anida4u

Growing up in a small town in Canada, I never gave much thought to my skin color.  The reason why is because everyone in the town was white.  Everyone on tv was white and most everyone in the movies were white.  My grandpa called brazil nuts, “nigger toes” and the lady behind the candy counter called the small black licorice dolls, “nigger babies” and so that is what I called them, having no idea what the word actually meant, just assuming it was another word for black. It wasn’t until we took a trip to “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” in Grade 7, that I began to learn about our shameful treatment of African people and that although many people felt slavery was wrong, only a few people were willing to put their lives on the line to stop the practice.  After that trip, I often wondered why not a single person in town ever corrected me, my friends, my grandpa or the lady behind the counter when we used the word “nigger”. As I grew older, I began observing how people were treated depending on their skin color and realized how much easier my life was because of my skin color.  I’ve always tried to treat everyone equal regardless of race and I’ve tried to raise my children to do likewise.  I cringe when I hear someone berate another soul simply because they believe they are superior in race.  When I was younger, I often jumped into the middle of these situations to stand up for the underdog but the bigot remained a bigot and the underdog didn’t see me as a hero but as another white sticking their nose in business a white person would never understand. Well time moves on and society changes and I still find myself in very uncomfortable situations because I am white. Two weeks ago, I booked a trip to Costa Rica to look at some houses or land to build my retirement home.  I booked a last minute flight, read over the international travel rules and thought I packed correctly.  I only packed two small cases so I could carry on both.  As I went through security, the woman of color, scanning bags took my one bag and dumped the contents, she preceded to pull out a ziploc bag, slightly smaller than mine to show me the proper size for liquids and lotions and then began eliminating items that would not fit in “her” ziploc.  My sunscreen 50, my bug spray and a small bottle of peroxide were items I could not take on the plane.  I would need to check these items into baggage for a $15.00 fee. So back I went to the check-in lane to check my one bag.  I returned to security and picked her lane since she already was familiar with my circumstances.  She treated me like she had never met me and once again dumped my bag to examine the contents. I began to sweat because I’d already checked my bags and was worried she would find other items not appropriate for carry-on.  I thought I’d made a mistake in confusing her with the lady scanning people so I said “I’ve already been through this and another lady reviewed my items and found them satisfactory.”  She stopped what she was doing and looked up at me in silence.  She stuffed my items back into my bag then said “That was me but I guess to you we all look the same”.  I was horrified that she thought that and embarrassed that she said it loud enough for everyone in security to hear.  I mumbled something about being more concerned with looking at my bag than at the person checking it and apologized for my mistaking her identity.  She shoved the bag at me and I put on my shoes and quickly exited the area sure that a hundred eyes were casting darts at my back. During my flight I kept going over the incident and feeling horrible that she thought that of me and yet at the same time knowing there were people in the world that did exactly what she accused me of and never though twice about it.  Since I could not repair the damage, I decided to make sure I didn’t repeat my error by taking a moment to study a face and/or nametag even when panicked.I landed in Tambor and was picked up by an American real estate agent who had arranged for me to stay in a home I was looking at purchasing in the small fishing village of Cabuya.  I dropped my bags at the house, then took her up on her offer to show me some other properties and  lunch at a local restaurant. Having moved to Costa Rica 4 years ago, the agent married a local and spoke fluent Spanish.  Our lunch was fun.  I met other Americans who had settled in the area and they all seemed happy in their decision and excited at the possibility of a new neighbor. We toured Montezuma,  saw some breathtaking properties and agreed to meet up the next day to look at some more.  She took me to a local grocery store to stock up my fridge and then dropped me off at the cottage. Naturally, the cottage looked much better in the photos than in real life.  It looked like it hadn’t been used in quite awhile. There we dead bugs everywhere.  I swept and cleaned up the place, then headed to the beach down the lane to admire the view, listen to the waves and walk along the shore.  I met only a few locals on my beach stroll and we exchanged greetings in Spanish along with smiles.  I came back to the cottage feeling pretty good about my decision to visit this exotic place and hopeful I could find a home here. As darkness approached, I noticed a number of bugs appearing on the floor and walls as well as geckos coming out for their evening snack.  I realized that many of windows did not have screens and the cement blocks in the shower with air holes were also not screened.  I began to feel a little panicked because of all the web postings I read about the exotic and dangerous creatures in Costa Rica.  I closed all the windows without screens and sprayed myself with bug spray before heading to bed.  I awoke a few times in the middle of the night with something crawling on me.  Preferring not to know what it was, I simply shook or swiped it off, calmed my heart and continued sleeping.  I was grateful for camping several times in Northern Ontario and for having boys who loved bugs, spiders, snakes and lizards. The next day, I spent the morning cleaning up the bugs, sweeping as many out of the house alive as I could.  Once again I headed to the beach for a walk and came home to read until my agent arrived to show me more properties.  I noticed a Tico family in the lot next to me busy at work.  They lived in a two storey half-walled home with a tin roof.  The woman did her laundry by hand and hung it across the open area between 2 beams.  They cooked outside and the oldest boy, about 8, spent most of his time cutting back the grass, vines, bushes and trees with a machete.  I realized my home was a palace compared to theirs.  I also realized that if they lived that much in the open, then their probably wasn’t anything too deadly creeping around that would kill or paralyze me. The agent picked me up in the afternoon, we toured more properties then had an early supper in Montezuma.  With her as my guide and her fluent Spanish, I had another good day and arranged to go to Tortega the next day to snorkel and enjoy the beach. The next day was my wake-up call.  It started off with me trying to catch the local bus that was suppose to come at 7:15 am.  Rather than wait for it, I started walking toward Montezuma taking pictures of flowers, butterflies, colorful little crabs that come out to eat the leftover scraps from meals. Many Ticos past me, some with smiles and greetings and some that didn’t acknowledge my presence.  The bus came by at 7:45 am.  My agent had told me the wrong fare, so I had to dig around in my money belt for the correct change.  I sat down sweaty and smelly and then realized I was the only white person on the bus.  I felt a little uncomfortable but sat back listening to the steady stream of Spanish and laughter picking up a phrase or word now and again.The trip to Tortega was about 45 minutes by boat and although the driver was polite he was not overly friendly and I got the impression he enjoyed driving the boat more than chatting with the tourists.  The current was very strong where we ended up snorkeling making it hard to see anything below 2 feet.  I snorkeled for a bit thinking I was sticking close to the boat but when I looked up, I realized the current had taken me quite a distance away.  I started swimming toward the boat but soon realized the current was working against me.  I cursed myself for not asking for a life jacket as I continued to swim toward the boat.  I started to panic when I realized I wasn’t make much headway and my arms were growing tired but being stubborn, I didn’t want to call out for help and embarrass myself … apparently drowning was preferable to embarrassment.  Concentrating on reaching the boat, I continued swimming refusing to think of how tired I was growing.  I watched the boat driver watch me struggle in the water with a smile on his face.  I became convinced he knew I was in trouble but was in no hurry to help me.  Finally he tossed a life preserver into the water about 10 feet from the boat, although the rope was considerably longer, and continued watching me with that same evil smile plastered to his face. Anger replaced my panic and I continued swimming toward the floating preserver.  When I finally reached it, I thought I would cry with relief.  I hung on tightly, trying to catch my breath, then shakily swam to the boat.  He politely help me up into the boat but made no comments.  I politely thanked him giving him the same smile he gave me, refusing to let him know just how scared I was in the water. A few more tourists found themselves in the same situation and he behaved the same way.Finally we headed toward the beach for lunch and a few hours in the sun.  After lunch, I walked the beach, then sat beneath a shade tree to watch everyone else bake in the sun. A young man sat down beside me and we soon starting chatting.  He was from India but raised in Miami and studying law.  He wanted to start his own law practice offering immigrants help with legal matters.  He felt his background and fluency in several languages would make immigrants feel more comfortable dealing with him than other lawyers. We then began a long conversation on immigration and what Canadians thought of immigrants from other countries. I then turned the tables and asked him what he thought of Americans and Canadians.  He told me, like in every country there were good and bad people.  He felt many of the white people had prejudices against other races.  I then told him that I felt a lot of the Costa Rican’s I had met so far did not like white people.  He quickly agreed but said it was not only the white people they disliked but all foreigners.  When I pressed him for reasons, he simply said it was complicated and changed the subject.For the remainder of my trip, I continued asking any Tico with some English the same question and I kept receiving exactly the same response “it’s complicated”.  On my last day in Cabuya, I sat beside the road waiting for the bus to Montezuma.  I watched cars, dirt bikes,4 wheelers and bicycles head down a side road for what sounded like a party.  As I was waiting, a man pulled up in a pick-up truck (no pun intended)  and asked if I needed a ride to Montezuma. Normally I would decline the offer but with the heat and no sign of the bus, I readily agreed.  He was from Spain and had lived all over the world but fell in love with Costa Rica and had lived in this area for 4 years.  I asked him what event was happening down the road.  He told me it was a football game.  He didn’t really like the game but always came for the free meal.   He then told me he owned some grocery stores in the area and was building a rental property.  He had a wife and baby from Holland who did not share his enthusiasm for Costa Rica and had returned home to her family 2 years ago.  He had not seen them since.  It made him “very sad that his wife did not believe in him and chose her family over him but that Costa Rica was a land of opportunity and he could become very rich living in the country.”  The land was still cheap, the Caribbean area was ripe for development and opportunities existed here that did not exist in Europe or North America.We stopped for a minute beside one of the beaches to watch the surfers.  I asked him why certain beaches were so clean and others littered with garbage.  He told me locals were hired to clean up beaches where tourists go but not the others.  He wanted to know if I wanted to drive around and I told him I had to be in Montezuma for a tourist booking.  Thankfully, he dropped me off safe and sound in town. I thanked him for the ride and we said our goodbyes.It began to rain and I learned my wire ride in the canopy had been cancelled.  I walked around for a bit, watched the surfers and the waves, then sat at the bus stop to wait for the public bus.  On my way home, the rain stopped and as I headed down my laneway, I heard music coming from next door. The Tico family next door were having dinner outside, music was playing and the children were playing along with a tambourine and sticks on an upside down pail.  Everyone was laughing and a having great time.I headed down to the beach once more but instead of taking pictures of the beautiful scenery, I took pictures of the garbage littering the beach. As I headed back to my rental, I realized I was ready to go home and that as beautiful as Costa Rica was, I could never live in this country or build a rental property, because I would always be a foreigner in this beautiful country.The next day, my agent picked me up to drive me to Tambor for my flight home.  When she asked me about the properties she shown me, I tried to explain to her everything I had learned in the few days I was alone.  She told me that the Tico people should be thanking us because without tourism and foreign investment, they would have nothing.  I soon realized that it was useless to argue with her and told her I would think about the of the properties she showed me.Waiting in San Jose for my flight, I watched other tourists gobble down Burger King and pizza with smiles on their faces.  I also became aware of a family of four sitting right in the middle of the aisle way, the mother working on her laptop to figure out connecting flights and the father leaning over her oblivious to the workers and travelers trying to get by them and their whiny children.  I sat watching them waiting for someone to say something to them or at least ram them with their cart or suitcase but people just kept moving around them, giving them hostile stares but making no comment.  In my head I thought that was one reason the Ticos do not like tourists but I knew it went much deeper.My flight was delayed for an hour and by the time I got through immigration in Charlotte, I missed my connecting flight to Detroit.  Once again I found myself facing a woman of color trying to explain what happened.  She told me I wasn’t going anywhere tonight and to take a seat and she would be with me shortly.  Almost 3 hours later, she called me to her desk and informed me that I had a flight in the morning to Detroit at 8:30 and handed me a voucher for a hotel,  I thanked her for helping me and made my way to the shuttle and the hotel.On the morning shuttle back to the airport, I met a man from Egypt traveling the same airline.  He told me a horrific tale of his plane making an emergency landing in Charlotte because a female passenger on the plane became very ill.  Due to scheduling, he couldn’t make his destination so he was forced to stay overnight and fly out in the morning.  He was upset because he had to pay for his hotel room, received no food vouchers and was being charged a $50.00 fee to change his airline ticket.  I was shocked to hear how he was treated.  I encouraged him to keep all his receipts and demand to speak to someone with more authority to help him get his money back.  He told me he would and then gave me a sad smile and said “I hope your right but I doubt I will get any money back”. Feeling very bad, I told him he at least needed to try.Thank goodness my flight back and border crossing was uneventful as well as my drive back home.Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve thought quite a bit about my experiences.  Although everything is legal in Costa Rica, the situation is very similar to when Europeans took over North America.  We took land from Native Americans and imported a culture very different from their own forcing Native Americans to adapt to our ways. In Costa Rica, there has never been a need for higher education for the majority of Ticos.  The people have lived off the land and the ocean but over the last 20 years, foreigners from around the world, have been buying up land, building huge resorts and changing small towns into tourist hot spots.  The cost of living has increased for the Tico people, forcing many to find employment in tourism as waiters, cooks, clerks, maids, guides, carpenters and landscapers.  Their way of life is dying and most now find themselves working for foreigners for low wages.  Is this not paid slavery?  I disagree with the realtor who said the Ticos would have nothing without foreigners.  The Tico family beside me in Cabuya have everything. They have a solid family unit and community.  They have fruit and vegetables from their backyard, eggs and poultry from their free range chickens, milk and meat from their roaming cows, fish from the sea and wood to make their homes.  It is a very hard life but it is also a simple life without all the trappings of material goods.  Unfortunately like many other countries, it is changing and will soon disappear.  I wish I could change the future but at the end of day, the foreigners will still be opportunists and Tico people will always see me as a foreigner because of the color of my skin.

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