Last summer, I traveled to Costa Rica with the Spanish Club from my high school and worked there as a volunteer at an orphange. I originally signed up because of the traditional high school "herd" mentality: if all my friends are going, why shouldn't I? My friends dropped out one by one, and before I knew it, I was "alone" (as I thought of it) and the deadline for dropping out had been the previous Friday.

To raise money for the trip, I worked bingos, stuffed envelopes, and sold raffle tickets until I had gathered the necessary funds. I ended up beseeching my parents for a portion of the money -- about $500.00. Our Spanish class had also put together suitcases of gifts for the orphans: toothbrushes, clothes, soap, toys, sporting equipment, etc. Along with these presents, we brought down $1000 to buy additional items for the orphans after we arrived.

A few weeks before the trip, I began getting nervous about going. None of my friends were going with me, and I still did not speak the language that well. I couldn't possibly imagine any way I would actually enjoy spending two weeks with small children who didn't speak English. I think an idea was floating about my subconscious that American culture was somehow "superior" to all others and I was in for a big letdown. Oh sure, I had visited Canada and Ireland, but after all, those the citizens seemed little more than transplanted Americans.

My mother and grandmother drove me to the Twin Cities on the day of the flight and wished me goodbye. I rendezvoused with my group, which consisted of eleven students and three faculty members. We sat around nervously for a few hours, then boarded the plane and lifted off.

My culture shock began during our layover in Houston. I really didn't know my group that well, so I wandered through the halls alone for the majority of the three hour stop. I listened to the announcements over the loudspeaker, each recited first in English, then repeated in Spanish, and became frightened. The announcer was obviously a native speaker, and I had absolutely no idea what he was saying. I bought an overpriced copy of The Economist at an airport newstand, only to open the magazine and find I had already read this issue. When I returned to catch my flight several hours later, I found the group had no idea where I had been, and had been desperately (well, not quite desperately) searching for me. After a brief reprimand, we boarded our next flight.

We finally reached San Jose several hours later. When I arrived at Costa Rican customs, I found I had managed to lose both my birth certificate and merchandise declaration. After searching my bags for ten minutes I managed to unearth them, and proceeded to accidently tear my birth certificate in half. With the help of my teacher and the Costa Rican official, we managed to sort things out, and we were on our way. That night we stayed at Hotel Europa, in San Jose. The next morning we drove several hours to Cartago, where the orphanage was located.

When we arrived, the orphanage was curiously quiet, not at all what I had expected. It turned out that many of the children were at school. The orphanage rested in a picturesque mountain valley, just outside a small town. To one side were the distant buildings of the town, to the other, hilly expanses of grass where cows grazed. The orphanage itself consisted of sixteen buildings, each housing seven to eight people. A barbed wire fence circled the grounds, but the hundred children it housed had ample room for work and play. In the enclosure were a soccer field, basketball court, and a playground. The females in our group were given their own house, while Abe and I, being the only two males, stayed with the "families." I was taken to house number four. The houses were not new, but were in good shape and fairly clean. After being assigned my room, I was fed a meal of rice and beans (arroz y frijoles). I believe there may have been something else on the plate, namely the main course, but the recollection escapes me. Costa Rican food is 90% rice and beans, with the "main dish" taking up only a small corner of the plate.

I was becoming more and more nervous that I would be unable to communicate with any of the orphans, but these fears were soon to be dispersed. The moment I exited my house I was hailed by a small child(who I later found out was named Christian) with a large stack of play money decorated with the portraits of soccer players. He displayed his cache, asking "Se gusta jugar futbol?"(Do you like to play soccer?) When I responded positively he quickly led me to the field, where I proceeded to play soccer for the remainder of the daylight hours. That night more children(Andres and Vanessa) asked me to help them assemble a puzzle of a Christmas tree. I was near collapse by the time I got to bed at ten.

This set the mood for the next week. I woke up every morning at around 6:30, in order to secure a shower before the 7:00 rush. I would usually spend the next hour writing in my travel journal, mostly recording my reactions to the events of the previous day. Most of the younger children were outside by 9:00 A.M., and stayed outside till supper at 8:00 P.M.. While the orphanage had several TVs, I rarely saw the orphans watching them, except while they were in the house eating. Most of the older children attended school in the morning, and every child appeared to decide his own school schedule. Some attended mornings, others afternoons, some for four hours, some more than ten.

Costa Rican children seemed to have far more responsibility than children of equivalent age in the United States, as well as the maturity to handle it. I saw few signs of the selfishness that is so common in both children and adults at home. The children owned virtually nothing besides their clothes and a few small, cherished possessions. Everything else was the property of the group, and its use was shared. Another aspect of the orphanage I admired was the sense of community. All the adults and teenagers looked after all the younger children. The teens could buy alcohol, but I never saw one of them drink more than a single beer, compared with the binge drinking common among children of equivalent age in the U.S. Perhaps giving children more trust and fewer things would allow them to mature with a sense of responsibility to others, rather than creating adults more worried about earning money than using it for good ends.

The three-day "break" from the orphanage was perhaps the least enjoyable part of the trip. My classmates and I visited the beach, the rainforest, and a resort with hot springs. These vacation hot spots seemed to cater exclusively to the American or European tourist, or rather to his wallet. I saw more capitalism on this "return to nature" than I ever did in the orphanage or the city adjacent to it. It's not that I didn't like the tour, in other circumstances I may have enjoyed it immensely; I simply felt that the time could have been spent more productively with the orphans.

During a stay at the Hotel Europa, we encountered another missionary group. They were a mixed denominational Protestant group touring the country giving theatrical performances. The group included no Catholics and few speakers of Spanish in a country that is 95% both Catholic and Spanish. None seemed to have made any effort to get to know the language or customs of the people. The three I talked to couldn't speak a word of Spanish, and one told me that it was obvious the native Catholics "had no relationship with God." This incident reminded me that I would have to return soon to the ignorance and arrogance so abundant in the United States.

My group returned to the orphanage the next day and stayed for three more days. On the last day we presented the gifts we had selected for the children of our house. I gave Andres and Vanessa several puzzles to assemble. To the two teenage guys in my house, Christopher and Luis, I gave extra T-shirts and several squirt guns. We gave everyone a few T-shirts, pants, and socks, along with personal grooming items. Each house got a basketball and soccer ball, and the orphanage got some new bikes, and a new soccer goal. They made more use of the few dollars it cost me to go than I could ever have dreamed.

The next day Matt Hicks, an American college student, and I took the buses across the country to the national soccer championship in La Lega. The buses were cheap, almost as fast as driving, and relaxing. Any time we needed directions to the next bus stop someone was happy to help. When we got off the bus, we were able to buy scalped tickets for around 1200 colones ($5.00). There is no American sporting event that can compare with the atmosphere of a Latin-American soccer game. Our bags were searched at the gate, presumably for alcohol or drugs. At first, it seemed odd to me that beer was forbidden in the stands, but after the game the reasoning became apparent.

The two teams playing were La Lega, a local favorite, and Saprisa, a national favorite. I once heard Saprisa compared with the Dallas Cowboys of the NFL. You are either a fan or you cannot abide them. Matt and I rooted for Lega, since it was their town and they were the underdogs. They won the game by a goal, but it made little difference, since the championship is decided by total goals throughout the series, and Saprisa still led by a goal. During the game, there were several questionable calls, and the crowd began chanting "Hile Puta", a contraction meaning literally "You son of a bitch." At the end of the game La Lega lost a goal on a bad call, and the fans and Lega players attempted to punish the refs. It took twenty police to escort the refs safely from the field.

After the game, riots broke out on the streets. While I was attempting to reach the bus stop, I was nearly hit by a fist-sized stone thrown by an angry Saprisa fan. Soon a large group of Lega fans chased off the smaller group of Saprisa fans, while a lone cop sat in his car and watched. Matt and I got in the bus and headed for Cartago.

In the U.S., professional sports involve huge amount of money, and only a very large city can afford to field a team. In Costa Rica, every sizable city has its own pro soccer team, and the players from most teams did not rake in the same disproportionate income made by U.S. pro athletes. The fans support their local teams with an almost religious devotion. People in Costa Rica seemed to identify much more with their city than most citizens of the U.S. do.

That night, I went to a night club, where I met a Latin-American rock musician. He and I talked for several minutes, and I didn't think anything of it. I was later told he had records out in several countries, and was one of the more popular singers in Costa Rica. It was the perfect end to a stay in a country where the people were actually interested in getting to know a person.

Two days later I was back in the states. I was ten pounds lighter than when I had left, spoke better Spanish, and had eleven new friends. More importantly, I came back with the idea that there are better way of doing things, and that the supposedly unavoidable "human evils" of greed and prejudice we have in the U.S. may be nothing more than bad habits, which can be overcome with practice and perseverance.

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