Roadside
Assistance Costa
Rican Style
By Mark Klempner,
csmonitor.com /
June 3, 2010
Cattle blocking
traffic, bridges
with no
railings,
crater-sized
potholes:
Everyone who has
visited Costa
Rica knows that
driving can be a
challenge here.
As a
transplanted New
Yorker, I know
better than
most; I've been
navigating the
roads in my
adopted country
for almost 10
years.
Last month,
however, my
spirited, agile,
and endlessly
curious
4-year-old
presented me
with a new
challenge, one
that nothing in
my varied
driving
experience,
whether in the
urban jungle of
Manhattan or the
rain forest of
Manuel Antonio,
had prepared me
for.
A rider in
Puntarenas,
Costa Rica. [Foto:
Kent Gilbert/AP]
It was a hot
Sunday afternoon
and the two of
us were heading
to the capital
city of San José
on the
sweltering
Inter-American
Highway when my
son let out a
yelp of
distress.
Glancing into
the rearview
mirror, I saw
that, despite my
having securely
positioned him
in his booster
seat, he had
somehow managed
to tangle up his
small body in
his seat belt.
Marveling at his
knack for
getting himself
into such
improbable
predicaments, I
immediately
pulled off the
road alongside a
wooded area.
Opening the rear
door, I
unbuckled his
seat belt,
thinking that
would solve the
problem. I found
instead that the
shoulder strap
section was
still cinched
tightly around
his stomach. A
little black
cloud of panic
began forming in
my mind, one
that rapidly
grew to immense
proportions when
I discovered
that I couldn't
pull him out in
either
direction.
There's no
roadside service
in Costa Rica,
and I didn't
have my
cellphone with
me, anyway. I
could have tried
to flag down a
car, but they
were whizzing by
so fast and my
son was in such
a state that I
didn't want to
leave him, even
for a moment.
His incessant
crying plunged
me into what is
perhaps the most
difficult
feeling a parent
can experience:
helplessness. By
that point, I
would've cut the
belt if I'd had
something to cut
it with. It
occurred to me
that I could
retract the belt
a little further
in hopes that it
might then
release. But if
that failed, my
son's little
belly would be
squeezed even
tighter.
Just then a
shadowy figure
emerged from the
woods, a solidly
built man with
coal-black hair
and a loping
gait. He wore
the kind of pale
white shirt and
trousers that
I'd seen on
Costa Rican
cowboys, but he
had no boots or
spurs, and his
clothes were so
dirty that I
feared he might
be a vagrant or
worse. As he
began walking
toward us, my
panic soared
even higher.
What if my son's
"Curious George
Goes for a
Drive" antics
ended in a
tragedy on the
magnitude of
Flannery
O'Connor's "A
Good Man Is Hard
to Find"?
Yet when the
mysterious
stranger reached
us, all he did
was quietly ask
me if I needed
help. His dark
eyes were calm,
even kind, and I
found myself
more than happy
to accept
assistance from
this cowboy with
impeccable
timing. I
pointed to my
trapped son and
he leaned in to
take a look.
After sizing up
the situation,
he said, "con
permiso" – the
phrase Spanish
speakers use to
ask permission
to do something
that might be
considered
intrusive. I
nodded my head
yes.
He then bent
down beside my
son, tracing the
path of the
smooth gray seat
belt with his
rough fingers.
After a long
moment, he
instructed the
boy to bend
sideways and a
little bit
forward. He then
put his hands on
the belt,
manipulated it
in a way that I
still don't
understand, and
"ˇListo!" My son
was free.
Overjoyed and
more than a
little
astonished, I
patted the
cowboy's
shoulder and
thanked him
profusely. I
also reached
into my wallet
and slipped him
a bill, although
his unchangingly
placid
countenance
suggested that
he didn't care
about a reward.
This deft good
Samaritan had
found a new way
to use his
roping skills,
particularly
those he employs
when freeing
animals caught
in harnesses and
tethers. And I
had experienced
the most
dramatic example
yet of the
kindheartedness
that is a prized
feature of
traditional
Costa Rican
culture.
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