Phat Phriends, Phreaks, and Our Phather

Happy birthday to all my Libra sisters and brothers!

Fat, Dumb, and Happy

Well, it has just been confirmed that our goat Jenny is NOT pregnant. No, she’s just gorda – fat with big ta-tas. …. Our friend Alan, a Tico goat “expert” (to us this would be anyone who’s had more than one goat for more than 3 months), has examined her and confirmed it. He tells us we need to invite a cabro (that’s a male goat) to come on over and get her pregnant because what’s the use in having a goat if you’re not going to drink its milk or make cheese? Gee, I don’t know. Can’t she can just stomp around, nibble grass, and be cute? (And can’t we just sleep in and not worry about separating her from her babies all night long so they don’t drink all the milk that we’re supposed to steal from them?) Does every womb-bearing creature on the planet need to be bare-footed (or bare- hooved) and pregnant to be useful in life? Plus, as Chris so unsuccessfully expressed to Alan in Spanish, what happens if Jenny rejects her gentleman caller and doesn’t want to get busy? (That was a funny mix of sign language and misspoken Latin syllables.) Are we going to have to plan a succession of dates with various goats? What if she gets pregnant and we don’t know who the father is? Is this like prostitution or arranged marriage? What if she doesn’t want kids (hah, not a pun)? Ah, heck, let’s just get the poor girl fixed and get her a girlfriend.


Old Friends and New Freaks (Or Is It Old Freaks and New Friends?)

We’ve had the good fortune in the last couple of months to visit old friends and enjoy new ones. At the end of September, we spent a fantastic 3 days and 4 nights in the wondrous capital of Utah, Salt Lake City, “whooping it up” with our (obviously non-Mormon) friends, the stupendously brilliant and leggy Stephanie (with whom we share roots in San Diego and without whom Chris and I never would have met) and her handsome and handy hubby Kevin (whose height and South-African accent has made an equally life-long impression on Wilder). From backyard barbecue, to dinosaur park, to hair salon, to REI, to delectable Indian and sushi restaurants with impeccable company – we all had a blast. Wilder keeps asking when we can go back. Hopefully Steph and Kev will make it down here first. ;)

Here in Nuevo Arenal, we have been blessed to become acquainted with some folks who have already become lifelong friends: Eric, Silja, and their munchkin Kaleb, 2 ½, who hail from South Carolina and just made the leap down here a few months ago. It’s been great to meet other extranjeros who are not yet collecting a pension. We’ve all bonded over shared passions -- cocktails, music, food, laughter, tractors, Barney, dinosaurs – and mutual tribulations – broken-down cars, linguistic and cultural barriers, toddler tantrums. Kaleb and Wilder get along in the most loving, assertive, and selfish way that toddlers do, and we’ve all become immediate family. In an odd spiral of serendipity, my parents had a trip planned to South Carolina before we met this beautiful little family, but once the connection was made, Silja hooked my folks and friends up with a personalized, hometown, hostess-style tour-guide of Hilton Head, including a stop at her mom’s famous bakery (showcased on “$40 a Day” with Rachel Ray). So my mom and dad got to meet Silja’s mom and the grandparents got to celebrate and commiserate with each other over their adventurous but faraway daughters, grandsons, and son-in-laws in Central America. Familial blasphemers are we! But how thankful we all are for each other, and I’m sure our parents feel better knowing that we’re all looking out for each other.

Bible Study

What is god, what is not god, what is between man and god, who shall say? -- Euripides

God, please save me from your followers. – Bumper Sticker

Like Alice in Wonderland, we go through many different portals, voluntarily or involuntarily. As a human, a woman, a resident of this life, a writer …I must explore each one, verdad? With all due respect, I inspect this experience with a bit of cynicism . . .

After a full-moon slumber party, a night of libation, and a beautiful afternoon riding horses with our new friends E, S, & K, we spent the remainder of the afternoon baking cakes for what Nago confirmed that day with Chris was “just a little party for the kids.” Mmm hmmm…

So that Saturday night, we walk into Nago’s house (45 minutes late, thank God) and there are about ten people sitting in a circle of chairs and loveseats, underneath these bright lights, with Bibles opened on their laps. As we greet the silent, small, smiling, and staring crowd, I set down my handful of pink cupcakes and kiss my hopeful expectations goodbye. Chris and I are then seated at the apex of the circle, the place of honor for all of those involved in an intervention or interrogation. Immediately my knees are weak, my heart fluttering, my face flush, and my body hot. The fight or flight instinct is kicking in, and I damn my polite, rational mind for keeping me from running out the door into the cool cover of night.

Honestly, we were among good friends in a familiar house, but it was more uncomfortable than I imagined it might be considering the positive and idealistic visions I had of a humanistic, interdisciplinary sharing of ideas with a group of pious but open-minded, tamale-making women. Alas, this was not to be a meeting of independent minds nor “just a party for the kids” (who, by the way, all got to play blissfully and ignorantly in the back room while we were presumed into the words of God).

I can already hear those who would call me a blasphemous heathen saying that this was an unpleasant experience for me because I don’t have their particular brand of god embroidered on my jeans and have not accepted Jesus Christ as my own personal and fashionable savior, so I am therefore uncomfortable with or threatened by His followers and His presence. Fair enough. But truthfully my vision was not so much blinded or affected by my refusal to recognize God as a literal entity or to accept Jesus’ blood as the tincture of my soul as it was by the glaring fluorescent lights and beseeching stares of those who surrounded us with merciful expectation. Honestly, I would feel more comfortable arriving naked at my 20th high-school reunion. (Which, by the way, is next year, so I may have a chance to test this theory. Forget the “Person Who Traveled the Farthest Award.” I’m going for the “Person Who’s Gone Most Wacky” award.)

So, as Chris and I sat there endeavoring to smile and act as naturally as possible, all thoughts of what I was going to say to defend my beliefs went out the window. It was clear that this was not my chance to introduce the concept of a goddess or open up a dialogue about God being too big for just one religion (thank you, Michael Franti). Chris and I held hands as if we were each other’s salvation, as we listened to them preach in Spanish all of the things we’d heard countless times throughout our lives in English (at school, in church, at home, in the media) and decided not to perpetuate. The blood of Christ, his sacrifice, and our subsequent sins were the subjects du jour, and the night ended by celebrating them in song. I am so sorry, and I really mean no disrespect to the musically and religiously inclined, but I had to work to prevent a giggle-fit through the entire thing as the CD crackled with too much treble and one woman sang too close and too strongly above the others into my right ear:

“Sangre de la paaaaaz . . .Sangre de me significaaaaa . . .”

At this point, the familiar parody of this experience really hit me, and the song was simply the icing on the proverbial cake. As everyone around me sang, I remembered standing in the pews and singing through laughter during masses at my Catholic high school, and I thought of childhood experiences with my sister and her best friend Mindy, the ultimate giggle-fitters, and I felt a major one coming on. I stifled my insolent giggles by staring seriously and unwaveringly at the piece of blue-lined notebook paper in front of me, mouthing quietly but intently the hand-written, ball-point penned lyrics:

“Sangre de la paaaaaz . . .Sangre de me significaaaaa . . .”

Just when I think I’m getting a hold of myself, Chris, who is sitting beside me, suddenly harks back to his Sunday-school roots and starts tapping his foot, singing audibly, and swaying to the beat with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. He nudges me with his elbow, but everyone is singing and smiling and staring at us (I’m feeling just a wee bit self-conscious, you see) -- to acknowledge him would be either to laugh hysterically or to be implicated in his visual mockery. So I stifle any additional chance of humiliation, keep staring at the song lyrics, and ignore Chris (which any of you may know is hard to do, and especially because he keeps digging his elbow into my ribcage).

Eventually, the song and the evening come to an end. (Except you know that phenomenon where the song you want to forget the most is the one you can clear your mind of the least? Well, I can’t get that song about Jesus’ blood out of my head!! “Sangre de la paaaaaz….”) But before we can gnosh and leave, Chris addresses the circle and asks, “So when do you all go to church?” He later admits he asked this question for my for my benefit (obviously sensing my overabundance of interest and comfort). Of course his inquiry invites several open invitations to the next day’s church services, which we then are put in the position to decline. We do so in a manner intended to be reverential and polite, but which probably indicated a slight dis-ease. This moment quickly passed, however, and once we were released from the circle, we were plied with delicious food, welcoming hugs, and pleasant conversation.

Of course, I am very thankful that they invited us and that I had the opportunity to be forced outside of my box. Awkward religious encounters aside, these folks have gone out of their way to welcome us and include us in the community and they make us feel special in many ways (extending personal invitations, giving birthday gifts, caring for Wilder, teaching us how to make tamales and picadillo) and I honor and respect everyone that was there con mucho amor . . .

A few afternoons later, when I took Wilder over to play with Kevin and Jendry, Ester and I sat on her front porch and had a wonderfully natural and honest conversation about our beliefs. Ultimately, we agreed that even though we come from different backgrounds, cultures, religions, and countries and have a different concept of God, at the core we both believe in the same things – love, kindness, respect, compassion, and peace. I was refreshed and redeemed. . . .Pious and open-minded, indeed, all in our own way.