Wilbert’s friends are here to fix the broken clothes dryer, but he just came for moral support. I join the conversation as he makes a joke: whoever parked this car must have had a lot to drink last night. I look at the car – my car – and realize that it’s parked pretty close to the edge of the hill. A few more inches forward and there could have been trouble… but this was a misjudgment, no alcohol involved. So I interrupt him: “I didn’t drink anything last night!” Wilbert keeps on laughing, undisturbed by the likelihood of having offended me. “So this is your car? Cool!” Then he starts telling us how the other day he drank almost an entire bottle of Guaro and he has no idea how he got home. “What is Guaro made from?” I ask. Wilbert thinks for a few seconds than responds: “Anything. Everything. It doesn’t matter.” The conversation turns to surfing. When he finds out that I too surf, he immediately invites me to go surfing together the next morning. As none of us has a paper, he picks up the nearest object – a broom – and writes his cell phone number on the wooden handle. Wilbert then says goodbye, hops on his motorbike and disappears. I already miss him!
***
Manuel walks slowly towards our car. His clothes are covered in black stains and his once white t-shirt is torn in several places. We are at a gas station and after filling up the tank the car didn’t start. No ignition, nothing. The staff refilled the engine oil level and cleaned the battery contacts. Both actions were very unlikely to resolve the issue but the truth is that they didn’t have a clue, and neither did I. When I asked for the nearest mechanic, they shrugged their shoulders as if to say: “Dude, it’s Sunday. Come back tomorrow!” Then they called Manuel. He is now observing as I turn the key and demonstrate the lack of ignition. He leans inside the cockpit, takes one look at the gearbox and says: “It’s in Parking mode, you need to put it in Neutral”. Now I know this guy is blowing smoke up my ass: I’ve been driving automatic cars since I moved to the US 11 years ago and I’ve always been able to start the car while in Parking mode. But I have nothing else to try so I give it a shot, secretly waiting to show him that he’s wrong. The car starts.
***
Paula is avidly drinking water from the bottle when I pop my head into the salon and ask “Is it open?” She gulps, coughs, and responds: “Yes, Yes, Come in!” This is the very beginning of the tourist season and I might be today’s only client. While she cuts my hair I get to practice my Spanish – something I’ve been missing these past few days as we lived in remote areas of Costa Rica with limited human contact. “I don’t know how the gringos do it” says Paula, “they work all the time, they are stressed out, they eat crap, then they become obese and they get heart attacks and diabetes. But I guess it’s Ok because they are making lots of dough?” I laugh and explain that this is exactly what we are escaping. Mai and I have been avoiding our own kind like a plague since we started our journey in Central America. Gringos are always either seeking something or complaining about something, they seem incapable of simply enjoying the present. I’ve been wondering how the local folks can put up with that, and now the truth comes out of Paula’s mouth: they just think we Americans are loco – and they are probably right. Although her job is to cut hair, Paula is well travelled: she speaks Portuguese and spent several years in Brazil – she loved it. She also visited California a while back and hated L.A. because you can’t walk anywhere: you must drive a car. I tell her about San Francisco and how most people there walk, bike, or take public transportation. After cutting my hair, Paula wants to rinse it but there’s no water coming out of the tap. A young man stands in front of the store: she asks him for help. He fights with the pipes for a minute and the water starts flowing. I joke with the guy that he must stay to make sure Paula’s next client gets his hair washed. He laughs and replies: “I am her next client.”
Cedric, 11/07/2011
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