DEAR ALIZARIN: La cultura de Hooligans

Lesson 1: Never take entertainment advice from an 18-year-old (unless, of course, you are also 18).

Lesson 2: Always expect rain at the waterfalls

First, lesson 2: excursion to Los Chorros waterfalls and the coffee farm. We never will make it to the coffee farm. Attending is I, Derzblog, my classmate from DC, and two college boys from either Ohio or Minnesota or some other Midwest state. About five minutes into the ride, the boys start drinking beer. Oh, to be young and have high alcohol tolerance. We arrive at the falls and start hiking in. The tour description recommend sandals, so I have a bit of a struggle keeping up in my flip flops over the muddy and, at times, narrow trail. Thankfully, my vertigo does not set in on the rickety wire and wood bridges. However, I am still better off than the DC woman who is wearing high heeled sandals. Derzblog is in his usual khaki's and leather shoes, looking more like he is ready for a business casual lunch date than a hike into the falls. The boys run ahead with their youthful zest, sneakers, and swimming trunks. Besides them, I was the only one brave enough to go in the water. Modesty and the coolness tempted me not to, but I figured to hell with both. It was a painful sacrifice. As soon as I stepped in I could feel the icy coldness creeping up and tightening all my muscles until it reached my lungs as I gasped for air. Then, I put in the rest of my foot. I scaled tiny, razor like pebbles (and a few large mossy rocks) to finally get under the falls for the picture to prove I was there and went into the water. Then, I scrambled out and snuck around a corner to discreetly put on dry clothes as I was now quite cold. An attempt that would prove to be pointless in a few minutes.

That done with sat and admired the naturally grandiose beauty of the whiteness of the waterfall against the deep greens of the forest. Everything glimmered in the hazy spray of the falling water.

The second fall was around a long bend which required navigating our way over a shallow rocky part of the stream. I left my backpack sitting behind as it would only encumber the slightly precarious walk. It was amazing. Despite the noise of the rushing water, this grotto was peaceful. Rocks glimmered in shades of gray, brown, red and green. The cool water was so clear that its depth at times was deceptive, causing me almost fall and resubmerge myself in the water. Then it started to drizzle. I made it around the bend to see the boys already frolicking under the new falls. I headed back to the more quiet stretch around the bed to attempt to photograph the more obscure hideaways tucked into the walls of the stream. Then, it started to rain. Without my umbrella, I tried quickly work my way back to the bridge and path. The slippery rocks pretty much prevented this. By the time I reached my belongings and my umbrella I and everything I had was soaked. The rain came down harder. I grabbed all I could and started to quickly work my way towards the exit. At this point, it was pouring and each person for her/himself. Our tour guide passed us all, as did the boys. Derzblog moved quickly in his leather shoes. My flip flops became more of a burden. I could not even imagine the DC woman in her high heels and checked back to make sure she was still following several times along the way. Then, the hiking trail became a river. Mud flowed down around my toes. I wanted to run, but opted for just being soaked and actually making it back to the van. I did. Somehow my camera survived dry. But that was the only thing. In the warmth and safety of the van, I felt slightly exhilarated by the downpour. I checked off my mental Costa Rica to do list getting caught in a torrential downpour. To celebrate, on the way back to Heredia, our guide stopped for the boys to stock up on beer. DC woman and I decided to join them. Before heading back to the van, the boys bought us all a shot of tequila for the road. I quickly developed a nice buzz and gracefully spilled my beer in the van.

Showered and changed, I am walking the now mundanely familiar route to the school to meet the Intercultura posse for a night of dinner and salsa dancing at the in-famous Heredian club, Hooligans. The name should have clued me in. Half way to school, the lights go out in all of Heredia. By the light of the traffic, I make it to the school where a few people are gathered. The school decides to close early due to the lack of electricity. Our group gathers outside in the dark, now drizzling night. Once a consensus formed, we hailed a cab (after much waiting) for this remote and exotic club. We arrived at a strip mall on the outskirts of town. The electricity was back on, but did nothing to bring light to my trepidation about the future of the evening. The club was not even open yet and our dinner options included a bar and what appeared to be a local fast food chain. I was very hungry this evening and ordered the 'plate of the day,' aka the daily special, which always seemed to be at most local restaurants rice, beans, salad/veggies, and some choice of meat.

We walked by the club again and waited for the other members of our party to arrive. The club was still closed, though now a few adolescent looking clients were lined up. I grew more and more weary as the girls resembled my students back in East LA with their undersized tank tops, plastered hair, and heavy make-up. I decided I did not want to stay here. The technopop music blaring out from inside confirmed this instinct. I proposed to Derzblog that we take a cab and find the club in San Jose. He wanted to be back to his hotel before 10pm. We went to the bar next door for drinks and to kill time. Slowly, more of the Intercultura posse arrived, mostly the 20-somethings. Finally, DC woman, the other 30 something woman at the school, arrived. We decided to head to San Jose. I was relieved the evening would not be a waste. Our cab did not know the club we wanted (I think our accent was on the wrong syllable, of course making the name of the club completely unrecognizable) but dropped us at El Castro where he assured us there would be salsa and merengue. There was. However, in Costa Rica (as my Spanish teacher later confirmed) you do not just show up to salsa, but must go with a partner. So, our choices were slim pickings. I danced with an older gentleman who smelled of cigarettes and later kept asking me to dance. DC woman found a young man who then plastered himself all over her on the dance floor. They seemed to have and he seemed nice enough and a decent dancer. He told his friend to dance with me, which I appreciated, until I got on the floor. He was a great solo dancer, but my wrist and my back were a bit battle worn after the tumultuous dancing. We left a few minutes after that. I firmly bargained a fair cab ride home, sticking to the 3000 colones the school said should be the top we pay versus the 4000 the cabbie wanted (it was early and there wasn't much business). So, I saved us a whole 2 dollars US. Thank goodness for my rapid Spanish study. Maybe during my next visit (yes, I think there will be a next visit) I can find a nice Costa Rican local, like my professor or one of the guys from the dance class, to take me dancing. I'll have to be more discrete, also, in who I follow for entertainment advice.

Uno mas dias en Intercultura. Lo muy siento.

Lychee