Unfashionably
Late in Costa
Rica
By Evan
Katz, special to
the Crier
GateHouse News
Service
Last weekend
here in Costa
Rica, I went to
a sleepover at a
guy’s house from
school, not
really knowing
what to expect.
I showed up 15
minutes late,
knowing that
it’s never cool
to be the first
one there.
I’ve since
learned,
however, that
the Costa Rican
version of
"fashionably
late" means
about two hours,
not 15 minutes.
It was alright
though – I got
the full "first
time over at the
house" routine,
which consists
of introducing
you to every
member of the
family, showing
you every room
of the house
(along with
explaining the
purpose of
each), and
forcing you to
eat at least
three items from
the fridge.
Drinks are
optional.
But soon enough,
the other boys
from school
arrived, and we
sat down to eat
dinner. With
respect to
eating, things
are much more
organized here.
Everyone makes
sure the coke is
shared evenly,
and nobody
begins their
meal until
appropriate
silverware is
handed out.
Eating pizza is
like the NBA
draft – the box
is solemnly
passed around in
a circle,
everyone
struggling to
pick the best
piece. Taking
seconds is
strictly
forbidden until
everyone’s had
firsts – or so I
assume, judging
from the looks I
got when I tried
to grab two of
the best slices
in the first
round. Even the
after-meal
clean-up is
orderly, with
any leftovers
being put in the
fridge and the
table scrubbed
until it shines.
Needless to say
I was a bit
shocked, because
my usual version
of "clean" just
implies that
most of the food
is still on the
table.
We spent the
rest of the
night watching
comedy movies;
literally, the
entire night.
Watching movies
in a group is
always difficult
for me here,
because people
like to watch
with English
audio, and just
read the Spanish
subtitles,
giving them the
freedom to talk
and laugh
hysterically
while I struggle
to hear. I’ve
actually gotten
to like
subtitles
though, finding
them somewhat
helpful, despite
the lack of
emotion they
contain by
translating
every bad word
to the
equivalent of
"blast!"
But by about
4:30 in the
morning, I could
barely keep my
eyes open. I
kept slapping
myself awake as
I remembered the
advice I had
gotten in the
evening, "Don’t
be the first to
fall asleep."
Twenty minutes
later I breathed
a sigh of relief
as a boy across
the room was
discovered
snoring in his
chair and
promptly given a
mayonnaise
moustache. (He
was a heavy
sleeper.)
I must have
dozed off after
that, because
suddenly I was
shaken awake by
people climbing
over me to get
their helping of
breakfast
rice-and-beans.
Still bleary
eyed, I was told
to put on some
clothes I could
get messy,
because we were
all going to go
meet some
friends and play
pinball. I
stared at them
in confusion,
unable to
imagine any
version of
pinball hardcore
enough to
require a change
of clothes.
However, after
running
"pinball"
through my Costa
Rican accent
filter a couple
of times, I
realized they
had actually
been saying
paintball.
Suddenly things
made much more
sense.
I’d never played
paintball before
as it was always
frowned upon
during my
childhood, along
with Lucky
Charms and MTV.
I was excited,
but a bit
nervous as we
all stuffed
ourselves in a
car and drove
through the
pouring rain
towards the
arena. Regular
traffic here, as
bad as it is, is
nothing compared
to the rainy
season – cars
slow to a crawl
as they struggle
through 8-inch
deep rivers that
span the roads,
sometimes having
to stop
altogether.
It’s not
uncommon to see
small houses on
the side of the
road halfway
submerged in
water, the
family’s clothes
drying on the
roof. Luckily
for us our car
made good use of
its low gears
and we arrived
only a few
minutes later
than we had
expected.
After being
handed a heavy
metal gun and
given
instructions
("Just don’t get
hit, kid, and
you’ll be fine")
we entered the
arena. Barriers
made of old
wooden slats
covered the
field, looking
old enough to be
leftover from
the Costa Rican
revolutionary
war. (Speaking
of which, during
my first week of
school we had a
school assembly
to celebrate
Costa Rican
independence. I
asked the guy
next to me what
the occasion
was, and he
excitedly told
me, "Today we
celebrate the
killing of some
jerk from the
U.S. who tried
to colonize us!"
Obviously, I
felt a bit
uncomfortable
during the rest
of the event.)
Before I could
even get my
bearings, a
whistle blew,
and suddenly
paintballs were
flying past my
face as I dove
to the ground. I
managed to crawl
behind a stack
of old tires,
the whole world
a blur of rain,
paint and
yelling. After
about 10 seconds
of
hyperventilating,
I poked my gun
over ledge and
fired at the
first movement I
saw, getting
rewarded with an
explosion of
yellow paint and
swearing.
After that,
things sped up.
Lying in the
mud, trying to
wipe the rain
from my goggles
with any piece
of clothing that
wasn’t soaked
(which very
quickly became
just my boxers),
I realized that
playing
paintball might
be the most fun
I’ve ever had.
We played round
after round,
each one more
intense than the
last.
Looking back on
the day, I
notice a slight
problem that
seems to be
happening to me
more and more
lately – I tend
to forget the
phrase "It’s
just a game".
Twenty minutes
into playing,
I’d entirely
lost the notion
that we were
only shooting
paint. I jumped
over barriers as
if my very life
were at stake,
screaming,
"Cover me!", and
firing at
anything that
resembled the
other team. (At
least I screamed
what I thought
was "cover me;"
thinking about
it later it
seems I may have
been yelling
"Wrap me in a
blanket!")
At the peak of
getting carried
away, two
players remained
on the other
team. One peeked
his head out and
I shot him in
the facemask,
hitting him
again when he
didn’t call
himself out fast
enough. I dove
around a wooden
fence and rolled
towards the
enemy base, the
remaining player
a young, timid
girl who hadn’t
come out all
game. I stuck my
gun through the
window,
gleefully
prepared to say
the "Surrender!"
necessary to
win.
I opened my
mouth and then
awkwardly
mumbled
something
incomprehensible
as I realized I
had no idea how
to say
"surrender" in
Spanish. I stood
there in
embarrassment,
everyone slowly
starting to
laugh as they
realized my
predicament,
even the girl
standing up and
giggling,
knowing I
couldn’t shoot
her from that
range, but
technically
couldn’t call
her out either.
"Humbled" would
be an
understatement
for how I felt.
One good thing -
I’ve learned to
keep myself in
check for the
next time I
play. And, of
course, I’ll
never again
forget how to
make someone
surrender in
Spanish.
Evan Katz
will be starting
his Senior year
in the fall at
Hopkinton High
School. He
currently is
taking a
semester abroad
in Costa Rica,
and can be
contacted at
[email protected] |
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