My Scholarship entry - A local encounter that changed my life

theredheadedtraveler — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 07:11:34 GMT

The austere look of the school had been transformed into a myriad of enticing colors.The children at the orphanage where I am volunteering are anxious to share the memory of their loved ones with visitors such as myself.In my culture death is regarded as a morbid topic never openly discussed.Today, however, I am part of one that treats death not with sadness and tears but rather with laughter and gaiety.I am in Mexico to celebrate its festival, Day of the Dead.

I walk up to the first altar and am immediately met with resounding holas by the children who had constructed it.I ask them about the objects they had placed on their altar.Scattered amongst the photographs of loved ones and flickering candles are random objects-a bottle of Negra Modela beer and a worn-looking pendant; all objects that mean nothing to a stranger but had meant something to the departed. Before I leave to go to the next altar,I realize that a beloved inanimate object is just as strong a presence as an actual person.

At the next altar I am drowning in the scent of flowers of the dead.Strands of marigolds surround me, their fiery orange color bathing my pale skin in dark rich tones.I continue my procession around the courtyard, stopping at each of the altars until I arrive at the final one.It has no altar in the traditional sense. Instead, its altar is the ground. The girl explains to me that her group had designed their altar as a means of symbolizing the eternal home of the deceased.I stare at the altar comprising sand and rocks of all different colors and it strikes me that this non-traditional one, the one in which there are no personal objects but only a skull that rests in its center, is my favorite.

Before I leave, I go into the café where I purchase a miniature bread of the dead.The bread is encased in wrapping but is still warm, its sugary smell wafting through the brown parchment.As I start to eat it, I remember what I was told earlier, that no dead soul likes to be thought of sadly.

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Journey in an Unknown Culture

theredheadedtraveler — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 12:53:00 GMT

The rich aroma of food being cooked finally convinces me that a delicious meal awaits. Although my body is ravenous with hunger, I am also content just sitting here, enjoying the breeze wafting through the palm trees outside, listening to the quiet crashing of waves breaking off in the distance.
Away from the throngs of the sun bleached tourists who flock to the town’s posh and overpriced eateries, Miss Dolly’s offers visitors an authentic dining experience here in Puerto Viejo. Inside, the walls are bare, the room almost empty except for the four simply carved wooden tables that grace it, yet the atmosphere exudes a sense of home. There are no menus, yet none are needed. One doesn’t come to Miss Dolly’s for choices, but rather to sample a taste of Costa Rica’s Afro-Caribbean culture.
As the waiter sets my plate of steaming food in front of me, I turn more closely in my seat to surreptitiously study his face, black as the night sky. With his darkened skin and dreadlocks that have been pulled back into a ponytail, save for a few that have escaped and hang loosely over his eyes, he looks nothing like the Costa Rican men I have been accustomed to seeing back in San José.
Prior to my fork laying assault to my meal, I pause a moment to examine the contents of my plate, which resembles an artist’s palate. I had ordered a casado, which means marriage in Spanish and is indeed a marriage of simple yet hearty foods. As I bite into a piece of grilled fish covered in a rich and creamy coconut sauce, the latter a staple in Caribbean cooking, I am reminded of the fact that I am eating a meal derived from two distinct yet connected cultures, Costa Rican and West Indian. The rice and beans are quickly devoured along with the carrot, tomato and cabbage salad. Soon, all that remains are the patacones, the fried, yellowy golden hue on my palate.
I had been told by friends that patacones are the best part of traveling to the Caribbean coast. Even given the impressive nature of Salsa Brava, the country’s biggest and most powerful wave, and the stunning beauty of the beaches at Playa Chiquita and Punta Uva, nothing compares to eating a twice fried plantain. Although I burn my mouth with my first bite, it is a burn worth enduring, for even through the numbness I feel on my tongue, I still enjoy their decadent taste.
Before leaving to walk back along the darkened road to my cabina, the curtain from the back of the room rustles and out steps a woman I assume to be Miss Dolly herself. Wanting to say something but not having the words to say all that I wished to, I simply utter “gracias,” to which she responds with a smile as rich as the meal I had just eaten.

A Culture within a Culture

My Scholarship entry - A local encounter that changed my life

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Journey in an Unknown Culture