Early Days: Costa Rica

Lately I’ve been reminiscing about earlier times in my life trying to dissect them.  One part that tends to be a blur, unless I sit down to concentrate on the memories, is my early childhood.  An unexpected call from my Dad kicked the entire cycle into overdrive and I had to put words to paper.  Here’s what sprung forth:

For as long as I can remember I’ve moved around.  At first it was all over South Florida’s Miami area, hopping from neighborhood to neighborhood, searching for the elusive house my mother would feel “happy” in.  No matter where we landed something was amiss and the hunt would start again.  By the 3rd grade I had already been in 4 different elementary schools.  Adaptability became my creed and a constant state of flux my norm.  Friends weren’t easy to make because of the mercurial nature of my living arrangements and mom’s paralyzing fear of life.  Couldn’t play in the front yard, I could get kidnapped; Couldn’t go to the beach/pool, I could drown; Couldn’t go to a friend’s house, she didn’t know his parents; etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam… The fact I didn’t turn out to be a serial killer skulking in a basement still amazes me.

Nearing the end of 3rd grade I knew another move was coming up, but this time the destination caught me by surprise.  Due to my father’s company opening up a new factory we were all moving to Costa Rica so he could oversee it.  Ripped out before the school year finished the only thing I knew about my new school was that they taught in English (thank heaven for small favors).  Flying to Costa Rica was back when air travel was still a privilege and not the airborne buses they are now.  This wasn’t my first time on a plane though.  Sometime when I was four there was a reconnaissance mission to Charlotte North Carolina because of a potential factory opening, but it fell through.  The one thing I remember from that trip is gazing out the car window watching the leaves rain down in gold and crimson. 

This was my first international trip and the start of my love/hate relationship with customs.  I also bred a deep seated hatred of Miami International Airport, but that’s for another day.  We took LACSA Airlines, the official airline of Costa Rica (which I *think* is still in business).  Yet another first for me on that trip was seeing Cuba.  The flight always shot down to Cuba and then took a right toward Central America.  The land of my heritage –denied to me by political bullshit– could only be admired from 30,000 feet.  I would make the trip between Miami and San Jose many more times in the three years I lived in Costa Rica and every time I tried to watch outside the window as we made that turn.  Sad to say, it’s been my only visit to the beautiful island.

The climate wasn’t much different from the muggy Miami weather I had grown up in, possibly only a touch wetter.  Odd thing about arriving there was that everyone in the family was sick for two weeks right at the start.  When my grandmother came to visit later on the same thing happened to her.  Not sure if it was our immune systems adjusting to the tropical germs or the crappy water quality.  *Side note* Dealing with cholera is not fun and drinking boiled water tastes exactly like liquid cardboard.  Insects are no joke in that region of the world.  The laws of nature dictate that the smaller the sucker is, the more deadly it is.  Tapping your shoes against the ground before putting them on was a life saving habit.  I personally encountered several scorpions, tarantulas, walking sticks, cockroaches (both giant and albino) and a plethora of scary shit that defied categorization because I would usually run from it screaming.

We moved into Cariari (a suburb of San Jose) with all the other expatriates.  Even though I hoped against hope, we still retained our gypsy ways, shuffling between a couple of houses during our time there.  The aforementioned school was Costa Rica Academy (now known as American International School), a tiny private school ranging from pre-K thru 12th.  You could achieve all your pre-college learning at one single institution, an idea which blew my mind.  Kids from all over god’s creation were attending the school, dragged to Costa Rica by their parents for various and sundry reasons.  There was a framed map of the world in the principal’s office covered with colored push-pins denoting all the nationalities at the school in a global version of Battleship.

As strange as being thrust into a foreign country with a new school and new home was, it’s the only time I can ever remember being a kid.  My entire childhood was peppered with adult level bullshit in one form or another (especially when we left Costa Rica for good), but while in that sweltering jungle republic I felt the freedom of being a child.  Carefree for the first time, I did all the stereotypical kid things I had only read about (seriously).  Riding my bike with friends, climbing trees, and getting into trouble.  This may sound like Norman Rockwell Americana shit, but I honestly had no concept of what it was to be this way until then.  Thankfully that was the one constant during my entire stay.  Our living situation was still shifting (as per usual) and even my parents marital status decided to change things up, but whenever I think of the time I spent there, I always come back to the feeling of pedaling my bike down steep hills, picking mangos from the tops of trees and not wandering home till the sun came down.

Related posts: (Auto Generated)

1. Primordial Soup: Places & Vices **This post is part of the Primordial Soup series** The...
2. Why Cuban Nomad? Recently I’ve had several people ask me why I chose...
3. Florida AIDS Walk 2010 Life is an interesting experience if you pay attention as...
4. Writing's in my blood For as long as I can remember the written word...
5. The Me Manifesto I am a Gemini and thus definition has never been...

Tagged as: Childhood, Costa Rica