Puno, Lake Titicaca, Colca Valley, and Arequipa

In mid-October we took a double-decker bus from Cuzco to Puno.  That trip took us through huge glacial valleys and to the shore of Lake Titicaca at 3,800 meters (12,500 feet) above sea level.  From Puno we took a small boat to the floating islands of Uros. These communities are small floating islands composed of totora marsh reeds.  However, the Uros people have very much responded to the demand of tourism at the expense of what one might call “cultural authenticity.”  Although it is very commercial and some of them are living on the mainland, it is at least unionized work for them and everyone gets a fair share of the tourist demand—the tourist’s lust for the exotic floating islands.

Back on the boat, we spent 2.5 hours going 45 kilometers across Lake Titicaca to the island of Taquile.  At that altitude, we were panting on the way up the island to our home-stays.  Doña Rosa, my taquileña host mother, made the ascent effortlessly while spinning alpaca wool on a hand spindle.  Since the island was undergoing a community effort to build a new thoroughfare (foot and cart only—no cars on the island), some of the students from our group had to stay with other students as well.  I was with a very relaxed friend of mine and the atmosphere of the home-stay was more along the lines of a family-integrated stay in a hostel.  We hiked up to the small ruins at the top of the island and watched the sun set from there.  Amid our awe of the blues, oranges, and pinks, we realized we were inadequately dressed for nighttime at 4,000 meters (13,100 feet).

That night, we attended an offering to Pachamama (mother-earth) ceremony and played music around the fire.  Our respective families saw fit to dress us in their typical taquileño clothing.  We ended up in loopy white shirts with a Mediterranean feel, tiny vests that just covered our armpits, wide “chumpi” sashes, and warm hats that actually bore the colors of a married man.

In the morning, after worshipping the sunrise and eating whole some fried Ispi (small fish 2 inches long), we left Taquile.  On the boat on the way back to Puno, the high-altitude sunshine was frying us as well, so we decided to dive into this lake of lakes.  Its water is usually about in the lower 50’s F and thus steals one’s breath upon submersion.  Nobody spent too long in the water, and the algae-covered rudder was the only way of back onboard.  After frigid wind, warm sun, and many frantic pushups, I was dry and comfortable.

The next day we all mounted the bus again and headed to Chivay: a small town upstream from the Colca Canyon.  There we had class and decided where we were to be distributed within the Colca valley.  That was when I learned that our program had no plans to take us to the Cruz del Condor—the prime viewing spot for the Andean Condor.  I quickly started making some noise and rubbing up some mutiny within the group.  The next morning, our administrators informed us that we had a 50% chance of getting there.  Better than nothing.

Off on a small bus, I was dropped in the Colca valley in the small agricultural community of Ichupampa.  My parents Neli and Victor really did take me in—this time more as a child than a guest in a hostel.  We made multiple trips to the chakra with the donkeys carrying potato seed.  In the mornings, the small irrigation ditches were frozen.  After dropping off the seeds, we planted them the next day.  The sowing (la siembra) is a day-long process entailing lunch on the chakra and the assistance of the local man who owns two oxen and a plough.  We had a ball that day and drank chicha to stay hydrated and fend of faintheartedness.  The chicha (this one was a mix of fermented corn and barley) is slightly alcoholic.  They let the gringo try his hand at the plough.  I could not keep the plough straight and I veered both left and right of center.  Nothing was broken and we all had a good laugh; the oxen, of course, said nothing.

During my free time I would hike the nearby hills in search of the giant hummingbird.  Just as the natural flora begin above the altitude where cultivation and irrigation end, so does the natural fauna.  The prickly pear cactus is prime for the giant hummingbirds to feed from.  Their wingspan is about five or six inches and they are very meaty as hummingbirds go.

At some point during that home stay we received word that we WOULD in fact be going to the Cruz del Condor.  Great success!  When we were painfully extracted from our respective communities in the Colca valley, we went to the Cruz del Condor.  The trick is to get there at about 8:30—right when the air starts getting warmer and forming updrafts for the condors to ascend out of the canyon and warm up in the sun.  What a show it was!  Since the tourist infested point is right above their nests, they rise every morning to the sun and glinting camera lenses.  They did not, however, seem perturbed and they soared silently and even perched on a promontory just in front of the lens-wielding masses.  The terrible skeptic might propose that they had been trained to do so!

From Colca we made our way a couple hours by bus to Arequipa.  There we had class and I mostly did homework as we had a volley of assignments due promptly upon our return to Cuzco.  The central plaza of Arequipa, however, dazzles with lights and the city has many white buildings made from the white volcanic rock formed by the volcanoes that overlook the city.

After sprinting about the country on that journey and turning in the various assignments, I was exhausted.  So, with a quick stop-off in Cuzco, my friend Eric and I decided to get out to Peru’s north coast and take a breath.

Iquitos and Yarina: the Jungle!

We had a ball in la selva!  The time we had in Iquitos city was calm and mostly filled with lectures.  However, when we got some time off I managed to link up with Tío Pepe and his son Jose-Andres at their house for lunch one day.  They are doing well and have given me the OK for staying with them during November for my independent study.  Three cheers for steady-headed family on this side.  That night, Jose-Andres and I went out for some typical local grub.  Tacacho, juanes, and anticucho; plantain with pork, rice and chicken, and beef heart respectively. 

The next day we packed off early on a bus along the newly constructed road to Nauta the small port city two hours south.  In Nauta the group split up to hop on boats to our communities: 15 students off to Veinte de Enero and 11 off to Yarina.  I went to Yarina because of the smaller group size, smaller community size, and location three times further away from "civilization" than the other.  The boat rides were definitely a highlight.  From Nauta we struck south upon the Río Marañon until we turned onto the much smaller Yanayacu river.  This confluence is where we crossed the border from brown to black water and also where we entered the Pacaya Samiria Reserve.  After a quick stop at the Veinte de Enero community, we continued on to Yarina.  In short, every minute in transit was enjoyable.

As soon as we entered the reserve, we began to see birds.  First, we saw a huge heron called the Uchpa Garza (Ceniza Garza or Ash Heron).  It is very similar to the great blue but it is ash colored; uchpa is ash in Quechua.  There were also more normally sized, white herons and the striking Puma Garza, called so for its dappled brown and black plumage.  Just before arriving at the community we startled three capibaras.  They ran out of the forest to the water, saw us barreling along, and then retreated.

The next day we had class in the morning and then played with the community´s children in the rain.  We soon realized the extent of development of the community.  The 110 people of Yarina are--with a few exceptions--mestizo, Spanish-speaking, and dressed in occidental clothing.  So this was good for amending the gringo´s "indigenous ideal," as it has come to be known.  They mostly practice subsistence agriculture with a couple trips a month to the market in Nauta to sell fish and buy salt and cooking oil.  The reserve’s rules concerning resource extraction prevent excessive exploitation.

That first afternoon we went a couple minutes up the Yanayacu and stomped about among the walking trees.  Just during that day we saw roughly two dozen collared kingfishers!  Also, I saw a red hawk known as the gavilan mama vieja.  Among the various trees our guide showed us was the caucho.  It was intense to actually run my fingers through the scarifications made for the latex harvesting.  The massacres of the Putumayo are very present in my thoughts.

The next day we got up early and shot deeper into the reserve.  On the boat ride there we saw a wealth of birds.  Tiny yellow Victor Diaz kiskadee, brown sun bitterns (tanrillas), and also two caracaras.  We got off the boat and began a trek through the dark, wet undergrowth.  The cachapona trees with the large, triangular, buttressing roots were quite majestic and also provided the seclusion of a pissoir.  Then our guide took us to a little creek and we heard some very strange bird calls.  We looked up and were blessed with four shanshos (hoatzins).  They are red-rufous with an orange crest, eat only leaves and fruit, and are apparently pre-historic or something to that effect. 

At that point we packed in the boat again to go a bit further to a place for swimming.  It turns out that this place at the confluence with a small tributary is where the bufeo colorado likes to swim!  We finally got out of our sweaty, repellent-covered clothes and swam very near these striking pink dolphins.  While our guides caught fish with their hands at this little oasis, we watched the bufeos—two of them sometimes doing some synchronized surfacing.  We then went back to shore and to fish for a while.  We caught about ten piranhas and ate them for dinner!

The sun set and we set off to find some caimanes.  It turns out that our guide Toni can call to them.  A low, loud gulping noise.  We caught the red eyes of a few of them and then we fixed one full in the light of a flashlight.  After we had a good look and proceeded on down the river, Toni started shouting to the helmsman "left, right, left, right!"  We lurched forward as the boat hit the shore and we saw Toni leap off of the prow.  Up he stood with a 3.5 foot caiman in his hands.  One would have thought he had placed it there.  Needless to say, Toni was a great guide.

Next we passed a few days in Miraflores, Lima.  Lectures continued and we made a round about the historic center.  The neo-baroque architecture was quite a contrast from the mosquito nets back in Yarina.

Now we are back in Cuzco and have begun Quechua classes!  Quechua, the language of the Incas, is quite difficult to take in, but it’s the best kind of challenge.  We are just getting past salutations and counting.  The most fun of all, however, is speaking/being baffled by Quechua at the breakfast table with my host-mother and grandmother!

El Valle Sagrado y Tipon

At four this afternoon I fly out to Iquitos, so here is a rapid-fire post of my most recent adventures.  We will actually get to spend some time with an indigenous community: the Yarina in my case.  Then we will spend a couple more days in Iquitos and Lima.

This past Saturday was heavenly.  We were eight students, one knowledgeable guide, and one driver in a private van gallivanting about the Valle Sagrado.  The group of students had a nice dynamic that certainly enhanced the experience.

We began in Chincheros and saw the local weavers doing their spinning, dyeing, and looming.  The local Apus (sacred mountain peaks) blessed us with fabulous weather.  From Chincheros we proceeded to the Salineras salt mines of the small town of Maras.  Salt lagoons decorated the sodium rich valley and it looked like snow.  We were also offered the alcoholic form of chicha Peru's maize beer and most of us enjoyed it.

We then proceeded to the Moray ruins for my second time.  Our guide’s crowbar-like tongue got me into the ruins even though my boleto turistico was already used at Moray.  One of the girls in the group led us in a fifteen-minute yoga session at the bottom of the concentric terraces.  To top it off, we got to savor the sight of an Andean caracara rebuffing the high-altitude winds.

The bus smelt of palta [avocado] as we packed down deeper into the Valley past Urubamba and into Ollantaytambo.  We climbed the Ollantaytambo ruins with gusto, as they had tempted us so on the various trips past them before.  We fed off each other's excitement.  Our guide did the ruins justice and the elements did them better.  The Incas built Ollantaytambo at the confluence of the Urubamba and a tributary.  This forms a marvelous gale throughout the site.

Ultimately, we made the ascent to the Pisac ruins!  We jumped out of the bus and fell tripping up the mountain to one of the peaks above the ruins.  Eric and I were consuming the stairs, ledges, and slopes while singing at each other in something like Swahili.  We rested at the apex of a ridge overlooking the ruins, the city of Pisac, and the Urubamba River.  Only our group of eight was in the park.  The wind and cold began to whip as the sun set over the next mountain, so Eric and I started into the labyrinth of ruins and got lost for a while.  A few jumps through un-thatched roofs saw us out.

Sunday morning I made a solo mission to the ruins of Tipon.  They are about 35 minutes from Cuzco situated high upon the eastern ridge of the Valle Cusqueño.  Masterful irrigation, baths, and fountains abound--many of them continue flowing.  Leaving the park was spectacular because I stomped most of the way down a path descending the mountain toward the town of Tipon.  I was raised from my balmy siesta in a shady oasis of eucalyptus by a van on the nearby road.  I asked the three ladies for a lift.  These amiable, musician-cinematographer-vegetarian ladies took me past the city of Tipon all the way to the entrance of my neighborhood.

Cuzco has been a blast so far and navigating the city is getting progressively easier!  Now it’s time to finish packing for Iquitos.  Ciao!

Ruins Near Cuzco and a Mission to Moray

So I have been a bit slow getting this post up here, but here it is.

The first two weeks of classes went very well.  In the mornings we have language classes and in the afternoon it’s lectures on culture, archaeology, architecture, and eco-cultural connections as well as guidance for our independent study projects.  Last week I had a meeting with our advisor and my project is now rolling.  I plan to study the possible connection of the jungle city of Iquitos to the rest of the country by highway. Iquitos is so far only accessible by air or boat.

Saturday the 10th was our group mission to the ruins nearest to Cuzco.  We packed into a bus with our tourist tickets and wound our way up to the top of the city.  First we went to Tambomachay, a series of fountains flowing with spring-water.  The Incas worshipped water there.  From there we walked across the street to Puka Pukara: a hill-top fortress.  That was my first time there and it has a very majestic feeling because of its hill-top position and view of Cuzco below.  It is a very different proposition tramping ruins, feeling rock faces, and absorbing atmospheres in a group of thirty people.  From Puka Pukara we descended the hill a couple kilometers down to the small and cut-in-unmoved-stone Q’enko ruins.  In the caves underneath, we rested on the sacrificial altars.

The expanse of our next stop Saqsayhuaman allowed for solitude and thought.  Despite our administrator’s efforts and massive archaeological wisdom, she could not keep our group together to give us a tour.  This meant we could wander off to the perimeter of the ruins, chew our cud, and absorb the experience.

At the end of this day of ruins we attended a ceremony for the moon and the earth, Killa and Pachamama.  Even with the presence of our pack of camera-bearing brutes, the ceremony was well carried out and very enjoyable.  I brought palo santo and eucalyptus leaves for my offering and we interred the sacred mound.  One must “pagar la tierra.”  Pay the land for what it gives us.

I got up early Sunday morning and decided to strike out alone by bus and foot in the Valle Sagrado and about the surrounding peaks.  The kombis to Pisac from Cuzco are 5 soles and great fun.  I did not climb the Pisac ruins this time but they will be in my next post.

After relaxing there I took a bus to Chincheros and connected to the minute town called Maras.  On one of the mountains near where we stayed in Urubamba are the Inca ruins of Moray: striking, circular, agricultural terraces.  In Maras the taxistas run a luscious cartel.  Tourists get off the bus and need a ride for the 12 kilometers to the Moray ruins.  30 soles round trip for gringos.  6 soles for locals.  Taxista shenanigans notwithstanding, my taxista Roger (Ro-yer) spoke lots of Spanish to me and jibed me in Quechua.  The Moray ruins are very tranquil in comparison with the other ruins that are less obscure/difficult to find.  The tactility of the sky, the snowy peaks (sacred apus), and the mountain-pass silence struck me most on the mission to Moray.

Urubamba, Machu Picchu, and Arrival in Cuzco

When I landed in Cuzco and stomped out into the brisk 11,000 ft-high air, the program coordinators were calling out to me by name.  From the airport we shot directly off to Urubamba city in the Sacred Valley for a couple days of orientation.  That drive is spectacular: out of Cuzco, along the mountain pass, and down into the Sacred Valley.  The view and the altitude of the high Andean plains are breathtaking.  When we got to the hotel of dainty cottages and flowers, the rest of the students were waiting for us to begin lunch.  Too many names and introductions ensued.

Much of our time in the small town of Urubamba was spent in an orientation presentation or at the table.  We had some great ceviche down on the town’s miniscule main drag.  One day we were commissioned to survey the Andean cereals in the nearby town of Ollantaytambo.  After pestering the helpful ladies in the market with questions about cultivation and preparation of these cereals, we went for a saunter about the town.  We did not have time to enter the Ollantaytambo ruins that day, but we did steal in the side entrance and shoot a couple pictures.

And what of Machu Picchu?  If we count the time when I was three months old, I have just visited it for the third time.  The group anticipation of the adventure was great fun.  Upon arrival we took a guided tour of the ruins.  Our guide Esmeralda was great fun and she agreed to speak Spanish to us.  Then the wind and rain began.  When we finished the tour, some of the SIT students left Machu Picchu for the warmth of the Aguas Calientes hot springs at the bottom of the mountain.

About fifteen of us remained in the park for another 1.5 hours.  We shot up to the top where the stereotypical MP pictures are taken from.  The clouds were rolling in and out the ruins with dramatic speed.  From there we headed over to the trail to the Inka Bridge from which you can see and hear the Urubamba River roar down toward its Amazonian fate.  Soon thereafter the rain ceased and we had a ball with the llamas placed in the park for gringo enjoyment.  I am a gringo and I got enjoyment from them.  Also, if I were a llama, I imagine I would prefer the green terraces of Machu Picchu to the various other alternatives.  Besides the llamas, we actually had the company of a couple meaty lizards and a chinchilla.  Roughly twenty minutes before our bus back down to Aguas Calientes, the sun emerged.  That offered a sweet bite of low-angle sunlight for our final thoughts and pictures.

The train back to Ollantaytambo featured a clown-demon dancing with some of the female passengers, a fashion show for alpaca clothing, and a bit of salsa dancing.  Before this excitement we had all planned to flop into our seats and crash to sleep!  Overall it was a fantabulous mission.

Two days ago we arrived in Cuzco and met our host families.  Señora Carola Yabar Morales picked me up and we went back to the house for a welcome lunch.  The house, my room, and most importantly my family are all I could hope for.  Abuela Tula and my three host brothers (all in their thirties and two with families) make a cheerful family atmosphere.  My room is on the top of the building where I share a bathroom with one of the sons.  The nearby montañas cusqueñas stand stalwartly during the day and wink with lights at night.

Yesterday was my first day of class and—after written and oral exams—I was placed in the Spanish class I was hoping for.  My teacher is a lively fellow named Gustavo.  Our other studies will begin ramping up soon.  So far so good for I seem to have escaped being knocked flat by soroche: altitude sickness.

Last night in a café in the Plaza de Armas we watched Peru tie Bolivia in a soccer match.  Afterward, we received some tips on salsa dancing from the host brother of one of the girls in the program.  It will cost me much time and dignity to learn, but I’m game.

Lima and My First Arcabusazo

Lima is not just a stepping stone on the long voyage to Machu Picchu.  For the second time now I have had a ball here, but it has only been possible with the help of two wonderful families.  Knowing people in Lima is immeasurably helpful and you get acquainted with the city in the way in which they interact with it.  However, tourists without Limeñan connections should still factor in at least one full day for getting to know Lima’s historical center. 

Tía Emi and Tío Pedro are family of my great friend Andrew and they agreed to have me in their home again.  The first two days were quite sedentary, but this was the perfect context for learning Spanish and getting to know the typical Peruvian dishes.  I will not give you a full rundown of Peruvian cuisine but I will single out a couple highlights besides ceviche.  Salsa a la huancaína is my favorite flavor so far.  The salsa is very rich and includes yellow ají chili peppers, milk, queso tierno (young), ground peanuts, and huacatay leaf.  It is typically eaten on a cold salad of boiled potatoes, lettuce, and egg quarters.  Despite convention, Tía Emi and Tío Pedro allowed me to put it on various other dishes because it delighted me so much.  The Andean equivalent of the shish kebob is anticucho.  The beef, chicken, and/or vegetables are skewered and then grilled.  My favorite is anticucho de corazon: the surprisingly light beef heart.  For desert we have picarones in honey.  They are the Peruvian equivalent of doughnuts and beignet.  Doughnut in shape, beignet in taste.

One day Tío Pedro and I ambled about four miles together around the Centro Histórico of Lima.  We had a blast visiting the many plazas.  In the Plaza de Armas (the main square) we entered La Basílica Catedral de Lima.  I have repeatedly found that cathedral ceilings "me emocionan / me drogan" (they emotionize and drug me). Equally astounding as the ceiling was the cellar.  Below the floor are catacombs that link to some of the other churches nearby.  Never have I seen so many skulls and femurs.  Also in the Catedral we found Pizarro's remains.  I was not previously apprised of the fact that he was assassinated, but the plaque on the wall told me and the sword gashes in his cranium and vertebrae convinced me.  Near to the Plaza de Armas is the Parque de la Muralla (Park of the Wall).  There lie the vestiges of the old colonial wall that the Spanish built to keep out those naughty trade pirates.  The wall now serves as a lovely strolling place for young couples.

The next day I was booked to go on a bus tour of the city leaving from the Marriot hotel.  The bus never appeared.  There is only one Marriot and I was in the appointed place before, during, and after the agreed upon meeting hour.  Many calls from a payphone ensued. The long and the short of it is that I had extremely good fortune.  That fumble opened up the morning for me to amble about Miraflores, the posh part of town, just as the sun made its first appearance in days.  The view from Miraflores of the Pacific is visually and sensually striking.  You are on the edge of a 200 meter precipice profiting from the high-angle view while the Pacific blast rushes up at you.

The elusive bus came back around in the afternoon and I hopped aboard.  We started with the Huaca Pucllana ruins of the original Limeñan people.  These are completely different from Incan architecture.  These structures were of vertical adobe bricks.  It is o.k. to build with adobe in Lima because rain is scarce.  We then proceeded to the Museo del Banco Central which offered a great understanding of the coastal indigenous peoples of Peru.  The Nazca clothing of feathers interested me most.  Wouldn’t you like a tunic of iridescent plumage?

Our tour bus was split into Spanish and English groups and I went with the Spanish one for the challenge.  I would say I caught 87% of what our guide Rosana told us.  Our group stop in the Plaza de Armas only allowed ten minutes for walking the square.  It is therefore very fortunate that I pushed to enter the Cathedral the day before.  That meant that I could pause and absorb the square’s atmosphere during those few minutes of freedom.  The adjacent Palacio del Gobierno is very extravagant and very armed.  A policeman accosted me when I put my camera lens through the bars.  “Keep camera out and we no have problems,” he declared.

Last on the tour was the Convento de San Francisco.  Besides its beautiful cloister, glazed tiles, and musty catacombs, the Convento features many colonial paintings and murals.  It was there that I saw my first “arcabusazo.”  The arcabusazo, or arquebus, is one of the earliest muzzle-loaded firearms.  Truthfully, I did not see the actual weapon but rather a painting of an "ángel arcabusazo" wearing Spanish garb and holding the inaccurate blunderbuss.

The same elusive bus left me at the same singular Marriot to do a systematic selection of cab and cab-driver for the long ride home to San Miguel.  With my Mother’s anecdote about cab selection in mind and a somewhat level head, I made it home.  Luis the cab driver laughed when I thanked him for the ride and not robbing me.

Now I am staying in my friend Fierro’s house with his mother and brother.  Again, I only know Fierro thanks to Andrew!  Fierro is the youngest of four siblings.  Yesterday we had a family feast composed of his mother, all four siblings, two spouses (spice?), and one child.  As such, another warm family takes an eager gringo in off the street.

The SIT Indigenous Peoples and Globalization program (and health liability etc.) begins tomorrow in the Cuzco airport at 11:00 AM.  Assuming all goes well with the joys of taxis, airports, and documentation, I will land in Cuzco tomorrow at 10:10 AM.  To my peace of mind, however, LAN Airlines proved itself a smooth operation last year when I made a series of flights within Peru.  The plan is to proceed from the airport down to the Urubamba (the Sacred Valley) for a couple days for program orientation and my second venture to Machu Picchu!  The accelerating anticipation tastes like Christmas Eve.

First Stop: Nine Days in Costa Rica

To capture this trip in its entirety, I will go back in my diary and transcribe it from the beginning.  For starters let me thank my dearest Mother for helping me with everything from host-family gifts to anti-malarial medications and the almost impenetrable paperwork needed to study abroad.  Ma, you have made this pilgrimage possible, smooth, and enjoyable.

On August 12^th my whole family packed me off well before sunrise on a plane to El Salvador.  There I caught my connection to San Jose, Costa Rica where our family-friend Javier Yglesias was waiting to pick me up.  Javier lives on a farm (la finca) in a small town named Turrucares thirty minutes outside of San Jose.  The surrounding green mountains and the view all the way down to the Pacific allow space for clear thought in Turrucares.

Javier took me and his five-year-old Mateo to a private wildlife park during my first few days.  The park is situated between coffee and strawberry plantations on the shoulder of the Poas volcano.  We marveled at the spectacular collection of rainforest fauna: huge hummingbirds, vibrant macaws, butterflies, snakes, monkeys, ocelots, and jaguar.  Equally impressive were the three waterfalls (cataratas) ranging from 85 to 130 feet.  With that experience and my own jungle to explore on Javier’s property, I did not feel the need for the typical Costa Rican canopy tour.

The next three days were very different.  I went to live in the center of San Jose with Javier’s brother Joaquin and Joaquin’s wife Valeza.  Joaquin took me to the Metropolitan Cathedral, the National Museum to get a taste of pre-Colombian history, and the National Theater for a concert of Latin American renaissance music.  Absent from that description is the extreme poverty that exists in San Jose.  As in many other urban centers, San Jose has some rough territory.  Two of the most classic Costa Rican slang phrases I picked up there are “mae” and “pura vida.”  “Mae” is used at any point in a sentence to mean “dude” or “man.”  “Pura vida” is a flexible phrase used as a general greeting as well as a show of thanks, agreement, or enjoyment.

Soon I was acquainted with “plátanos maduros.”  These plantains are matured to sweetness and sliced down the middle to form a boat for the deposition of good things such as sugar, butter, milk, and cheese.  After a couple minutes in the oven to melt the goodness, you throw on natilla: a sweet cream typical of Costa Rican cooking.  The plátano maduro by Javier’s mother Doña Orietta definitely stole my heart.

“Back at the ranch,” Javier and I took a ride on horseback through his expansive property.  The mud, insects, and constant downpour (aguacero) made the ride through the rainforest all the more real.  We also did a little round-up action of young horses and he took me up to a bluff from which we could see the Pacific through the mist.  By that time we were more than ready for an Imperial, a popular beer of CR.

My last days were spent enjoying Javier’s family as much as possible.  I met his brother Juan’s children and Doña Orietta made us a feast of real Italian pizza and lemon pie.  My last morning there broke beautifully when we woke up to make the airport run.  Doña Orietta figured that a plátano maduro would be the right thing to fortify me against the winding lines and proud officialdom of the airport.  Thus, I was sent off by the loving family.  Pura vida Costa Rica!