Costa Rican Culture Shock: Cover Your Ears

Everyone’s stereo has its own groove. Culture is the same way. From headbanger to salsa, enjoy sound bites of daily life as heard by a prairie girl in small town Costa Rica.

Some like it loud.

Toucans and macaws fly the friendly skies here in the tropics. Their unique calls sound for miles, but they’ve got nothing on the people. Local eardrums must be made of sterner stuff. Be it church worship or vendor trucks that loudspeaker their way through the neighborhoods, volume is set high. Fun and resonance just go together. Every grocery store promo has musical hoopla. When your neighbor rents a karaoke machine for their backyard party, earplugs and fan noise are your best friends. Or if you’re keen, go over and join them.

Curbside delivery available.

About those bullhorn trucks: it was a glorious day when our ears first caught the muffled words of the jingle we’d heard for weeks. “Eggs, big and fresh!” was so catchy it became a family joke.

While not always easy to understand, the assorted ding ding men are convenient. Many people rely on feet and public transportation to get around. From my front gate, I have options to buy fruits & vegetables, nursery plants, tamales, get rid of scrap metal, donate to charity, change my political leanings, and hear the latest toy store Christmas sale.

My all time favorite, though, has to be the broom man. With his own voice and a loaded shoulder, he walks the block singing out, es-CO-bahs. That sounds so much cooler than brooms, you have to admit.

No mail for you.

One thing that never comes your way: mail. Sure, we get junk flyers tucked into our gate now and then, but no correspondence or bills to the house. There is a postal service. You can rent a P.O. box and do your own pickup. Why don’t they deliver? One reason is address. As in, we don’t have one. In language school we filled out government forms with something like: 150 meters south of the school, blue house with the green gate. Even in the middle of the big city, things can still feel down-home country.

If you never get paper bills, how do you know what you owe? You go online or to a store with your ID to check and make payments. Fast shut off for no-pay is a great motivator for personal responsibility.

One new arrival’s learning curve went like this: Each morning he looked at his gate for bill slips. Cable adverts showed up, utility statements did not. Water went out. That’s normal here, right? Power went out. Interesting. After a bit of this double deficiency, he asked the neighbors how they were coping. What? Did you pay your bills? What bills? Go to the liquor store on the corner and pay them. How much? Don’t worry, the lady at the checkout will tell you. It sounds crazy but works pretty well and saves trees to boot.

Mini Marts Everywhere.

Since many families do life without a car, little convenience stores called pulperías dot the neighborhoods. All the basics within walking distance makes life easier. An old story plays out the day of a mama Tica going out in the morning to buy an egg for breakfast, then back out in the sunshine to get an egg for lunch, and later stopping in for the egg for supper. Small houses, invasive critters, and preference for fresh cooked meals sway people away from big pantry stock ups. Temps never get cold enough to keep you indoors, either.

I’m still a big fan of the big chill, though. I joke with ladies about my batch cooking/freezer meal strategy. They shake their heads and smile. Poor gringos. My family seems well-fed, so they don’t worry about us too much. I took a sliced, frozen loaf of banana bread to a neighbor once, stretching my vocabulary to explain slice-by-slice versus whole-loaf thawing. New territory for both of us: me with words, her with an ice block on the counter. The next day she raved how it tasted delicious after being *eyes wide* frozen.

My shelves tend towards apocalypse-prep abundance, but I’m told stores do an excellent job of keeping food handy until you need it. Every week’s shopping pivots around the community farmer’s market. Plantains, avocados, pineapple, and mangoes: the tropics do them right. The best prices and selection of all things fresh draw crowds all morning. Bakeries are also popular; family kitchens and recipes run to stove tops rather than ovens. Bread with sour cream makes a nice addition to afternoon cafecito, so baguette loaves parade the sidewalk for the traditional “little coffee” break. Whatever time of the day you like it, locally grown coffee is a mountaintop highlight.

One of my favorite Costa Ricans recently moved to Florida. She vetted this series for things lost in translation or needed to complete the picture. Her verdict: “This makes me miss home. I’d kill for a pulpería.”

It’s no shock that life is different in the land of pura vida. Whether you put in earplugs or sing along, buy only for today or pack the cupboards, Costa Rica is a great place to live a soundtrack with the ones you love.

Catch the rest of the Culture Shock experience in this three-part series: Up Close and Personal & Talking Trash.

What does “home” look like for you? What do you miss most when you travel? Share your favorite stories and tips in the comments.

Macaws Photo by Alan Godfrey on Unsplash

Costa Rican Culture Shock: Talking Trash

Culture quirks. Everyone has some, whether on a personal or national scale. Do you squeeze the toothpaste in the middle or from the bottom? Does the roll go in front or behind the end of the bath tissue? Talking today about some local flavor we experience as expats living in small town Costa Rica.

Bathroom humor.

Allow me to get this out in the open. We don’t flush any sort of paper products here. None. It all goes in the waste basket next to the toilet. Plumbing aperture and septic systems set the law of the land. But if you do forget, don’t go after it. This is not a hill we die on.

However, when you travel back to the states after learning the rhythm, you are going to look around “holding the bag” in a lot in restrooms during re-entry. Enjoy the naughty glee when you remember you can do the drop.

It’s a dirty job.

Trash: we all have some. Especially those of us who can’t flush the Charmin. A block-wide barking chorus hales the 3x/week pass of the garbage truck. Maybe dogs think the scruffy workers are thieves on the prowl. Humans are grateful the bags of junk depart quickly to a better place.

A word of warning: canines are so earth-friendly, they sniff out stuff that’s “still perfectly good” in the elevated trash baskets. They recycle it for you—puppy piñata fashion. All you have to do is pick up the scattered carnage the next morning. What could be more helpful?

Getting there.

Roads here are both man’s best friend and white knuckle events. Highways span mountains and rivers to coastline and cloud forest, enabling tourism to carry the economy in a big way. Swurvy, scenic routes introduced this girl from the land of flat, square grids to her first taste of stop-the-car sickness. The obstacle course of pedestrians, traffic as close as latin air kisses, and weaving motorcycles, make driving practically a full contact sport. Whatever the destination, you are paying attention. Narrow gravel and asphalt tracks without shoulders keep you on high alert.

Before smartphones hit the scene with GPS anointing, our family traveled by map and faith. We watched the stores on the roadside, often named by town, to see if we had struck the right road. It went like this: guess the correct turn. Look up the next few towns on the map and chant the unfamiliar words to keep them in your head. Scan the businesses as you enter each town for a Ferretería (hardware store) Lindora or a Soda (diner) San Mateo.

Now the Waze app gives directions without having to stop and ask, with a side of humor when the pronunciation software goes bilingual. Ticos probably feel the same about my Spanish.

As involved as driving is here, I have it on authority that locals like it that way. A friendly Costa Rican in line at the airport told me about his commercial transport career. Twists and turns are interesting. Driving in the Midwest was Novocain to his brain. To every interstate system, a time and fan base under heaven.

So no need to talk trash about the land of Pura Vida. If you forget the pickup schedule, don’t worry. The dogs will let you know.

Be sure to catch last week’s culture shock debut: Up Close and Personal, and stay tuned for next week’s wrap up: Cover Your Ears.

What culture quirks do you prefer? What has bumped you? We’d love to start a conversation.

Bottle on the Beach Photo by Scott Van Hoy on Unsplash

Costa Rican Culture Shock: Up Close and Personal

Dorothy said, “There’s no place like home.” She’s right, but each nest has its own charm. Mission life is an opportunity to get cozy in many places. As we hug friends back in the prairie over the next few days, it’s a great time to share some cultural quirks of living in small town Costa Rica. You won’t even need your passport.

Hello is an art form.

Once you adapt, you may never go back. Here ladies greet everyone (male and female) with a slight embrace and a kiss to the air beside the cheek. Repeat, kiss to the air. You are giving the sound, not the real smooch. If you feel comfortable, go ahead and touch your cheek to theirs. It’s like the Christian side hug, but with faces.

Always go to your left, so that right cheeks are side by side. Trust me, it’s just driving in your lane. Everyone’s right cheek is common ground. Do not be tempted by any force of nature or physics to change this up. Even when it works, it’s awkward. And if one goes left and the other right, you end up in one of the few spots that bump the Latino personal space bubble. So be wise: go left.

Man-to-man hellos happen by handshake here like normal. In my opinion, girls have all the fun. For someone who once debated if hugging a non-husband, non-family male was kosher, this style of greeting has become sweet. The bit of physical touch is zero about romance and all about courtesy. Try it. You might like it.

Side note: A funny little dance happens as a gringo when you meet someone and you size each other up to see if you’re going tico-style hug or stateside handshake. Especially between two expats.

And when you travel back to the states, it’s just going to feel cold to offer the business handshake. So my apologies in advance, Nebraska peeps. I love you too much not to pull you in for a moment.

Don’t forget to ask about their day, their family, their pets, and how they are feeling. More questions means more love.

When you enter a room, plan to make the rounds greeting everyone. It’s the best way to kick off any gathering.

Near and far.

Culture here is zoomed in. People stand closer. Cars drive closer (to people and other cars). Houses are built closer, often sharing walls. Land lots on our block span about 22’ wide, so homes link together Lego-style to make the most of space. Laws delegate who owns and cares for each side based on the compass rose. Taxis zip up and down our narrow street, sometimes within arm’s length of the foot traffic. From jeans to grocery aisles, life is just lived tighter. It feels normal now.

But you can’t come right up to our front door. After 5 years here, that would freak me out. Gates and walls are everywhere, reaching to the sky, holding passersby a comfortable distance away from doors and windows. People stand and chat through their wrought iron. For good reason, everyone makes security a priority. Even warm climate culture has healthy boundaries.

So please, come say hello. Tap your keys on the gate and let’s chat. We aren’t afraid to get up close and personal in the land of pura vida.

Be sure to catch the second serving of this three part series: Talking Trash.

What’s your culture of hello? Has your personal space ever been breached? Please leave a comment and tell us your story.

Tree Frog Photo by Trevor Cole on Unsplash

Independence Across Cultures

It hit me yesterday afternoon. Today is the U.S. Independence Day. No matter that my daughter, born on July 2nd, blew out candles the day before yesterday. No matter that my Facebook feed has been lit up with pictures of, comments on, and complaints about fireworks. It still snuck up on me. I’m gifted with linear time obliviance that way.

With Costa Rica’s bid for the World Cup over, the streets around me are quiet. Fruit stands dot the roadsides, rather than firework tents. Our schedule is packed, hosting a mission team of 21 at the children’s home where we serve. I share my testimony tonight and have two more dinners to feed them.

Happy 4th of July. I’m trying to figure out how I feel about it.

I’ve never been great at “special days.” In the states, native rhythms did the heavy lifting for us: days off work, neighborhood displays, family gatherings. Colorful flyers shouted discounts for snaps and ground flowers. We stuffed ourselves at picnics and laughed at the smoke bombs that puffed a little less each year.

Here, Independence Day is September 15th and celebrates liberty from Spain, won without a fight. A nighttime parade of festive lanterns, carried by school children, ushers in the holiday as a reminder of the freedom cry spread by word of mouth through the country in 1821.

It may be a regular workday in Costa Rica, but everything about our home country affects the life our family lives here: all of our financial support, the spiritual covering of our sending church, the freedom granted by the eagle on our passports. Now, more than ever, we appreciate the privilege of our birthplace.

Just across the northern border, Nicaragua’s streets are choked with blockades. The citizens of that nation marched peacefully in mid-April to protest corruption and injustice. The presidential leadership unleashed months of harsh violence in response. What doesn’t rate high on the news feed has sent missionaries we know fleeing to safety, crippled business and services in Nicaragua, and flooded the borders with people seeking refuge.

We of the land of the free and the home of the brave, we don’t have utopia, but we can’t even fathom living that.

The red, white, and blue twirls my daughter hung up this morning speak something deeper to me than national identity and the faces I miss in my homeland. I did nothing to earn the benefits my country gives me; but everything about there, makes it possible for me to serve the Lord here.

Today is business as usual in Central America, yet I can feel the picnics and starbursts in the stateside air. They shine in memories of the ones we love, deep gratitude for the liberty geography gave us, and reverent honor for the long fight of many to keep us free.

May we all use it well.

I think it will be a Happy 4th of July.

I urge you, first of all, to pray for all people. Ask God to help them; intercede on their behalf, and give thanks for them. Pray this way for kings and all who are in authority so that we can live peaceful and quiet lives marked by godliness and dignity. 1Timothy 2:1-2 NLT

What’s your culture for Independence Day?

Passport Photo by Blake Guidry on Unsplash

What He is Doing in My Doing

It was an everyday milk run. We snuck out after bedtime to make it this season’s version of a date. Somewhere between the tortilla presses and the plantains, we saw Maria.

Our neighbor has been fighting cancer for the last half-year. Each time I see her, it’s like the Lord turns his laser pointer on. Our interaction is sparse: my English prayers over her in private and Spanish greetings on the street. I saw her hats and headscarves progress to unabashed baldness. I told her she looked beautiful. She told me about her chemo port.

Lately, I open my arms with every hello. Latin culture pooh-poohs personal space. I don’t have enough words to explain my heart to her. I can only draw her near it for a moment now and then.

That night at the grocery store, she held on. We cried a little. Her Spanish flowed next to my cheek, blessing and thanking me for my love. God’s presence filled that embrace, speaking all the things I didn’t know how to say.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Her hair is growing back now, sparkly silver.

She invited me in the other day, my first time through the steel gate that safeguards her house. Seating me at her table, she shared her evening, her family, her life. She heaped a bowl with fruit salad, serving me a rainbow cut with her limited strength–topped with red jello, of course, for Costa Rican flair.

Stories flowed out as I nibbled and listened. How her grown daughter had stroked her bare scalp in the restless nights of her treatment, the love expressed in cool touch. Her sadness that we all seem to live behind closed doors in the neighborhood. We laughed that it was the mosquitoes’ fault. Prayers sought for her disability pension to be approved, kindly insights on the personalities of the block. Encouragement from the place of cancer, that the Lord is faithful in all things. Her face lit up when we talked gardening.

I went home with arms full of plant cuttings and the fruit I couldn’t finish. Humming with Spanish headache and unexpressed affection, I dove into my freezer. I recrossed the street with banana-craisin bread to sweeten her week the way she had mine. We thumped the language barrier again as I fumbled for the concepts of already-sliced and thaw-on-the-counter.

I may be hemmed in by verb tense and vocabulary, but God is not. He can work great things in the cheerful hello, in the how-are-you, in the hug in the grocery aisle.

Most of the time, what I do is more felt than seen: happy bellies, cleans sheets, a peacefully ordered home. This time the Lord let me feel some of what he is doing in my doing.

And if you give even a cup of cold water to one of the least of my followers, you will surely be rewarded. Matthew 10:42 NLT

How has the Lord surprised you with his movement in your everyday living?

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