They call it Setember over here*

In Costa Rican schools the month of September combines Independence Day, Civics Week, Children's Day, and testing for the end of the second trimester. When I learned that the already short school day would be chopped in half to accommodate dance, theater, choir, and drum practice, as well as tamale making for fundraisers, I despaired that teaching would become impossible. This fear became reality as Children's Day turned out to be a day set aside for eating ice cream, taquitos, and letting children blow whistles and run amok around the school. The teachers had embarked on halfhearted attempts to organize a soccer tournament, but after four subsequent referees were found lacking in either skill or impartiality (my tenure fell victim to the first complaint) the results were annulled and games of tag, hide-and-go-seek, and ring-around-the-rosy ('el barco se hunde' in Spanish) became the norm until lunchtime, when the children were sent home amidst heavy sighs of relief.

Children's Day capped off Civic Week, which took the form of daily school assemblies (the afternoon ones in the blazing sun, or pouring rain) each one focusing on a different part of Costa Rican Patriotism. I was fascinated by everything, from the reasons why a country so rich in birds would choose an unremarkable brown robin as its National Bird (why not a Scarlet Macaw? or a gorgeous Hummingbird? - Answer: its plainness belies its beautiful song), to the history of the 'Escudo' of Costa Rica and its rules of use (one of the first is an odd picture of a man's right chest and arm, without the rest of the body). I think I was the only person who was not bored out of his mind, even the teachers (all gathered under the shade, leaning out only to shush the cooked and miserable students every couple of seconds) were hardly able to stifle their yawns. One of the teachers was so ashamed by the lack of enthusiasm she pointed out that I sang the words of the Costa Rican national anthem, while almost everyone else remained silent. This caused a lot of eye-rolling, but also galvanized the students into a slightly less lackluster performance.

Then came September 15th, which is Independence Day for Costa Rica and most of Central America as well. The story as it is told in Costa Rica is that a brave woman on the night of September 14th, 1821 gathered a group of citizens together in the main square of the capital of Guatemala (then the capital of Central America) to pressure the leaders to declare

independence. They all carried lanterns lit from a single torch, and once the declaration was signed a series of messengers ran with the torch throughout Central America proclaiming Independence, and lighting 'freedom lanterns' in all the houses of the former colony. Costa Rica commemorates that event by having students carry torches throughout the country on the 14th of September, so that at 6 PM that day people gather together at the schools to sing the National Anthem(s) and reenact 'La Noche de los Faroles' (the night of the lanterns).

At a meeting in one of my schools I was voted 'most likely to be able to run a mile' and so became the teacher in charge of shepherding the torch to the school. I knew not what to expect as we walked through the drizzling rain to the bridge where we would meet the torch as it progressed along the entire length of the Peninsula, but I was prepared for the hour and a half of waiting in the rain. The kids and I sang Costa Rican patriotic songs, and I taught them the first few lines of 'America the Beautiful' and 'This Land is Your Land'. Quite suddenly sirens interrupted the pattering of raindrops and a group of bicyclists wearing White, Blue and Red (NOT Red, White, and Blue, as has been pointed out to me on many occasions) screamed by ahead of a small motorcade. First came the District Supervisor's pick-up truck, then a police car, then a small group of students with the torch, and then an ambulance, a bus full of high schoolers who were too tired to continue running, and the large pack of students who took turns running and riding the bus. The torchbearer stopped, handed the torch to a sixth grader who we had chosen to carry it first, and then we were off!

I kept the torch rotating between the different grades, and made sure the order was always boy, girl, boy, girl. Running alongside the sputtering torch through the drizzle was very pleasant, and as we approached the school the sun leapt out and shone on a small crowd of parents that had gathered to watch the arrival of the torch. A small 4th grade girl had the honor of carrying the torch into the school and lighting a larger flame, and everyone gathered round and sang the national anthem. Then the High Schoolers took the torch and set off down the road while the torchbearers from my school and I sped home on our bikes to prepare for the 'Noche de los Faroles' later than evening.

Every child in Costa Rica has to bring a farol (lantern) to the 'Noche de los Faroles', it counts as half of their civics grade every year. Most of them are houses with velum paper over the windows to make the light blue or red. My host niece began planning hers two weeks before, and the final product, although finished hastily hours before the ceremony, followed the plan and turned out well. My host sister made Joan a little farol of his own, to carry at the ceremony.

The sunset that day was graced with a gorgeous double rainbow, with all the colors gradually fading to the vivid pink of tropical pacific sunsets. As the emerging stars pricked the sky to dark blue parents started lighting their children's faroles. The variety was impressive, from Ox-carts to two-story houses, to antique cast iron stormcandles. Unfortunately the eternal curse of nighttime school activities befell this ceremony: as soon as the lights went out control was completely lost. The grand entrance was marred by several teachers each organizing the students differently, and the complicated processions that had been sketchily practiced over the previous weeks fell apart when confronted with groups of parents milling around the makeshift parade ground. All that aside, the beauty of the bobbing lanterns at dusk was always the focus point of the ceremony, and no amount of confusion and frustration could truly ruin such an occasion.

The next day was Independence Day, and I was astonished that everything went off without a problem. We sang the 'Salute to the Flag' and then the 'National Anthem' and then 'Hymn to September 15th' and then the 'Hymn to Juan Santamaría' and then 'Hymn to the Battle of Santa Rosa', those last apparently two just to amp up the level of nationalism at the event, since we had already celebrated those days. All of the songs are beautiful, and the lyrics are quite moving, but they are played far too frequently, and the medley goes on for about 7 minutes too long. The dances were my favorite part of the ceremony, it made me so proud to see my students performing complicated movements, and swishing their long dresses around. I had gone to the first practice to set up the music for the teacher, and seeing how much they improved in such a short time was thrilling. The poetry was adorable, especially when the kindergartner's goggled at the audience and tripped through their lines, even then some of them seemed like trained actors compared to the third grader's stammering stage fright. The ceremony ended with another round of patriotic songs, and everyone went off home.

The most surprising part of all the ceremonies was how little most participants seemed to actually feel patriotic. The songs were sung half-heartedly, less than half of the parents managed to stop their conversations during the national anthem, even fewer knew the words to any of the patriotic songs. In a country with as many things to be proud of as Costa Rica (gorgeous wildlife, a strong democracy, no armed forces, the strongest economy in Central America, a strong system of national parks, etc.) it is odd that displays of patriotism should seem so antiquated and feel so forced. Watching the empty pageantry of another country's nationalism made me realize again how proud I am to be an American.

*Another reason is that we don't usually change the spelling of months - Costa Rica's Royal Academy of Spanish recently pushed through the spelling 'Setiembre' for 'Septiembre'.

Corcovado: soap no, refried beans yes

Waking up at three in the morning seemed a blessed relief after spending several hours delicately avoiding tossing and turning while jackknifed into a poorly-hung hammock. This was especially true because Kristen and I then stumbled out to the street to begin the long taxi-ride out to Karate to start our trek into one of the most bio-diverse and secluded primary forest reserves in the world.

We were heading to Corcovado National Park, home of tapirs and peccaries, jaguars and mountain lions, tinamous and sparrows, coatis and raccoons, monkeys and armadillos, agouti and squirrels, alligators and rattlesnakes, osprey, pelicans, and harpy eagles. There are more, but the combination between the exotic and the normal (for a Californian) is rather startling at first. We rarely imagine our tawny mountain lion sharing a range with the majestic jaguar, much less slowly replacing it, yet precisely here North America and South America combine and intermix, and 2.5 Million years after their first meeting the intercontinental species swap is still taking place in southern Costa Rica.

After a several hours in the taxi we emerged at an airstrip on a rather desolate looking stretch of rocky beach. The misty rain that came rippling across the ocean was rather different from the steamy sunrise we feel in our part of the Peninsula, but for the long stretch of beach walking ahead of us it would hard to imagine better weather. As we climbed into the jungle the sun emerged and shone upon our first exotic animal, a poison dart frog! Since then I have seen them at my bus stop and around my schools, but the first viewing is always a wonderful experience. As we trekked through the thickening trees the humidity and heat turned our shirts into sweltering swamps, weighing easily 10 pounds. It was around this time that I realized my water bottle had turned over inside my backpack and slowly emptied out all of the water into my belongings. This was unfortunate for several reasons: first, I was left without water, and second, everything I had brought and not sealed was wet. These both were ultimately minor inconveniences. After several returns to the beach we hit a long stretch of sun and sand, and halfway along water sprung from the cliffs. We were told it was the last water until the Station we would stay at, so I was lucky enough to fill up again and not suffer much thirst.

We had been hiking rather fast, and as we got close to the station we discovered why. We had arrived at a river, not one of the many streams we had already successfully passed but a growing estuary just upstream from the river mouth. The ford was at least 300 feet across and the water quite murky. Our guide told us that every second that passed the water level was rising, so Kristen and I immediately pulled our shoes off, hiked up our pants, and got ready to hoist our bags over our heads, when I asked if there were Crocodiles or Alligators. The guide remained silent as if he hadn't heard us, so Kristen and I started in. I was warily eying the opposite bank and the water all around us, but the more I stubbed my toe on rocks the more I forgot to be scared of aquatic reptiles. Soon we had all crossed successfully, the water only slightly above our waists at the deepest. Once we had all gathered at the other side our guide drew me aside and said simply 'Yes.'

Once we arrived at the station we found that the camping took place on a wood floor elevated about 7 feet off the ground under a roof and connected to the station itself. It was a lot better than I had expected. The station itself was situated at the end of a grassy airstrip with a large well tended lawn, and immediately towering tropical trees jungle jutted up on all sides.

That night we hiked out to another estuary to search for Tapirs, we sat on the riverbank and entertained ourselves by staring at eddies and whirls, playing with hermit crabs, watching various hawks and egrets, and hoping in vain that a large Tapir would come strolling out of the trees and pose on the bank. As the sun sunk into the storm clouds out over the Pacific we began to walk back along the beach. Suddenly, our guide dropped into a crouch behind a log, and began scuttling forward making signs for us to follow quietly. This was very hard to accomplish, and by the time everyone had started to quiet down and look around the tapir had darted back into the forest. Our guide plunged after it, and soon we stumbled upon a mother and baby tapir feeding in a gully. Tapirs are large, with incredibly thick skin, sort of a mix between a rhino and a pig, with a long movable snout that is a little like a short elephant's trunk. The baby was about two years old, and had a massive head. Both tapirs were unconcerned by our presence, aside from a slow moving grazing and occasionally tilting their snouts in our direction and snuffling it was as though we were not there. We got back and ate our hearts out, then turned in.

I woke up early and started off into the forest along a short path we had taken the day before. As I walked forward off the airstrip the trees gradually closed in around me and I was fully alone, engulfed in my surroundings, and set adrift in my appreciation of the natural world. The 'jungle' here is not thick with underbrush requiring a machete to move forward. It is not truly jungle either, but rather 'primary moist forest', and the best comparison (it is in fact incredibly similar) is a broilingly hot and humid version of the coastal redwoods in Northern California. in every direction but up open space abounds, interrupted by the occasional bush, small tree, or dangling vine. The forest floor is dappled with leaves and mud, but not swamped by either. The main difference is the ubiquitous presence of monkeys and large parrots, who move with anything but silence and care through the canopy. Forests are often described as Cathedrals, and I can find no better metaphor for the instant respect and reverence that standing in the forest produces. The trees rise mind-boggling heights, their bases buttressed by thick, winding, roots that are taller than people, the sunlight filters down through a thick kaleidoscope of stained leaves and the howler monkeys and tinamous create an eerie, beautifully harmonized choir of gargoyles that explodes through the early morning air. It was magnificent and supremely beautiful.

That afternoon we took a longer hike through the rainforest, and I became pretty good at spotting monkeys (the trick is to wait until you hear a branch hit the ground, then look up). Spider monkey babies, for the record, are adorable. And the fearless leaps their mother's take with little ones hanging on to their backs made me gasp more than once. Howler Monkeys are pretty ugly, but manage to convey a sense of wisdom in their piercing gaze. Sloths are devilishly hard to spot (although my Aunt was very good at it when she came to visit), and wear an expression of perpetual confusion. The cutest animal by far however, was the tamandua, a type of anteater that we saw climbing around in a tree during the hike out. The soles of it's feet are bright pink, and it combed the tree thoroughly, just as frequently upside-down as right-side-up. Watching it stretch its long claws to clasp a new branch was beautiful, if the moment when it suddenly unbalanced and swung forward was startling.

The next morning (my birthday) we started out early and met with a herd of small red brocket deer grazing on the lawn as the newly risen sun lit the delicate mist rising from the grass. As we continued bleary-eyed down the airstrip an iron-flanked and rather un-bellowing he-Tapir clanked and battered across the grass towards us. Pausing momentarily when he heard us, he continued trudging into high grass and the forest, soon lost to view except for the waving tufts of grass billowing in his wake. I thought, Happy Birthday Barton! and kept walking.