Vickyvix is doing a survey about blogging. It’s for a paper (I think over there that means an assignment, not an entire university course). Anyway, it’s fun, go and check it out. Weblog Survey.
Real women?
I think Iona was a bit harsh about Real Women Have Curves.
I didn’t think it was a crayon copy. It could have been a documentary about life in San Carlos. The sympathetic father could have been my first host father. The mother was an absolute clone of my host mother.
Perhaps it’s a cultural thing. When I was in Costa Rica, most of the people I met did seem flat and clichéd. The relationships between people seemed really superficial.
Maybe I just didn’t get the Ticos. Maybe Iona just didn’t get the movie. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. Or maybe it was a low budget movie? The romantic thing did seem a bit flimsy…
Despite flatness, I want to go back to Costa Rica!
I’m having cravings for the food, the music, the heat (I’m choosing to forget how grumpy the heat made me). I want to pick guavas from the tree. I want to dip green mangoes in salt and chilli. I want to go to La Avispa on a women only night and dance Salsa with gorgeous queer Latinas. I want to hear toucans gurgling in the trees. I want to eat frijoles refritos wrapped up in tortillas. I want to watch the fireflies coming out, and Arenal volcano glowing on the horizon. And most of all, I want to see my friend Minor.
Another poem! Apologies to Hinemoana, who has already read most of my poems. The trouble is, I haven’t had time to finish any new ones since starting this Children’s Writing course. Asi es la vida. And apologies to all of you, because I’m only posting my less successful poems. I’m paranoid that this will count as publication and I won’t be able to publish them in a journal or somewhere… so I’m only posting the ones that I don’t care about. And that way I don’t care so much if someone steals them. Not that any of you would. But someone random from the internet might. I’m paranoid, ok?
San Carlos
Even in the mountains heat clings to our bodies
the wind is tired and will not offer comfort.
In el centro the footpaths crumble
onto the dirty streets
we have to shout
above the noise
the crowds
the filth.
We cannot bear to watch the bullfights.
The muchachos breathe in the dust and violence
but the bull does not die
in San Carlos.
As the humid afternoon sprawls before us
we discover the hardest thing in the world
is finding the words in Spanish
to tell a seven year old girl
she will soon go blind
a woman spits in our faces
because the glasses we give her
are the wrong colour
until now
we have not
understood
frustration.
As we give up in exhaustion
a man who has never seen
comforts us
with his hands.
At last the stars creep down
to dance among the long grasses.
They ignore the sign painted to a tree:
Please don’t annoy the crocodiles.
La Plaza central hums
as people tumble out of the church
religion painted on the walls and faces.
In el supermercado
we discover that we can buy awful rum
for the price of a bar of chocolate
back home.
We learn that we cannot dance salsa
but we dance anyway.
The men here make us sick and with alcohol
we try to blur out the loose eyes and hands.
As we throw up we forget the reason
we felt sick in the first place.
In the distance
the volcano grumbles
even at as we sleep
the heat clings to us.