Costa Rica Calling

A sort of Grand Old Duke of York day...

2012-05-22T11:44:00.001-07:00

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The car is due for its annual certificate of roadworthiness by the end of this month and The Men have just realised that this means Action.

Four new tyes are required.
Bargains have been quoted on the internet, on the eBay equivalent Mercado Libre, but the size required is not in stock.
The prices quoted by specialist tyre firms have left The Men blown backwards bowlegged.
Second hand tyre merchants have been searched.....no joy.
Second hand tyre merchants have offered to find the size required by the next day.
The Men now reckon that if the said merchant is closed for the three following days the tyres are not going to materialise.
A dodgy character said he could get the tyres, no problem, but he'd have to deliver them before dawn.
The Men reckoned this meant he would be stealing them from someone else's car after dusk and declined his offer.
The tyres are now coming up by bus from Panama where they are half the Costa Rica price.

The brakes have been overhauled, the suspension repaired....apart from the tyres, The Men are ready.

Then a mysterious red light showed on the dashboard.
What was it?
They found out when the car would not start. The battery was dead.
Why was the battery dead?
Since a red light was involved, clearly Something Electrical.

Something Electrical brings out the divergence between The Men.
Man A - Mr. Fly - knows very little about cars.
Man B - Danilo - knows a lot about cars.

Man A doesn't like spending money on cars.
Man B thinks it's an unfortunate necessity.

Man A decides on the local solution.
Man B goes along with this...it not being his money...while maintaining propaganda for the repairman extraordinaire and of last resort down at Cartago, the other side of the capital two hours drive away.

Accordingly they set off for the local man, a Cuban, who works from home, just downhill from the entrance to the town.
He investigates and announces that the problem is the generator.
Can he fix it?

Yes. He is a certificated Mercedes engineer.
But. As a certificated Mercedes engineer he knows that Mercedes hide the generator under the engine and he does not have a pit.
So. The Men have to drive up to the big builders' merchants on top of the hill to use the hoist to remove the engine.

Work stops in the yard as workmen, customers and the resident dog offer advice and assistance.
For some reason this is not in the least resented by the owner of the premises, himself offering advice and assistance.

Everything is unhitched and unhooked and the generator is carried back downhill - on foot - to the Cuban repairman.

He clears space on his kitchen table and looks at the item.
It is a sealed unit.
Sharp intakes of breath all round. Replacing one of those is big money.

Not to worry...we Cubans won't be beaten by Mercedes!
Man B sits down, overcome by the thought of what is about to happen.
Man A perks up, thinking of the potential savings.

The sealed unit is prised open.

Bastards!

What is it?

They've put plastic baffles in it so you can't get at the screws!
Not to worry, I'm from Cuba!

Man B is hyperventilating.

The repairman gets paper and pencil and logs the position of the screws from the visible portions.
He then takes a soldering iron and opens the plastic in accordance with his diagram.
Lo and behold...the screws.

Man A is smiling.

Items are removed..they appear to be arranged in layers...and are tested individually.
Not until the repairman gets to the bottom does he find the rogue unit.

You'll have to get me a spare.

Off go The Men, uphill to the spares shop by the big garage at the entrance to the town.
No joy.

Off go The Men, downhill to the spares shop at the smaller garage opposite the school.
No joy.

What about Carlos?
He'll never have it...but there's nowhere else...

Off go The Men again, downhill through the town centre and uphill past the cigar factory, turning into the workshop of Carlos, collector of spare parts and repairer of strimmers.

A hunt ensues - and Carlos has the part! A Chinese knock off version.

Fifteen thousand colones change grubby hands and The Men trundle downhill to the town centre, stopping on the way to arrange to sell plantains to Marta and to invite Julio and his wife to supper, then uphill again to the repairman.

By this time space has been made on the kitchen table to fill a box with sealed vacuum packs of ham, ordered by a local caff.
The repairman also makes ham.
The Men are given a guided tour of his operation, beginning with pig and ending with smoker.
The Men buy a few packs themselves.

How much did you pay for the part?
Fifteen thousand.
That's cheap. I had to pay twenty five last time up at the top garage.
Which explained why the part was out of stock at the top garage.

The ham having been cleared away, the generator is reassembled under the eyes, not only of The Men, but a few neighbours who had dropped in to see what was going on.
The talk turned to politics.

Well, all these lefty guys, Chavez, your Castro...how do they get into power?
Easy. Think.....who are the majority - rich or poor?
Well, poor...
Then all you have to do is promise them something.
What about the next election though...when they haven't had it?
Oh, you don't have another one.

The generator is reassembled.

Right, get it back in and come back. I'll test it to make sure it's working.

Off go The Men, bearing the generator uphill to the builders' merchant.

Another joint effort sees the engine replaced and the bits and bobs hitched up.
The Men climb in, the engine starts and the assembled workmen, customers and dog wave them off.

The car stops abruptly.
Man B descends.

The steering's not working!

The bits and bobs are detached and rearranged.
Man B tries again and, this time with steering active, drives downhill to the repairman.

He tests the generator....no, power is no longer leaching from the battery. It's fine.

Except that, as Man B points out, the red light has come on again.

The afternoon is spent in a flurry of wiring, new terminals are attached, The Men are sent in all directions for bits and pieces and the neighbour comes back to say that Chavez is holding an election.

More fool him!

The repairman finally tidies it all up, tests the generator again and says

It's fine.

But the red light is still on.

Don't worry! I'm from Cuba!

Forty thousand colones change hands, the repairman throws in an extra pack of ham free and invites them to his next pig roast.

The Men drive uphill out of the town and then downhill over the gravel road to the house.

That red light is still on.

Don't worry about it. He's from Cuba!

Liebster Award

2012-05-17T09:37:00.001-07:00

Joanne at cup on the bus has very kindly given me the Liebster Award.

Her blog is great fun...especially the geese... and I was delighted to discover that she too used to weave.
My loom is still sitting in the coach house in France - anyone want a house in France? - and I don't see myself taking up weaving again, but it was a fascinating hobby and nice to be reminded of it.

I follow the Perpetua rules on awards...respect the spirit and don't get too hung up on the detail, so here are five blogs I would like to recommend...some you may know, others not, but I enjoy all of them.

From the Mayenne region, a corner of france is the blog of an enthusiastic musician who runs a group gite. It offers a commentary on daily life, with emphasis on gardens and plants, which rings very true to life.

Down in the hinterland of Lyon, Piglet in France gives another real life picture of daily life in France, from the view of one who came to France as a youngster and made her life there - definitely not your average living the dream blog!

In the Creuse - ex fief of new President Hollande and home to the Chirac clan - Ma Parole details the life of an expat estate agent - no living the dream there either.....

Further afield, I would urge you to read the the farm at the back of beyond and ask yourself if you can believe that this is life in Scotland in this century...a true shocker.

While to restore a sense of normality.off to Turkey for being koy - an intelligent and interesting account of life in a different culture.

I must apologise to Joanne for being so tardy....life, visitors and the start of the cricket season intervened.......and there are so many good blogs about that choice is difficult.

And while we're on the subject of awards, wouldn't it be fun to do anti awards.....

The Total Hogwash Award for some of the miserylit offerings...

The Sodding Croissants Award for the French living the dreamers...

The Exploitative Bastard Award for those peddling their wares under the guise of blogging...

But it wouldn't be in the spirit of blogging, would it!

And if ever anyone is kind enough to give me awards in the future I would be grateful if one of the conditions could demand that one gives thought about the ending of one's days because this morning - in the lunch interval of the Test Match at Lords - I found myself wondering if I will end up being the only person in the world who has both the words and the tune of 'The hole in the elephant's bottom.'

What a claim to fame!

Who are the sharks?

2012-05-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

Costa Rica 2005 (5) (Photo credit: Philippe Guillaume)Costa Rica promotes itself as being Green...Eco..you name it.

So tell me what is Green or Eco about fishing boats capturing sharks, stripping off their fins for the lucrative Chinese market and dumping the sharks back into the sea...to die slowly from drowning.

I have put up a petition on Avaaz

http://www.avaaz.org/en/petition/Stop_the_trade_in_shark_fins_in_Costa_Rica/?launch

Please sign...please ask others to sign..please put pressure on the Costa Rican government to put its money where its mouth is...

and stop this torture.

Is there something the matter with me....?

2012-04-24T12:49:00.000-07:00

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)A rash question....so there will be a pause to allow for the cries of
'Damn right there is......' followed by examples illustrating the point.

Calm having been restored by judicious use of chair and whip I shall explain why this thought has just occurred to me.

Young members of the family are visiting Costa Rica and see it as an unmissable part of the experience to stay at a 'boutique hotel and spa' on the coast.
Puzzled by my lack of enthusiasm they explain that they are both busy people - true - and need time to 'chill'.
In which case why not try a cruise to Alaska, one thinks but probably wisely does not say.

I take a look at the chosen resort.
It is miles from anywhere, so unless you call a taxi you are a prisoner of the hotel insofar as eating is concerned.
It is not at all clear from the hotel's website whether your food and drink are included in the astronomical room rates.
Hints garnered from Tripadvisor suggest that they are not.

It is on the beach.
Wonderful.
Except that you can't swim off the beach in front of the hotel as it is decidedly rocky. You have to trot up the beach for some five minutes to find a spot where the waves are less likely to land you on something liable to impale you in a sensitive area.

The beach is empty, so the guests' feedback reads.
Yes, of course it is.
Totally illegally the hotel has wired off its stretch of beach which prevents local people from using it.

The hotel has a dojo.
Something Japanese....Sumo wrestling, perhaps, or an origami works....?
No.
It's a space with stone Buddhas lurking just where they might catch the foot unwarily swung while undergoing yoga.
Two free sessions a day with a most sinister looking man covered in tattoos.

I have never understood the appeal of yoga.
Should I wish to have my limbs and body contorted into unnatural positions I would take up skiing which also has the advantage of apres ski as opposed to faddy health drinks and a distinct absence of people saying
'Om.'

'Ouch'...yes.
'Om'...No.

The accommodation consists of separate units dotted about the grounds...one bedroom or two, closed in and air conditioned, with sitting area and - would you believe - shower and loo in the open air. There are head height walls but there don't appear to be any doors.
Hammocks are provided for every unit.

What happens in the rainy season? Nipping out of your air conditioned shelter for a quick pee while the thunderbolts sizzle overhead and the rain buckets down like Victoria Falls has very little going for it apart from desperation.
Follow that up by hoisting yourself into a wet hammock and you've got a head start on rheumatism at a young age.

Which is why, I suppose, they have a spa.
To me, a spa is somewhere you drink water which tastes foul, in the hope that your illness will also think it foul and shab off elsewhere.
However, things have changed.

It appears nowadays that a spa is somewhere where you are plastered with mud, wrapped in clingfilm and tenderised while having hot stones placed on your backbone.
Prices start at sixty dollars for an hour......oh, and another twenty dollars if you want exclusive use of a jacuzzi after the treatment. This, remember on top of the astronomical room rate.
I do not see the attraction.
Not at that price.
Come to that, not at any price. Put a hot stone on my backbone and you'll have lift off.

The hotel, in accordance with the image of Costa Rica as eco friendly, is itself eco respectable.
Thus your loo paper, once used, is placed in a bin in the open air loo to be collected by staff.
Bags me not that little task...
To me, that is not so much a mark of respect for the environment as an indication that the hotel's sewage disposal system leaves something to be desired.

Your towels and bedlinen will be changed only every three days - neatly coinciding with the average stay - so try to dry yourself in the sun if you don't appreciate damp towels.

Oh, and there's no television......giving you ample opportunity to read a book.
Just be sure to bring one along as there is no library.

Is it because I am retired, with plenty of time to 'chill' that all this strikes me as a waste of time and money?
Would I think differently if I were younger, my days and nights full with work and family?

No.
When I was working at full capacity, my idea of 'chilling' was, depending on the time available, to read a book, visit an interesting garden, go to a cricket match, drop into a favourite museum or gallery, try a new restaurant or take off to a new area of France.

Under no circumstances could I have borne to be out of reach of a daily newspaper...even if local...and although in later life I took package holidays using hotels in wired in compounds, I used them as a base to explore. There would always be a local bus or taxi outside the security point - and I was away for the day.

And as for flopping about in spas...I can plaster mud on myself should I so desire.

The whole thing seems to me to be completely mindless.

Yet while I regard this sort of experience as a meretricious con trick, these hotels multiply across the globe, with people undertaking the horror of long haul flights to spend a week in their gilded prisons.

Clearly, there has to be something the matter with me....

No longer a fool....

2012-04-08T16:47:00.002-07:00

A Birthday cake. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)It was my birthday this weekend past.

No, let me not beat about the bush. It was my birthday on Sunday, 1st of April.

For more years than I care to remember, I have cursed my mother for not either letting go earlier or just showing a bit of fortitude and hanging on a bit longer in order to avoid lumbering her daughter with such a birthday.

As a youngster faced with mother's not so subtle campaign of undermining confidence and attempting to induce guilt I used to wonder whether she had done it on purpose as it fitted her campaign so well. Then decided that she probably hadn't but would have if she could.

A plain little girl with glasses I grew to anticipate the mocking cries of 'April Fool' from those playground sharks who can detect unerringly the vulnerability of an unhappy child.

In later life, armour plated, it was a marker of people to avoid.
People who wanted to use that ritual to take me down a peg or two - not as friends can do with jokes be they never so coarse or brutally hard hitting - but slyly, waiting to see if they could draw blood.
No chance by then...they would have been better off trying it on a stone.
But I noted the attempt.

I escaped mother, gradually loosened the carapace I had adopted and had a pretty reasonable life. I enjoyed my work, I had friends and, finally, I was loved.

The birthday faded into the background.

Only to come bouncing back!

Last year Mr.Fly decided we would try a Peruvian restaurant which has a great reputation but which, being in a part of San Jose off our normal beat, we had not visited.
My birthday would be a nice occasion to try it.
We were house hunting at the time, so decided to explore the area nearby which is supposed to be developing - according to the Mayor who wants to attract investment - before going to lunch.
Had I wanted to live in an area without local shops, but with a plethora of car parts emporia and decaying sixties housing it would have been ideal, but as it was it did not fit the bill despite the handy public transport belching fumes down every side street.
The development proved to be three tower blocks nattily brick clad to match the tower housing the tax offices alongside, conjouring up the horror of returning home three sheets to the wind and finding yourself in the wrong tower while someone waves a tax form at you.

As the area was so disappointing, we decided to head for the restaurant, crossing the central thoroughfare of San Jose, the Paseo Colon. Now, before Those Among You with a certain sense of humour start sniggering, 'Colon' is Christopher Columbus and no, the town has not named its main artery for a part of the human intestine.

We walked a couple of blocks to the restaurant, arriving some ten minutes before opening time. No sign of life, so we sat at one of the tables on the terrace.
A waiter emerged, and told us we could not sit there as the restaurant was not yet open.

'But we have booked for opening time and would like to sit down and, perhaps, have a drink.'

'No. It is a house rule. If we let you sit there today it would be tramps tomorrow. Nicaraguans even.'

Clearly we did not figure as his idea of the 'beautiful people'.

One lesson I had learned in France was immediately acted upon. If restaurant staff are sniffy, it's time to be off like an Exocet before worse befalls and you are expected to pay for it.
We decided to take our custom elsewhere and walked down the side street towards the city centre.

The side road was free of traffic fumes...but something else assailed our nostrils.
Not the smell of urine from the street sleepers...all was washed down here...but something much worse.
Something that reached down your throat and twisted your intestines.
It was not just a smell...it was a Presence.

We looked over the wall.
Directly alongside was the open back door of the restaurant kitchen, bins ranged alongside.
We continued walking.

The Lebanese restaurant we had been heading for was closed, so we eventually partook of my birthday lunch at the counter of the Turbo caff at the Mercado Borbon - and very good it was too as evidenced by the roaring takeaway trade for the stallholders.

This year, it so fell out that we had invited friends for Saturday and had been invited in our turn for Sunday before I remembered about my birthday. Still, what could be more enjoyable than seeing friends. That was fine.

But there was something lacking from my calculations.

Birthday cake.

Costa Rican bakeries have displays of large birthday cakes that take me back to the days when rationing finally ended and cakes of all sorts manifested themselves, exploding with ersatz cream, jam and butter icing at every orifice and bearing enough sugar flowers and ribbons for an army of fairies.
Costa Ricans like to give birthday cakes to friends and family. You see men walking to their cars with three or four in a gravity defying tower, preparing for a family get together on the weekend.

The first cake arrived on Friday morning, its kind donor almost invisible behind it. Two more followed later. Two more on Saturday, one with each group of friends. Another on Sunday.....

Agreed, in every case the donors arrived mob handed which saw off a fair portion of the cake - but there was always some left over and no way of recycling it discreetly to neighbours as it was the neighbours who had brought it or its fellow.
The fridge was beginning to resemble a cake shop.
The dogs were becoming indignant.

By the time we had returned home on Sunday with the remains of the cake given us by our friends the thing had run out of control.
What to do?

I decided to scrape the sponge layers free of jam, cream and butter icing and freeze them to make a trifle at some future date - no, more like four trifles...
The dogs were happy, jam cream and butter icing adorning their whiskers.

I was happy. Not only had I been spared the singing of Happy Birthday, I had also been spared the horrors of April Fool.
No one knew of this European tradition....and I wasn't about to tell them!

Alcoholics Ubiquitous

2012-03-22T18:12:00.002-07:00

A picture of bayonet training. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)It was a night of the full moon.

The dogs had kept me awake barking at the coyotes who prowled and howled along the river bed below, but, finally, peace reigned.

And then they started barking again.
I got out of bed to upbraid them and saw through the front room window a man standing under the street light outside the house. (Yes, these are the wilds of Costa Rica, down on the gravel tracks, but we do have a street light. Rural France take note.)
I shot back to the bedroom, put on a dressing gown and pulled down the bayonet from its home on top of the wardrobe.
Door open, lights on. dogs charging out out baying and mad woman advancing with bayonet at the high port...you'd think anyone would leg it...but not my caller.
By the smell of him he had been sampling the contents of a distillery which, together with the dogs ceasing to bay and jumping up at him instead revealed his identity.

Don Antonio, coffee picker extraordinaire, snapper up of trifles whether considered or not by their owner and dedicated drinker of strong spirits.
Not only did he clearly have no notion that it was three o'clock in the morning, he couldn't have told me if it was Pancake Tuesday or Palm Sunday.

We sat down on the bench in the porch and he told me that he thought he would drop in on his way back from visiting his sister at San Antonio.

What do you mean, on the way back? We're miles down the road...

I didn't waste time on the road...I came across country.

This involved a precipitous descent from mountain to river, through brush infested with poisonous snakes and a steep ascent on the other side, with much barbed wire to negotiate. Having drink taken.
You wouldn't wish it on a jogger.

What about the coyotes?

I threw matches at them...

He probably did.

Don Antonio conserves his energy, so if he had paid a call it was with some purpose in mind, but, courteous to a fault he would not bring out the reason for his visit without first going through the formalities of asking after one's health, one's family's health - probably the dogs' health given half a chance - so it was a good job it was a warm night.

After we had dealt with details of Mr. Fly's latest round of tests and I had enquired as to the progress of his brother's ulcer, he became confidential.

You don't have to worry about that so and so up the road. The Neighbour. I put him right when I met him at Alcoholics Anonymous at the church last week.

For some reason - a disturbed night, perhaps, or the full moon - this conjured up a picture of the church packed to the gills with crowds of men in crisp white hats with curly brims drowning the smell of incense with gales of the hard stuff. Perhaps that's how it was.

Don Antonio continued.

I told him that if he started anything with you again (I suppose remembering the time he tried to hit me with a riding crop through the window of the car) he'd have me to deal with.
I'm not frightened of him. I've had him off his horse more than once when he was riding past my place. Gave him a good kicking.

What had he done?

Nothing more than usual...he needs to be taken down a peg, that's all.

Didn't he say anything?

Couldn't really. The priest was there and the others all said they'd have a go at him too.

There was something odd in the reasoning behind this.
It was clearly not in order for The Neighbour to retaliate in the presence of the priest, but it was seemingly fine for the assembled Alcoholics to back up Don Antonio. Someone should do a study....

Well, that was most kind of you. Was that what you dropped by to tell me?

No...I've got a problem. My brother in law gave me a bottle of his guaro (home brewed alcohol) for my brother and I drank it on the way.

Light dawned.

So you need another bottle in case your brother in law squeals on you? I don't have any guaro.

No, but you've got that banana wine....your husband gave me a bottle once. Wonderful stuff. I woke up in the ditch and my brother said I'd been singing for hours!

Doubtless the censorious would say that I would be wrong to give more alcohol to a drunk....and doubtless the censorious would think themselves right.

As I got up to go in search he held up his hand.

Can I have two bottles? I want to take one to the next AA meeting to show the boys....

From a long line of lovely bloggers....

2012-03-22T16:49:00.000-07:00

Ayak, whose Turkish Delight blog is just what it says, has given me this Kreativ Blogger award...with no strings attached!

I would like in turn to pass it...no strings attached to....

Susie at Desperate Anglo Housewives, Bordeaux who makes me laugh and who has wonderful recipes.
Don't read the 'Ouch' post unless you want to pucker up in a sensitive area.

The Accidental Farm-Girl, for the great way she describes her adjustment to a new life...and she has another blog too, rather wilder, which you can discover for yourselves.....

and

Grumpy Old Ken for whom the award - in whatever language - must have been created.

I know some bloggers think these awards are childish, or, in one case, given out together with cookies which track your path on the net with sinister intent, but I think they are a great way to share great blogs.

The steergoround.....

2012-03-12T09:30:00.000-07:00

Cinnamon tree (Photo credit: santheo)Yesterday we had a steergoround.
One would appear in the garden and be hooshed off to the corral.
Then another...same process.
Then another....

You would think that they were hobbits and we were Beorn.

Once gathered into the corral they would mooch off again and the steergoround would start all over again.

It was too late to find the break in the fence...so this morning we awoke to all five of them happily munching the grass alongside the fish ponds.

But not only the grass. Their midnight feast had involved plantains....plants knocked down to get to same....the leaves of several orange trees....and my one and only cinnamon tree.

Nowhere near the size of the tree in the picture above, only one year old, the poor thing had been torn to bits, stems lying all around as one steer after another had had a go at it.
I can only assume that cinnamon was not flavour of the month in steerland.

Still, it urged me on to have a go at harvesting what we had.
I took a kitchen knife and stripped the stems.....fine curls of skin with the most wonderful sweet scent.
My hands still smell of cinnamon hours after putting the curls of skin to dry.

Another first for me in this new life.

El Jefe....and Dad.

2012-03-02T06:41:00.000-08:00

You can call me Prince Monolulu because......

2012-02-16T09:31:00.000-08:00

I Gotta Horse!

I haven't kept horses for years, so when the chap who rents our grazing for his cattle asked if his peon could graze his horse with them I was only too pleased.
A day or so later the barking of the dogs alerted me to an arrival, which proved to be the said peon with his little boy - hardly older than a toddler - perched on the back of a brown and white mare which had clearly seen better days, walking head down with a rope round her neck as leading rein.
He installed her in the shed facing the house, cut her some camaroon grass, and he and the little boy stroked her and talked to her while she got down to business.

They came every day....Danilo cut and trimmed sugar cane for her...we bought horse nuts....she settled in.
The father had bought her cheaply...she was all he could afford...as he had grown up with horses and he wanted his son to have the same pleasure.
The little boy gave us pleasure too, stroking and talking to his horse...never noisy, never rough, never making sudden gestures and all was well until the day when father turned up with a cattle lorry.

His wife said he was spending too much money on the horse when they had so little to start with. She said he had to sell it.

What about your little boy?

Well, his first lesson about life...don't love something if you're poor.

Father was nearly in tears...it wasn't just his little boy who loved that horse.

We could not see her go off in that lorry, back to a weary round of auctions, underfed, not fed at all....so we bought her and she is giving us a great deal of pleasure, she and the little boy, whose father brings him down at the end of his long working day to stroke her and talk to her.

It's not just philanthropy...the rich gringos.
In the short time since her arrival I had recovered that sense of companionship and complicity that a horse can give...the little nudges, the whickers, the biff amidships when the food isn't coming fast enough.....
The incomparable smell of a horse, bringing back memories of all the years when horses were part of my life.

Surrounded once more by tubes of worming paste and tins of hoof oil, anti parasite shampoo, hoof picks and grooming brushes I've lost years!
Rejuvenation pills...who needs them!

I gotta horse!

But if you are not someone of a certain age, not from the U.K. and not one for the geegees you might ask where does Prince Monolulu come in?

As a schoolgirl I lived not far from Epsom racecourse.
Father, being a man for the geegees, was quite happy to book me in at our Australian dentist - another man for the geegees - on the morning of one of the race days so that I missed a day at school and we would set off for the afternoon armed with the racing paper in the hope of seeing home a winner, even though experience suggested that our sure and certain hope would be better centred on the Resurrection than on father's five horse accumulators.

I don't know what Epsom racecourse is like now at the Derby meeting, but when I went with my father there was still just a hint of the Frith picture.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that all human life was there, but there was a fair section of the odder parts of it spread over the Downs, from Gipsy Rose Lee reading your palm in her caravan (modern - for the period) to swing boats and coconut shies, via the boxing booths, the bearded lady and the sanitary facilities housed in a vast white marquee whose function was made crystal clear by the barker at the entrance

'Piddle and poop a penny.'

Raised in the discipline of 'going before going out' however none of our betting budget was wasted on responding to this particular invitation.

Father had his own ideas on the likely winners so was unlikely to take any heed of the tipsters, usually large gentlemen in tight racing silks crouching and flicking whips to give the impression of riding the winner as they worked the crowd around them.
However, he liked to see if the horse he fancied in newsprint was as good in the flesh and so before each race we would go to the paddock to see the runners being led in. But to get to the paddock we had to pass another tipster....

Prince Monolulu

Unmissable in bright jacket with plumes waving above his head, this gentleman seemed to be a permanent part of the racing world since giving a tip on Spion Kop for the 1920 Derby which came home at 100 - 6. Since then, his fame was guaranteed...even his his tips weren't.
Just mention Prince Monolulu to a racegoer and he would automatically reply with his catchphrase

I gotta horse.....

News on Sunday

2012-01-29T11:48:00.000-08:00

Image via WikipediaIt has been hot since quite early this morning, so I'd chuntered through the routines...dogs, chicks, chickens ducks, us....and prepared to read quietly on the balcony until lunch time.

The dogs doing their Baskerville imitation soon roused me and heading for the door loaded for bear I found my fury at disturbance turning to resigned acceptance as I beat back the hounds to let the group of ladies into the house.

Quite a band.

Estrella, Luz, Marta, Ermida and Mery, all sporting parasols against the sun and bearing carrier bags with offerings for Mr. Fly.
Knowing that he is ill, people tend to bring him things good for his health...everything from papaya via noni - an extremely bitter fruit - to sangre de christo - a bark to make a tincture held to be a sovereign remedy from everything from worms to cancer.

Settled with coffee and cake the routine enquiries as to health of all present and their families were undertaken and then there was a little silence before Dona Mery leant forward to say

I don't know if you've heard, but The Neighbour has been diagnosed with a tumour on his lung. It's supposed to be cancer.'

Now, while my first and reprehensible reaction might be

Serve him damn well right.

A second's reflection is enough to make me realise that this is not actually what I think. No one deserves illness.
Not even The Neighbour.
He might deserve to be beaten within an inch of his life...but not illness.
So I ask if anyone knows how far the cancer has advanced

No, I just heard through his daughter's husband's mother that it was a tumour and when he disappeared last time it turns out he was in hospital in San Jose.

We drink coffee contemplatively. I think we are all thinking of The Neighbour's long and unpleasant career as wife beater, philanderer, swaggering bully and violent lout.

His insults, his arrogance, his tampering with water system and the telephone lines, his attacks on the defenceless.

We haven't been here long, but long enough to have experience of his methods.
He blocked our car with his cattle lorry on a narrow section of the road and, knowing Mr. Fly to be ill, leered through the window at him, passing his hand across his throat and croaking

You'll die soon...you'll die soon.

Like some witch doctor in a crisp white hat with a curly brim.

This was nothing to compare with his attack on Dona Mery's father...then in his seventies...when catching the old man alone on his coffee plantation and beating him so severely that he had to spend weeks in hospital while The Neighbour boasted of his feat in all the bars in town - until being barred from same because the other customers were so disgusted.

Local culture is such that speaking ill of the well is frowned upon, let alone speaking ill of the unwell, so no more is said until Dona Mery gathers her parasol and prepares for departure, her flock around her.

Pausing in the doorway she says

He should never have cheated the monks..

And in a susurration of

Ah, si!

And

God bless you

The party take their leave, mission accomplished.

Sharing...the pleasure of blogging

2012-01-12T18:38:00.000-08:00

Ayak, at Ayak's Turkish Delight, has very kindly passed me this Liebster
award. The idea is to pass it along, with each recipient presenting five other blogs with less than 200 followers...to introduce readers to blogs they might not have come across otherwise.

I owe Ayak a great deal....without her I would still be at the boiling of head and throwing heavy objects stage of coping with IT ...not to speak of Blogger.
I still think our 'computing for numpties' would be a handy guide for those who did not grow up with a computer attached to their finger ends....people like me who are still basically unsure about what a 'browser' is...let alone what it does.
I shall be enlisting her support shortly for coping with a laptop equipped with some sort of metal plate with which some optimist expects me to 'navigate'....
Why don't they just print a compass rose on the benighted thing!

Blogging has opened so many windows for me...music and photography in particular...has unbuttoned me too in my views on the way in which other people live their lives...it has been and is an education.

As always, fulfilling the conditions gives me problems.

I follow some French and Spanish language blogs which are both enjoyable and useful.....but I have the impression that this is English language stuff....but do 'Google Translate' the Costa Rican recipe website on my blogroll...that man can cook!

Then...the 200 followers condition. Crumbs...if I ever get to 200 followers I shall suspect I've inadvertently used some phrase with a sexual connotation! (Which may be how the mega bloggers work..the thought has just occurred to me...)
Some blogs have follower lists...some do not. I'd hate to give offence by indicating...however obliquely...that a blog has fewer followers than is the case.

Still, reminding myself that bloggers are unlikely to bring a legal process against me, I shall take the plunge.

Chez Charnizay...for a view of Loire Valley life from two medievalists...and damn good photographers!

la Mujer Libre...for honesty and humour. A Scot...of course..

The Diary of Amy Rigby...who opened my eyes to a whole new world.

Another Day of Crazy...who has the mother from hell...but British Dad interested...

Prospero's Cellphone...expat life in Corfu...Belgian food..but so far, no cricket.

Thank you, Ayak, for reminding me of all the pleasures of discovery that blogging brings.

While The Men are Away...

2012-01-03T13:43:00.000-08:00

The Men are away...so far for two whole days....and it might be three.
They have started the renovations on our house in San Jose and rather than waste time travelling have decided to stay overnight.

They have installed beds, table and chairs, gas ring and a tin opener for the cans of fish which they intend to consume...a diet sure to be supplemented by the offerings of pizza and coffee at the bakery down the road, Argentinian empanadas from the hole in the wall three doors away, dim sum from the China House restaurant round the corner...and perhaps even a beer at the bar across the road.

Not the least attraction of the house is the opportunity it presents not only not to cook...but the opportunity to have the choice of styles of other peoples' cooking.

I went to San Jose with them on the first morning...not to the house, but to the tax office, avoiding navigational disaster by demanding to be set down by the cemetery rather than trying to drive directly to the building.
They went their way and I went mine.

As it was the first opening day after New Year, there were no queues.
A most helpful gentleman listened to my explanation as to why my tax declaration was late...swallowed by the bank...and entered all the details onto my computerised file. He then gave me a disc with which to download the electronic version of the declaration, showed me how to get round two notable glitches in the programme and sent me on my way without a fine for late declaration.

The people at French tax offices used to be nice too...but they wouldn't have waived the fine.

Home by bus, picking up parcels at the Post Office on the way and then...after the first mad rush to feed the chicks, let out the ducks and hens and play with the dogs....I was on my own.

Eerie.

I've been on my own before....husband's spells in hospital...but this time there is not the continual worry about when or whether he will come round and the long journeys to visit him.

So this is time to do as I please...without guilt.

What have I done then?

Skype has taken a drubbing.
I've telephoned my friends and talked for ages without howls for cups of tea just as I get to the nub of the gossip.

Experimented with the camera...trying to take a half decent photograph of myself. (Thank you, Phil!)
Results variable.
Decided that yes, I definitely do have to straighten up the pair of glasses I sat on last week if they are appearing in said photograph.

Eaten tomato sandwiches for lunch and dinner yesterday, tuna sandwich for lunch today and plan to make a hot and sour soup tonight.
No cauliflower cheeses, no mashed potatoes, no stews, no roasts, no paellas.....no washing up!

Watched BBC television on the computer screen....the programmes I like.

Beaten Amazon into submission enough to download books to the computer. Celebrated by downloading Graham Robb's 'The Discovery of France' as the reviews made it sound so interesting...and was sorely disappointed. Apart from the topographical theme there was nothing new to me.
I shall stick to Susie Kelly.

Slept. My goodness, how I have slept!
No one to wake me from my siesta on the balcony so that I can see a bird which has messed off by the time my eyes are clear enough to see anything.
No one's feet acting like the screws of the Titanic's propellers and wrapping the sheets round themselves until owner of said feet wakes screaming with cramp and has to be released from the swaddling bands.
No one to ask what I think that noise might be at 3.30 am.

The Men have taken the mobile 'phone...to keep in touch. I rang them at the arranged time and got the voice mail. Tried again...same result.
Received hurt 'phone call asking why I had not rung....

Rashly asked how things are going...got it in spades.
Everything from having to search for a builder's merchant who sold sand to a mysterious collection of pipes revealed in the kitchen and a stream running under the house.

How are you coping for food?
Well, the last owner must have been an ecologist. You know how high those ceilings are? Well, he's put these eco bulbs in all the rooms so we had to cook the sausages by sound...judging when they were cooked by the sizzling...

Why didn't you eat in the kitchen? There are two strip lights there....

We've dumped the rubble in the kitchen....

Why won't I be surprised if they roll up this evening.........

Nature's Carols

2011-12-22T12:23:00.000-08:00

While at breakfast this morning, I heard this sound....the beating of wings as first one then another Montezuma Oropendola flew into the madera negra tree beside the balcony.

The first two were followed by two more, taking the early morning sun...and I began to hope that they might form a colony.

In previous years I had seen singletons crossing the valley, but this was the first time a group had appeared and as breakfast continued they began to chatter .

This was the first bird I heard...and then saw...in Costa Rica, when visiting the country for the first time and I was lucky enough to see one performing its mating ritual on a tree near the house in which I was staying.
It would be the first bird about in the mornings, warbling and swinging forward on its branch as if bowing to the mate it was trying to attract, its flash of yellow tail feathers making it easy to spot.

I would be delighted if the group were to take up residence as their nests are spectacular...though I think they usually prefer dead trees or those more scarcely furnished with leaves than the madera negra...but we shall see.

In the meantime, I am delighted by their presence....wonderful breakfast guests!

It has always amused me that while Costa Rica has many magnificent birds it has chosen perhaps the most drab as its national emblem... the clay robin.
Mark you, there is something to be said for not plumping for something exotic like the quetzal, as did Guatemala, only to find that it has declined to the point of extinction.
Not flashy, Costa Rica.

The calls of different birds...from parrots to laughing falcons via blue grey tanagers....enliven the balcony all day...nature's carols.

I am not sure if the bird calls will be audible...but you can hear a vast range on this site to whet your appetite.
Try the Laughing Falcon...worse than the Laughing Policeman!

Christmas Shopping II

2011-12-14T14:21:00.000-08:00

Image via WikipediaMother is a living, fire breathing advertisement for the success of the British welfare state.

Still living independently, at 95 she had a hip replaced and this year, at 96, she has had a knee replacement and her doctor tells her that she should now be good for another ten years!

She has help in the mornings and evenings, has a shopper for the heavy stuff and a wonderful young woman who mucks her out once a week and keeps me in touch with the things mother would rather I did not know...like finding her on the kitchen table leaning on her zimmer frame to remove the batteries from her smoke alarm in case it went off while she was cooking her Christmas roast.

She shouldn't have been either..... on the table or contemplating cooking her Christmas dinner...as she had planned to come out to us over Christmas and the New Year, but her plans have been scotched by her doctor who has told her not to take a long haul flight for several months yet, for fear of thrombosis following her op.

Believe me, the Skype was hot after that little announcement.
She had me consulting every flight comparison site in creation to find a way of breaking the flight into shorter components to get past the medical ruling and I am now an expert on how to get from Southampton to Milan via Amsterdam in order to catch a twice weekly charter flight to a provincial airport in Costa Rica while ensuring that only the cheapest ticket offers are used.
All to no avail.
The Atlantic crossing was something even mother could not overcome, but the research will not be wasted.

When she does get the green light to travel there is no way that she and American immigration officials should meet.
One request for fingerprints and a mug shot and she'll be over the counter before you can say Homeland Security, thrusting her British Legion badge into the operative's face and announcing that she hadn't fought Hitler to be treated like a criminal by...of all people...Americans!
Depending on their speed of reaction they might have her in an orange jumpsuit before she gives them chapter and verse on America's late entry into two world wars and her views on what should be done to President Bush...but I wouldn't place any bets...
So she'll be travelling on other routes...direct from Madrid, or via Mexico City...or the charter from Milan.

So, unexpectedly at home for Christmas, mother needed to get her shopping done.
Online.

But not quite as you might think. She has resisted all attempts to get her online, even with offers of specially adapted keyboards and goodness knows what else by a very helpful lady from some section of the local social services.

No. She doesn't want to be swamped by spam.
(I have a sneaking suspicion that she is thinking of the canned variety of said...but best not to ask...)
And she doesn't want to be swamped by pornography....there's enough of that on the television.

But you can keep in touch with people....

There are some people you don't want to keep in touch with...the telephone's good enough for me...I can see who's calling..and anyway, people are always breaking into it. I don't want my details going all over the world...

So it works like this. She makes a list. I ring her on Skype. She gives me the order. I put it online and Tesco deliver.
Easy peasy.

Not this time.

She has two good neighbours.....both elderly.
The three of them have various disabilities and problems, but they work on the Norn system....sharing the abilities between themselves to keep all three of them going.

Mother is now mobile and can add up faster than the till.
Barbara has back problems but has good sight.
Adolpha (my nickname for this vegetarian of Austrian extraction) is hard of hearing but can carry the trays from the buffet once the other two have sorted out what is on offer and at what price.

So what's the problem?
The problem was that Barbara had just bought a mini jug kettle from Tesco to avoid her carer heating up more water than necessary for one cup on tea.
Mother wanted one.
Fine.
I added it to her order.
I rang her to tell her it was on its way.

Now, ringing mother has to be well planned.
Since her young days as a hurdler she has been keen on...not to say obsessed by...sport .in all its forms and the television offers a great variety most afternoons.
So before ringing it is advisable to check BBC and ITV programmes online to make sure not to commit a gaffe.

Interrupted in contemplation of Formula One she can be testy.
Interrupt the Hennessy Gold Cup and you've got Krakatoa on speed.

The seven hour time difference doesn't help, either.
Still, all prepared, I rang her number...only to be answered by Adolpha.

Who's that?

I told her. I also said that I'd wanted to tell mother that I'd ordered her kettle.
Fatal error.

I could hear her reporting to my mother....

There's some woman on the 'phone who wants to sell you a kettle.
Noises off (mother).
Adolpha returns to the telephone.

She doesn't want one.

Receiver goes down.

I ring again.
I get Adolpha.

I've just told you she doesn't want one. It's a disgrace, harassing elderly people...if you don't get off the line I'll call the police. And how do you know she wants a kettle anyway?

Reports to mother again.

Something's not right here...how would this woman know you've ordered a kettle? She must have hacked at your daughter's computer....they're not safe...nothing's private these days...

Returning to me

She doesn't want one. Understand?

Receiver down again.

The next day, another attempt.

The receiver is picked up and a voice says suspiciously

Hello?

Not mother, clearly.

Is that Adolpha?

No! Wrong number!

And down goes the receiver again.

I did catch mother the following day and gave her the news of her kettle.

Oh, you might have to cancel that.
There's been some telesales woman on trying to sell kettles, and I wanted to get a price...but Adolpha put the 'phone down on her and the next day I think it was her again...about the same time...and Barbara did the same before I could ask her about the price....but she might ring back...

Yes. mother...she well might...

Christmas Shopping

2011-12-08T18:17:00.000-08:00

Caña india is planted here to form hedges and windbreaks, and very stately it can look, too, but the flowers are a bonus...they smell wonderful.
The plants down in the garden have been blooming for while now, but the younger ones near the house have just started and every slight breeze sends their scent through the rooms...soft, heavy and sensual.

I just wish someone would make a perfume of this...it would beat a lot of the commercial big name stuff hands down.

I've always liked wearing perfume and I laid in a stock of my favourites before moving to Costa Rica - luckily, as I've seen none of them here!
(Watch out the next visitor from France...you will have to find room in your luggage not only for anchovies but also for a large bottle of Eau de Nice!)
I tried some newer ones when I was in London, but nothing really appealed except Flowerbomb.....until I saw the price. They should have named it Screaming Habdabs.

One relief here is that men do not go in for the 'knock you down and drag you out' aftershave lotions typical of rural France....by the time you'd gone through the kissing routine at an AGM you would be reeling from sense fatigue...no wonder so much was passed on the nod!

Still, I'll be looking at perfume when Christmas shopping in San Jose as well as in the self described upmarket suburb of Escazu......home to expat business men and ambassadors, with its numerous malls and speciality shops, not to speak of its housing.

Gated communities and tower blocks.....condominiums.
Those lowering blocks always remind me of overpriced Glasgow tenements, while if I wanted to live hugger mugger with communal sports facilities and pool, an open prison would be a better bet.
I just don't see the attraction.

Security, say those who choose this way of living...but who wants to live with guards on the gates?

Still security can be a problem at this time of year.
December is the month of the 'aguinaldo'...the thirteenth month, when employees are paid a sum equivalent to a bonus month's pay.
People have money in their pockets, the shopping areas are crowded and bag snatching is a real worry.

The police in San Jose take it seriously. Tall platforms are erected at intervals in the main shopping streets manned by police keeping an eye out for trouble, while detachments stand on almost every junction.

I know it works, because last year I was walking in the pedestrian area with a friend when her bag was snatched.
The man was off and running before we could react....but the police had spotted him and he was brought to the ground in the next street.

We all went to the police station to sort out the formalities...and we were both shocked by the appearance of the robber.
He was young, his clothes of poor quality but spotlessly clean and he was crying.
Not an experienced thief, either, or he would have thrown the bag away as soon as the pursuit started.

My friend identified her bag, was relieved that the contents were intact, and asked the police what would happen to the young man.

Well, we'll want to see his papers. He says they're at home, so we'll take him there...but I know what it will be. He'll be an illegal immigrant....couldn't find work and desperate for money. He'll end up being taken to the immigration lock up and be sent home. Nicaragua by the look of him.

Poor young devil.
My friend could not afford to have lost the contents of her bag...not so much in money terms but in terms of her papers, bank cards and all the odds and ends that take an age to replace once lost...endless queues and paperwork.....but what a contrast between our lives and his.

Trying to make a better life, help his family at home, setting off - and probably paying the 'fixers' to smuggle him over the frontier - in the hope of finding work, and meeting nothing but disappointment and despair.
Poor young man.

My friend asked if she could refrain from laying charges.
Yes, but it won't do him much good. He won't be charged anyway...just sent back.

Could we give him some money?

You could, but there are some hard cases in that lock up...they'll soon have it off him.

We gave him some anyway...something to enable him to make 'phone calls, buy soap and odds while he was awaiting his return, but nothing could stop his tears.

I wonder where this young man is now....I'm sure his family were delighted to have him back with them, but the basic problem won't have been solved.

People need work to maintain their self respect and poor countries need investment, not aid.
They need to be allowed to develop in their own way, not constrained by the ideologies of the IMF and the World Bank.
And they certainly don't need politically based embargos on their economies.

I have no faith whatsoever in the NGOs...as institutionalised as national governments...but I do have faith in people helping people direct.

So while I'll be looking at perfume I won't be buying.
I'll put the equivalent to a group in San Jose run by Nicaraguans helping illegal immigrants to get their position regularised and finding them work.

I think the money will smell sweeter that way.

Back in court...

2011-11-30T18:20:00.000-08:00

After the adventures with Licenciado Luis, I found myself in court again this week, as a witness for my husband who was seeking a new protection order against The Neighbour, the old order having expired.

A different court....the family court...and a different judge, a young man newly in post.

We had been walking up the road from our house to meet the telecoms engineers who were rerouting the telephone lines after the storms when The Neighbour's car appeared, heading towards us with a woman in the passenger seat.
We moved to the side of the road to let him pass...always a good idea with The Neighbour whose driving is erratic at the best of times....only to find that he was aiming his car at us...swerving away at the very last moment, laughing.
His passenger was white in the face with shock.

The old protection order having lapsed, my husband sought new measures of protection and, accordingly, we arrived at court this morning , as did The Neighbour and his lawyer.

He might have done better without his lawyer, because left to himself he would just have denied the whole thing, but his lawyer presented photographs of the scene which clearly showed that there was ample room to manoeuvre on that section of the road while the lawyer claimed that The Neighbour was obliged to pass within an inch of our bodies in order to advance and also because the lawyer saw fit to bring up the judgement against The Neighbour in the matter of trying to hit me with a riding crop through the window of the car as being totally unfounded...when it might have been better to remain silent on his client's violent ways.

The judge delivered his decision.
Protection Order granted for one year.
The Neighbour should be ashamed of himself, attacking someone old and ill and, furthermore, The Neighbour should be warned that this was not someone who could be cowed.
The British, said the judge, had a respect for the law....and any and every time The Neighbour overstepped the mark, the British would come to court for a remedy which the judge would be only too pleased to grant, so...in the Scots phrase, The Neighbour should ca' canny.

Silent throughout proceedings, The Neighbour rose in his wrath.

He had witnesses.

Where were they?

He didn't know he was coming to court.

Yes he did. He had had the proper notice.

I never! And, anyway, the foreigner buys my witnesses! He buys them up!

Who were they?

My daughter who was in the car with her baby! As if I'd drive like a madman with my grandchild in the car!

You had proper notice...and are you suggesting that your daughter could be bought by the complainant?

No I did not know....(turning on his lawyer) You must have known and did not tell me!

An empassioned dialogue between lawyer and client ensued while we rose to leave.

The Neighbour and lawyer rose to leave as well, but the judge put up his hand.

No, senor.....you stay here.

Why? What for? I've work to do, I have to earn money to pay this useless lawyer...

That's your problem, senor.....but there are another six cases of protection orders to be heard against you today and ten more tomorrow....so you would do well to sit down and wait for the next complainant.

In the waiting area, chairs under the porch of the court building, we met up with Dona Mery, very fine in a new flowered pinny.
The next complainant.

Don't you have a lawyer, Dona Mery?

No need....The Neighbour hasn't paid his guy, which is why he didn't tell him he was coming to court......

Licenciado Luis and the Last Chance Saloon

2011-11-27T09:05:00.000-08:00

Image via WikipediaThings are pretty warm in Costa Rica at the best of times, but in the three valleys things are hotting up even more and, as you might imagine The Neighbour, he of the crisp white hat with a curly brim, is in the thick of it.

He has managed to sell his three hectares of unregistered land for a vast sum to a purchaser connected to the chain of Chinese restaurants in the local town.. and has sold it with water rights.
Water rights that The Neighbour does not own.
So he has been busy re routing the water again to the fury of those affected...including me. The area down to coffee is now without a water supply, which is distinctly inconvenient.

The whole matter has gone to law...in San Jose, not in the local town where Licenciado Luis is still presiding over the courts, as for some reason based on experience it is felt that an equitable solution is more likely to be found in San Jose.

But Licenciado Luis is a judge in a hurry.
A cold draught is curling about his feet and for a man with power he is in the state so wonderfully described in '1066 and All That'......
'Uneasy lies the head that wears a throne.'
For rumour has reached him that the Three Valleys committee have reported him to the judicial disciplinary board for his total disregard of property rights when last The Neighbour started playing with the water supply.

And if the head of Licenciado Luis is uneasy, even more so the head of the banker, who is relying on L.L. to crush any legal challenges to future attempts to develop the land further down the valley...and, it appears, the uneasiness has also affected the chop suey merchant.

The restaurants with which he is said to be connected deserve a description to themselves as they are a success story worthy of emulation.
This is a small town yet it boasts five of them.
Only one ever has any customers...and they are there for the spit roasted chicken.
The others are empty, day after day, night after night......but all five produce tax returns...right on the button...showing that they are doing great business.
Vast quantities of oyster sauce, noodles and chopsticks are shown on their books......customers bills go through the till not under the table.....but no one is sitting at those tables and there's nary a thing in the dustbins.
Even the stray dogs have cut them from their itinerary.

I asked Don Freddy about this phenomenon.

Well, I suppose they thought it best to run their funny money through restaurants......even the police here might have woken up if they'd set up a chain of laundries...

So we have two powerful men who want results in a hurry before Licenciado Luis is posted somewhere where the sun shines all too much and the pickings are few, and L.L. is happy to oblige.

After life in rural France, I am accustomed to the bizarre ways of local courts, so when the court bailiff arrived with a summons I was only mildly surprised to find that there was no mention of the whys and wherefores on the form presented to me for signature.
Only the name of The Neighbour as the person I had apparently accused of whatever it was we were to go to court about.

Any idea what this is about?

Search me, I only deliver the stuff...

Up to the court house the next day to ask for the dossier.
The clerk produced a file entitled
'Settlement of the water question'.
Inside was the dossier....which concerned a complaint I had made six months earlier about The Neighbour trying to attack me with a riding crop through the window of the car.
This case had long bitten the dust at the hands of the local prosecutors as the two policemen present at the scene apparently suffered from blindness coupled with Alzheimer's Disease.
Nothing about the water issue.

But the prosecutor's office refused to proceed with this case.

I suppose new evidence has come to light.

What new evidence?

Search me, I only file the stuff...

Costa Rican legal procedure requires communications about legal dossiers to be faxed to a lawyer...so I walked down into town to see the lawyer I use for odds and bits.

Yes, she had the fax.

No, the case about the riding crop was closed...this is about the water issue.

So why is there nothing about water in the file?

I'll ring the court and find out.

Well, it seems the judge would like the affected parties to get together and make a joint application to the court about the water. I'll organise a reunion.

Fine. What about the assault?

I'll ring the court and find out.

No, it's all about the water.

Fine.

I contacted the lawyer hired by the committee of the three valleys, a busy young woman in San Jose.

I'll be on the bus this afternoon. Do nothing, sign nothing until we meet.

That afternoon, over coffee in a local caff, we determine that no new evidence has emerged about the assault...at least, not anything figuring in the dossier and that the whole thing is an attempt by Licenciado Luis to get the water question into his own hands, rather than in the hands of the court in San Jose.
Still, there's always the attack...we can't ignore it...it's the only document in the dossier.

She proposes interviewing the two policeman, and we go to the police station.
They are on night duty, so are at home.

My lawyer gets talking to the duty officer, a woman, and in no time they are on to the open sexism of the bosses of the local station and the complaints the woman has had to make which have effectively backsquadded her career.
We emerge with a copy of the daybook for the date in question and the addresses of the officers.

The daybook is written in gobblegook...no way of discovering who did what to whom or when, so we drive off to visit the policemen.

The younger one emerges yawning and, once prodded, starts to remember being there at the time and witnessing the incident. The lawyer calls Danilo over to listen in and then returns to the car, busy scribbling.

Got the bastard.

How so..he'll never turn up to give evidence.

No problem. I'm not only an advocate but a notary too...so I'm writing up his statement as an official notarised document with Danilo as witness. We can introduce this in court.

The older policeman plays hide and seek for half an hour before announcing that he doesn't remember a thing.

I wonder you can stay employed with Alzheimer's, says the lawyer and we drive back to town.

The day of the case dawns, we turn up and are ushered into Licenciado Luis' presence...all very informal.
He sits at a desk and introduces the young man beside him as a law student sitting in on proceedings to gain experience.
The young man bears a close resemblance to a basset with piles....distinctly lugubrious.
The clerk with his computer sits behind them, withdrawn from the protagonists.
The Neighbour (wearing his hat in honour of the occasion) and his lawyer are already esconced and we take our place alongside them on the sort of sofa you need a grab rail to get up from.
The lawyers exchange glances and The Neighbour asks

Who's she? We expected the local woman...

His lawyer tells him to shut up and Licenciado Luis begins.

With the water.

As the neighbours haven't got together about the water, he thinks it best if he makes a decision to settle the matter once and for all.

The lady lawyer indicates that she wishes to be heard by raising her forefinger.

Well?

With all due respect, there is nothing about water in the dossier, judge.

He produces the cover and shows it to her.

Look, there....settlement of the water question....and the neighbours have done nothing...

Agreed, judge. But the only documentation inside the folder deals with an assault.

With all due respect, advocate, you are from the big city, San Jose. We do things differently here...in a neighbourly fashion.
I have parties to a dispute here, and I propose to settle it.

I raise my forefinger.

With all due respect judge, all the parties to the water dispute are not here.

Well, senora, you are and he is and that's enough.

The lady lawyer raises her forefinger.

With all due respect judge, that may be how you settle things here, but it is not a method in accordance with Costa Rican legal procedures.

Take your client outside and discuss this....

So we leave and are discussing the nature of the judge's parentage in English when he and the basset pop out into the corridor and head...very slowly...for the loos.
We suspect that the basset understands English and elaborate our suppositions.
Judge and basset return, eyeing us in no friendly fashion.

We go back to court.

Well, is your client ready for conciliation over the question of water?

No, judge. We are here only to discuss the assault.

He turns to me.

Senora, coming from a different culture you perhaps do not understand that here in Costa Rica we try to conciliate, not be antagonistic.

With all due respect judge, I understand the process of conciliation all too well.
I and other people affected by his activities have come to conciliation several times.
He promises to mend his ways and just carries on as before, so, again, with all due respect, may we turn to the assault he made on me?

The Neighbour is now up on his hinds...you've got to give him marks for agility getting up from that sofa....

I never assaulted her and anyway it was on my property and what's more...

His lawyer pulls him down and tells him to shut up. He bounces up again

And anyway nobody saw it...

The lawyer raises her forefinger.

The facts are as stated in the claim in the dossier and I have here the witness statement of the policeman who saw the whole incident...

Thr Neighbour is on his feet again

Well all right then, I did it and it was on my property and I was justified and she deserved it and what's more i'd do it again...
His lawyer pulls him down and this time he stays down.

Licenciado Luis and the basset look at each other....clearly the lesson has not gone to plan.

All right. He admits it and that's an end to the matter. Fined court's costs.

The Neighbour and lawyer leave at the gallop....The Neighbour starting to shout as they hit the corridor about how much he paid the policemen and what he'll do to the one who blabbed...

We rise to leave....and behind the basset's back the clerk grins and raises a fist in salute.

Is that all he gets for trying to hit me with a riding crop?

Well,here it is, but I'm just lodging notice of appeal...we'll see what San Jose thinks about it...

Here be Vets...

2011-11-21T13:13:00.000-08:00

Image by Changhua Coast Conservation Action via FlickrI had made an appointment to have the puppy spayed at one of the charitable spay and neuter clinics.....half the usual vet surgery price even with a donation thrown in.
The local town sessions have halted until after Christmas so it was the town down the road...a long ribbon strip development place with loads of condominiums and no soul.

This being unknown territory, the men decided that Danilo....ex delivery driver in his past employment life... would get the directions, and, very important this, he would write them down.
There have been many interesting experiments in Danilo getting directions and not writing them down...we have seen many places we would not otherwise have thought of visiting and have met many charming people who have directed us to other places we would not have thought of visiting in the course of being asked for directions.

As in the case of the pigs, the men had the whole thing under control.
The car was at the door, all dogs not involved were outside and Man A crouched by the back door while Man B drove the puppy into his arms.
The puppy had other ideas and left by the front door...leading the other dogs in a joyous tour of neighbouring properties encouraged in this by the shouts of Men A and B in pursuit.

Other dogs, returning, made for their water bowls in the house while the puppy sat outside.
Man A stationed Man B on one side of the open porch and himself on the other in order to effect a pincer movement, thus driving the puppy into the house.
Clearly one of them was operating on von Moltke's variation of the Schlieffen plan, disproportionally strengthening one of the wings, as the puppy shot between them followed...like the taxis of the Marne... by the reinforcements returning from the water bowls.

A tour of the tilapia ponds and back to the house...dogs clearly delighted by the unaccustomed entertainment and the puppy wagging its tail fit to bust. All soaking wet.

Capture puppy on the sofa by throwing a towel over it...technique gleaned from Alice and the Pig Baby...leg it for the car to find wet Alsatian installed on the back seat. Drive him out to find him leaping in again through the tailgate.
Where the puppy goes, he goes.

Use diplomatic means to dislodge him....bribe of smelly bone.
Alsatian dislodged.

Shut all doors. Drive off.

We are onto the main road and past a number of bends before Man B discovers that in all the excitement he has left the instructions by the telephone.
Man A assures him that there will be no problem.
Man A is Danilo.
Man B believes Man A.
I decide to enjoy the scenery.

It is a half hour drive on the main road down from the hills...the rainy season is ending and trees are coming into flower...the puppy drops off to sleep.

Now, for what follows, it is helpful to know that most Costa Rican towns are laid out on the grid pattern...Avenidas (avenues) go one way and Calles (streets) run at right angles to them.
The centre of town is where Avenida 0 crosses Calle 0.
On one side will be ranked Avenidas and Calles in odd numbers...on the other Avenidas and Calles in even numbers.
So directions should be simple.

Except that no one uses Avenida and Calle numbers. Directions are from noted landmarks, like banks, petrol stations and shops.
This is exceedingly frustrating when the original bank, petrol station or shop has changed hands or moved and the directions stay the same.
Thus....from the fig tree, three hundred metres north, two hundred metres east, when the fig tree was cut down twenty years ago.

In this case Man B rehearses Man A as the town approaches.

Where are we headed?

We have to pass the bank.

Which bank?

The bank we have to pass.

Slight hissing and wheezing noises can be heard...human, not mechanical.

O.K.....after the bank we have to pass, what then?

We go to the big bakery and go three hundred metres east and fifty metres north.

O.K. I know where the bakery is.

We arrive at the bakery, pass it merrily and turn to the left on the next Calle.

Why did you do that? We're supposed to turn at the bakery.

We can't. It's one way. Just three hundred metres and we turn north....

Except that that is another one way.

I'll ask directions.

First a gentleman at the roadside is approached who goes back to his house to get his wife.
She directs us to a palatial equine institution on the outskirts of town.

This isn't it. Go back to the bakery.

We miss the bakery again.

The wheezing and hissing is louder.

Turn to the right!

Why?

Because you turned left last time!

It isn't here! There aren't any vets this side of town.

But this is held at a private house...it's not a veterinary surgery...turn right!

We turn right and approach the bakery on a parallel road.

It's not here!

Look, get out and ask. Turn left at the junction. We must be so close!

Man A descends from the car, turns right at the junction and disappears.
After five minutes it appears that he has taken the car keys and that we are locked in.

More wheezing and hissing. The puppy wakes up...intrigued.

Can you climb through the window without setting off the burglar alarm?

No.

Man A returns, beaming.

You've found it!

No, but the man in the bakery says Marcos the vet will do the op if you nip round to the surgery....it's on the other side of town...near where we were...

He is encouraged to start up the car again and turn left. We drive until we hit the entry to a condominium.

It's not here. It has to be the other side of town...where all the vets are....where Marcus will do the op..

Before Man B, human boiler, blows all safety valves we see a woman carrying a cat box.

Man B takes no chances. He descends himself to ask her for directions.

He returns to the car with the woman and cat box. She gets in and puppy and cat gaze at each other in common mistrust. She directs Man A to the next turn left.

No it can't be here! All the vets...

Just turn!

He turns. Two doors up the road we see the large sign on the gates...spay and neuter clinic.
We've made it.

It is a most relaxed affair, clients foregathering in the garden where loungers, iced tea and coffee await...the tranquilizer is administered and we settle down to wait about an hour before the op itself.
We meet several very nice people, enjoy the spectacle of an indignant West Highland terrier legging it for the exit with owner in hot pursuit, and the Men decide to go to the Saturday market while the puppy drowses on my lap.

The market is two blocks down the road....a straight road. They are gone some little time...Captain Oates comes to mind.
They reappear. Man B is making human boiler noises again.

What's the matter?

It's a straight road, right?

If you say so.

He only comes out of the market and turns in the opposite direction...

Don't tell me....heading for where the vets are...

Speak Out - Domestic Violence

2011-11-18T06:42:00.000-08:00

Something brushed under the carpet in too many societies.

Something thought of as happening only among the lower orders.

Something that doesn't happen to you.

Well, lift the carpet and recognise what is under it.....domestic violence is a stain on society and it needs to be recognised and rejected.

Costa Rica knows there is a problem.
The traditional 'macho' society has two sides....the man who feels responsibility for his wife's happiness and the man who feels that his wife is a chattel, worth a bit less than his car, to be caressed or kicked at will.

Costa Rica is trying to tackle the problem.
Family courts, protection orders, financial provision for women and their children, associations to financially empower women.....they're doing it.
They recognise that domestic violence is about control, and the remedy is giving women independence.
It's not easy, there are no sudden advances, but the will to do it is there.

Costa Rica has lifted the carpet and is sweeping hard.

This short post is in support of Speak Out...a day to bring a dirty secret into the open...and started with Wanderlust's blog, which is well worth a visit.

Beware of the Perfume

2011-11-06T15:35:00.000-08:00

Image via WikipediaElection day in neighbouring Nicaragua.....and it looks as if Ortega will be re-elected for a third term in a landslide.
The guerilla fighter of the Sandinista uprising against the Somoza dictatorship has become, in his turn, corrupt and keen to hang on to power to the extent of managing to manipulate the bodies overseeing the constitution to allow him a previously forbidden third term of office.
Enriching himself and his cronies he is hand in glove with business and the Catholic Church, whose influence is shown by the ban on abortion in Nicaragua, causing misery to the poor and no inconvenience to the rich, who, in the manner of the Republic of Ireland and the U.K., just carry their unwanted foetuses to Costa Rica for elimination while the Church follows the example of Nelson.
But he'll be re-elected, all the same.

I'd been in the garden when my Nicaraguan friend called round, having headed down there after a heavy downpour to pick the beans before they became tough and stringy.
The sun had come out and as I slushed through the wet grass the heavy scent of the canna india was in the air, pink pom pom blossoms hanging down over the green and yellow leaves perched high on the top of the tall bare stems.

I don't know what these beans are called, but they look like oversized asparagus peas, four lines of frills running their length and they make a wonderful soup - as long as they haven't gone woody.

An easy going recipe too, with not too much emphasis on quantities.

Dice and sweat off some onions, then add the beans, cut into pieces, chicken stock and either fresh tomatoes or tomato puree...just until the stock turns rose in colour if the latter.
Cook until the beans are soft, then puree and seive and add cumin to taste.
It is a soup recipe I have from friends in France...for using up the stringy beans, but it works wonders with these as well and is a good stand by in the freezer.

The bean patch was in full blossom...a wave of lavender blue flowers the length of the section of poles over which they run, and the scent was overpowering...sweet, soft and sensual.
John Clare would have recognised this New World equivalent of his field of English broad beans...

A beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet
As Araby, or grove of orange flowers;
Black-eyed and white, and feathered to the feet
How sweet they smell in morning's dewy hours!
When seething night is left upon the flowers
And when morn's sun shines brightly o'er the field
The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers,
And sweet the fragrance which the union yields
To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields.

Faced with such beauty, how could the mind think any ill? But moralists over the years seem to have a thing about the influence of flowers.....

The families of saffron pickers around Pithiviers were warned to keep the sexes separated during the evening sessions of removing the pistils from the mauve flowers....the mind boggles at the inferences drawn by the unco' guid from the activity, but their minds always seem to turn to filth unthought of by others.
Likewise the dangers of beanfields....was it the scent, or was it the possibilities of concealment that drew down the wrath of the self proclaimed godly?

Seeing my friend waving from the top of the garden, I went back, past the tilapia ponds and the papyrus which is now, with the perversity of all plants with runners, extending across the steps rather than parallel to them. I shall wait until it establishes on the other side and then cut out the bits on the steps...but that's for the next rainy season.

Aha, says he. Beans! Doesn't Pythagorus tell us to abstain?

Because of farting, or because of voting?

Today...voting!

We go inside to drink coffee, and I ask him how it is that Ortega is so popular.

Well, it's not as if people don't know how he has become over the years...but what's the alternative?
He does provide education, services, and keeps the economy going despite all the interference from the U.S., so people have jobs, and after these floods and landslides the back up has been pretty good...the Sandinistas have been handing out building materials to repair houses in poor areas...and, above all, he's not seen as 'perfumado'.

Perfumado?

Oh, it's a term for those who think they're superior...an elite...better than ordinary people...living in a different world.
He might be getting greedy, but he's still seen as one of the people, and while that lasts, he'll stay in power.
He's got rid of the worst of the poverty, too. Well, you've seen Honduras.

I had.

And it's not just the poverty....people know what happens when you have a U.S. backed government in power...they remember Somoza and if they didn't they have the example of Honduras next door.

Ortega might be greedy, but he offers freedom from fear...and that's worth a lot when you've known it.

It never rains but it pours...

2011-10-23T11:13:00.000-07:00

Image by Ilja via FlickrWe have the rainy season..the mornings are hot and sunny and then it pours and thunders in the afternoons.

The prudent housewife washes her clothes and bed linen early.

But now we also have depressions over the Caribbean.

Rain all day.

Rain all night.

This house is in the clouds most of the day.

How do I bless the day that I grew up with the old tradition of washing clothes and linen...you had enough in your trousseau to ensure that you would not run out of sheets, shirts and chemises before the six monthly big wash took place.

Washerwomen came round to undertake the task...

After beating the fabrics on stones on the river bank to release the blood, sweat and stains, the spots which were left would be lifted away by the home made soap and the supply of hot water which drove the farm hands frantic with the demands for yet more wood for the fires under the coppers...

I saw the last of that era in my early childhood...by the time I'd grown up the washing machine had taken over, even in the country, and easy care fabrics were all the rage.
But I still hoarded sheets and pillow cases...and I'm glad I did faced with day after day of rain and no prospect of drying things.

My troubles are as nothing compared to those of people in El Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala...so many deaths, so many homeless as the continual rains produce landslips and mudslides....here in Costa Rica, out of the main blast of the weather system, there have been five deaths so far, evacuations to refuges and the Inter American highway is closed as often as it is open, but the worst thing that has happened locally is that the electricity lines came down, closely followed by the telephone lines.
I felt really sorry for the repair crews, soaked despite their oilskins, trying to replace posts in sodden ground, going from door to door to check on the service.... too busy even to stop for a coffee.

It is not encouraging to go out, so it was lucky that a parcel of books had arrived just before losing the internet...I had plenty to read and plenty of time to do it in as the coffee had been blown to the ground by the storms leaving nothing to pick until the next lot ripens in about a week's time.
By which time I hope that our chief picker has recovered from an insect bite which blew his arm up to five times normal size and sent him to seek attention at the local hospital.

The chickens disapprove and the ducks strongly dispute the claim that rain is 'fine weather for ducks'.
They sit gloomily on the edge of the tilapia tanks, only shifting slightly to release excrement and then resuming the hunched posture of deep misery.
They could go to shelter in their pens...but that would be too easy. They could not express as much resentment that way.

The pig doesn't seem to worry. She turns up in her pen at feeding times, then skids off down the hill again on her quest for roots, startling the cattle as she swooshes by like a four legged downhill skier.

The dogs definitely do not approve.
A dog who has nipped out in a dry moment to answer a call of nature does not appreciate being caught in a downpour before completion of mission and is reluctant to repeat the experiment.
Shut out on the porch until forced to perform before being allowed back in the house is not their idea of life and it won't be long before their shop steward approaches me with the updated canine version of the contract of engagement of seamen on the sailing ships carrying coal from Newcastle to London....

'Duff out, dumpling home
Poop in the cabin foul weather'.....

As not seen on the Web

2011-10-13T14:45:00.000-07:00

Image via WikipediaWe have done rural for years...countryside England, la campagne Francaise and now el campo de Costa Rica...and it has always been a delight to have space around us, to watch the colours of trees change under the shifting light, to listen to the birds and to grub around in the garden.

But, once again within reach of a capital city after so long away from London, the old Adam is resurgent.

There are theatres, cinemas, museums, art galleries.

There are expos...tours....fairs...even demonstrations!
Last Sunday we could have 'done' two of them...petition against animal cruelty first, from the Parque Central up to the Legislature, followed by OAPs against violence to the elderly once we'd got there.
The OAPs aren't daft...it's a sharp climb up to the Legislature from the centre....best to get the bus and start the demo at the top.

Last time I went shopping there the municipal parks department tried to give me a tree to plant in my garden to bring back greenery to San Jose and I had to decline, not having a house there.
Walking along to the shops from the parks department stand I became aware of numbers of ladies carrying not only shopping bags but also trees....as if Burnham Wood was come to San Jose.

But it all started us thinking...the upshot of which was that we decided to buy a small house in the capital so that we could stay overnight, or for a few days, when there were things we wanted to see or do, not to speak of being able to regard with equanimity hospital appointments which can take place at 6.30 am.

So...househunting! Where to start?

It strikes me that if you are not looking for a particular location, for proximity to work, to schools, to family, then the housing market is a vast disorganised souk.

You want to move to France? You look on the agents' websites and find regions....some of which you've never heard of...and then departments in same with similar problem......
Where what you want is a site which gives you choices based on climate, shopping and airports offering cheap flights.
Or whatever else is important to you.

One day some enterprising estate agent will come forth with a site which gives you the information you really want....
Vineyards....colour of wine on offer....
British expat presence, ranging from zero (peaceful) to ten (smart work with chair and whip necessary to keep them at bay)....
Beaurocracy...watch out for Mme Machin in the sub prefecture...
Dentists...one has been sighted at...
Shopping....from IKEA to Noz...
And helpful hints....those thinking of moving to Deux Sevres (two river Sevres) might find it significant that neighbouring departments refer to it as Deux Chevres (two goats).....

But thinking out of the box never characterised an estate agent and that goes for Costa Rica too.

Most sites offer you the choice of the seven provinces...some, daringly, offer you the choice of beach or mountain, but that's about as far as it goes.
Detailed research is down to you.

Like.....
Places to avoid.....
Barrio Leon XIII where no one can have an internet line because the technicians are too frightened to go in there to install anything.
Gated communities where the main occupation is bickering over the height of cut on your neighbour's lawnmower.
Yoga communities.

Transport.....
Unless you like watching accidents, nowhere near a railway crossing because there are no barriers and the only warning is the train hooting as it arrives.
Mark you, there aren't many railway lines so it's not a big bother...
Bus routes and buses. While in theory every bus has passed its annual vehicle inspection the black clouds issuing from some bus exhausts leave you wondering how this bus escaped the net...so you don't want a house directly opposite the bus stop.

Topography...
Barrio Aranjuez is quiet and cooler than the dead centre of town....but since you nearly kill yourself struggling up the hill to get home with your shopping it's a good thing that the hospital Calderon Garcia is sited there....
Barrio Amon is smart and stylish....but since you risk going base over apex getting back down the hill with your shopping it is a pity that no hospital is sited nearby...not to speak of its proximity to Gringo Gulch where men with antediluvian attitudes to women cluster in the hotels and casinos that cater to their tastes.

Shopping....
Little neighbourhood shops for everything from plantains to plantains....
Huge shopping malls where the mushrooms are inevitably mouldy and the food halls have fifty different names for fried chicken...
Specialist shops...
Farmers' markets
Proper markets...
Flea markets....
Men selling things of doubtful provenance on the kerbside...

And all this before you even get to thinking about the house itself....

For your next trip to Tesco.....

2011-09-14T15:25:00.000-07:00

If your idea of fun is asking the supervisor of the fruit and veg section of your supermarket for some unheard of essential ingredient for a recipe you've just found, then here are a few ideas for you - some of the fruit from my last post.

How about some cas?

Or some pithaya?

Or a kilo of mamon chino?

Or a nice zapote?

Or even a few jocote?

I'm all right, Jack....until it comes to making apple pie....

Yes, we have no bananas...I wish...

2011-09-05T19:36:00.000-07:00

Flaming bananas...and I don't mean as in flambed....

The house is full of fruit awaiting processing with all the urgency that accompanies tropical conditions and ripe produce.
If it wasn't ripe when it came through the door it jolly well is by the time it's been there half an hour...or so it seems.
And it has to be used.

I've managed to palm off the plantains to the pig.....the 'quadrata' - .a sort of stumpy plantain - is, for the moment, quiescent, but the hands of bananas are being delivered to the kitchen with a speed and regularity which amounts to sadism....

I have made banana tortillas and banana tortilla mix for the freezer, I have made black bean and banana bake - which sounds foul but which is surprisingly good....and put more mix in the freezer....I have made banoffee to the astonishment of Costa Rican guests....Banana bread and cake lurk, frozen, to be produced as an alternative to Turkish cake and the whole house resounds to the glop and gurgle of the airlocks as yet more banana wine shambles to be born.

And yet they come...

As if life was not complicated enough without the passion fruit...to be liquidised, strained and frozen for future fruit drinks and for caramel passion fruit flan....

And the tangerines...to dry the skins for Chinese recipes

And the lemon mandarins...to freeze the juice for future drinks...

And the Sevilles...snatched from Danilo to make marmelade..

And the limes...to make lime pickle....

And the pink guava. to be cooked and strained, before freezing...to make jelly in the future

And the cas...to be pureed and strained for drinks and to be sweetened for 'pretend' apple sauce with pork...

Not to speak of the purchases..

The pithaya for drinks...

The mamon chino as the local version of lichee...

The zapote....like an avocado shaped medlar...

Strawberries..for jamming.

And, unlike Europe, instead of making jam direct I am freezing the fruit or its extract as Costa Rica has a shortage of glass jars and little tradition of preserving.
Not for nothing do I think of it as the land of the plastic bag.

Sauces, jams, mayonnaise...you name it, it comes in a plastic bag, so, for preserving you come up against a huge barrier...
What to put it in?

I throw out nothing in glass..but still short of material I went to the recycling centre and had a huge row with the women running it who wanted more for an empty jam jar than the jar and contents would have originally cost - my Spanish may be basic but it was quite up to expressing my views on exploitative green actiion.

Oh, and here comes the sweetcorn to be cooked and scraped for the freezer...

And the jocote is nearly ripe...

And the oranges are just ripening again.....
And, sod me...the blasted lemons are ready...