I called: “Hi, I would like to put in a complaint about EXCUSE ME WHAT’S YOUR NAME?? Yes, that’s right, I would like to complain about [x]. Surely given the environmental issues in today’s world, Customer Services on a train line should be one of your key priorities?”

Of course this or something doubly witty would have been said at the top of my voice so every one could hear me complaining. All the Brits/Aussies on the train would stand up and cheer. Finally! Instead of a loud American on the Underground, a loud British sounding person on the T!

Instead I mumbled that I was sorry and shuffled embarrassedly to my seat. I hate America. Americans are idiots. What a bunch of twats.

So I am walking down Newbury Street (the main shopping street in Boston),and I am looking for summer sandals. Given that it is the 4th January and negative two degrees outside, people’s faces are slightly incredulous when I ask if they have anything in stock.

I walk into this one store, and on a budget of $100.00 I feel slightly intimidated when I lift up one pair of finely made shoes which cost $240.00. Nevertheless I walk bravely upstairs, and keep looking. As you can tell, I am in a foul mood, and I have discovered the wonders of a curt English accent when dissuading friendly (confrontational) sales assistants. Not this time. A very sexy young Latin man-all-man wants to know where am I from. What will I be doing in these sandals? Costa Rica really?

He is half Italian, half Dominican Republic, just finishing his degree in Computer Science, plays the guitar and is very open minded about music. Oh yeah, and he would like to take me dancing. But I am not very good, I protest, and I only have four days left in the country and besides I live in Hopkinton (miles away from Boston). He lives in the next town and he wants to call me. Not having ever been come onto so blatantly before, I said yes, handed over my email address, telephone number, blushed and fled.

I love America. America rocks. I could live here forever. What a cool bunch of people.

Part 1 -Extra!

I have just been given my placement details for Costa Rica, and though (hoped) you might be interested in knowing where I will be next year.

Its a little village of 300 people on the Nicoya Peninsular call Garza. There will be 36 kids in my school and the largest class will be about 11. The climate there is hot hot hot, and rainy season runs from October to November (eat your heart out). The closest town to me is Samara - which is a slightly larger tourist village - where I can get emergency supplies but it will be very expensive. I will have to travel into the mountains to Nicoya for (cheap) supplies and email. Apparently the girl before me did this once a week and hopefully I will be able to too!

More importantly: Road surfaces in this area are mainly dirt paths, although it will be possible to ride a bike along them. San Jose the capital city is six hours away provided I catch the ferry, and nine if I miss it (so travelling in to skate wont be possible). Oh well, I took up skating because I couldnt swim . . . and now I can swim.

On the subject of my mobile phone - the family that I will be living with wont have a phone, nor a fax. The closest phone to me will be at the general store. I hated my cellphone weakness anyway . . .!

I dont know what else to tell you except that I am a little nervous now, because everything I say, do, eat will be gossiped about so I am going to have to behave. Its also not really culturally acceptable to have male friends, so I cant be one of the boys! ;-)
 

I am on holiday and to celebrate this, I am publishing all of my letters that I wrote to my friends in 2002 when I was a volunteer in Costa Rica. 

Part 1

I am not really Australian.

I mean I still get a cloggy throat, and tears well up in my eyes as the  lyrics “I still call Australia home” float through my head. And as the plane swoops over the familiar spectacular landscape I remind myself that I want to live here for the rest of my life. But I haven’t been back in over four years. When people mention obsolete towns in remote corners of Victoria I feel inferior for surely a real Australian would know every town in their country, and if not their state, or at least a couple of suburbs in the city that they were apparently born?

Not me. I moved to San Francisco when I was 12, and we stayed there for two and a half years. This was a grueling and torturous experience that left scars, but more about that later. Three months before we left my father announced that we would be moving to Chile and I would live with them for one year after which I was sentenced to three years at an all girls private boarding school: Presbyterians Ladies College. I am sure this left scars, but apart from occasionally finding a woman attractive, I haven’t discovered any! And before you draw any conclusions, No I am not a lesbian, and yes I have kissed a girl, but no it hasn’t gone any further and nor have I had any fantasy’s to take it further!

The stint at boarding school involved spending weekends at a very protective grandmother’s, who when we lived in California was convinced that I could have been kidnapped walking 100m’s in front of her on the main street. Needless to say she didn’t like me going too far out in her back yard because there were weirdoes in the woods behind. I didn’t mind this too much, because I thought those woods were pretty creepy too, but I did mind the absolute boredom.

What about homework my father would ask, naively as if to imply that he used to work really hard at school. Sure Dad, it was a lot of fun, but I have finished it all and now I am bored. I well and truly got caught out for those lies.

In order to rein as Queen of Homework Procrastination I became a brilliant gardener. You have never eaten such delicious wild strawberries, nor smelt such sweet Jasmine. Ok the grape vine didn’t fare so well, and all the Pansies died. But who needs grapes and little purple flowers anyway?

So its no surprise to anyone that I fled to England to avoid all family and pursue my degree at Keele in England. Actually I really wanted to go to Royal Holloway because apparently Jason Donovan had played at the student union. Thankfully my parents decided to move to London at the same time I started university so I was forced to go further north to avoid all parental discipline. There I discovered that a pound for a double (of Vodka) was a truly wonderful thing, and Faithless were slightly more talented than Jason Donovan. Oh and never eat spaghetti and then drink five pints of cider if you are not used to it. I did that my first night, and if you have ever had worms . . . .

So in my second year of university I was dating this guy, who shall be known as Small. When I first met Small I was overwhelmed by his sophisticated sexiness. He wore blazers to university and smoked cigars. He was half Swedish, half Sri Lankan, with dark skin, big brown eyes and straight teeth. I was intimidated by his dry humour (which I later discovered meant jokes where he laughed at other people), his intelligence (i.e. he could write an essay), and his worldliness (insecure arrogance and vanity). In the space of a summer we had moved in together, I cooked, he ironed, he was more intelligent, I was taller, he was fitter, I should wear shorter skirts, he had cool friends, he was right my friends were idiots, and I ditched them all.

Towards the end of our relationship we had some incredibly abusive arguments which involved screaming at each other, lying, chucking from crying and throwing things at each other. In May, eleven months after our first kiss and two weeks before I started my exams, Small decides that we should end it now, and he takes me out for coffee and dumps me in the middle of a restaurant.

I used to think that this was the ultimate insult you could deliver to a woman, until my boss dumped his chick of three months by text message.

So I moved in with some people who used to be my friends. Somebody with a big heart let me sleep in his room rent free after he moved out. One of my mates, who I now rate very highly, sat with me every morning patting me on the shoulder while I cried. I went to the counselor who sent me to the doctor for sleeping pills to stop the hallucinating and sleep walking. I went to the hairdressers who practically shaved my head and sent me to the health food store for St Johns Wart and Rescue Remedy. A different friend lent me her notes for the year, and took me out of the house to get air, and let the other housemates breath. Another friend told me that Small had found another woman. And yet another friend helped me get revenge.

I don’t know how it works in the USA, but in University and certainly with BT you can get your voicemails from any phone if you know the codes. Of course I knew all the codes to Smalls phone. After all it had been mine.

This mate, a male I hasten to add, because this little anecdote does refer to size, changed the answering machine message and left this:
     “Hi, you have reached Small’s tiny penis and Heck! I make all the decisions now so leave a message with me. [Singing] Tiny penis boy, tiny tiny penis boy BEEP”

I heard a year later that not only had Smalls closest mates heard this message, but their girlfriends, their friends and his parents. I had thought about a variety of different ways to get revenge, but I found it hurt me more than it hurt him, so I have the list in my drawer if anyone ever needs to borrow it. In fact my counselor suggested sewing prawns into his curtains, so when they went off he wouldn’t know where the smell was coming from.

Needless to say I failed my exams. And that summer while my family were off in rainy wintry Australia I was back at Keele studying for resits. As was my mate, who will read this so lets call her Luna, had also had problems with a male with faithful issues, we were on common ground and that’s why she was also back at Keele. We were discussing what we wanted to do with the rest of our lives post graduation day. Luna announced that she was going to South America for the year. I’ll come I said. Really she asked. Yep.

So this is how I came to be becoming an Australian in Costa Rica. My Dad says that I lead with my chin. Jump in, think later. This could be why I have a perpetual state of foot in mouth disease or why I spent most of September wondering what kind of nut would leave a well paid job, and nice house with awesome people, and a great circle of friends to go live in a mud hut for year in the middle of bugger all with no pay!

This has kept me entertained all day.