Paradise found?

Having just spent a short but entertaining stint in Costa Rica, I have to say, I’m a bit in awe of the place. Granted that even as Africa goes, Cong’s a bit the bottom of the barrel, so to speak. But Costa Rica is downright pleasant.

Some of the more fascinating bits were

• Traffic lights! Everywhere!
• Kids riding bikes and skateboards (as opposed to playing with balls constructed from old plastic bags)
• Bee-yew-ti-ful roads
• Potable water right out of the tap
• Notable absence of pushy hawkers
• Ice in beer - this one I’m not such a fan of

Even apart from novelties such as traffic lights, the country’s tourism industry is booming with 51% of the country forested, up from only 25% a few decades back. There’s a strong national health care system in place (ranked one step above the US’s on the World Health Organization’s global list), funded partially due to the absence of a national military.

Which is not to say that the thing don’t happen slowly or ineffectively. It takes about 2 years to have a phone line installed in your house, the electricity blips on and off regularly, and the government just released 3 Colombians who were arrested for plotting the assassination of the Minister of Justice as a warning against prosecuting drug runners. Bribes are still somewhat of a necessity when dealing with bureaucracy. But all in all, it’s not a bad place to set your hat.

I’m now back on U.S soil and enjoying the northern hemisphere summer. Here’s a small clue as to what I’ve been up to:

What I did on my summer vacation or The Bullfight

I’m drinking a watery tico beer bought for me by a gringo in a cowboy hat. My generous companion has the distinction of being the tallest person (as is his usual honour at public gatherings) at the bullfight. The fight is about to begin and my companion alternates between translating the million-mile-per-second Spanish-speaking announcer and making facing at the 5-year old Costa Rican boy sitting in front of us on what passes for a bleacher.

The temporary stadium where the fight is to be held is essentially constructed by driftwood toothpicks which pose more risk to spectators surviving the evening’s event than the fight does to the bull.

My companion explains that unlike bullfights in other countries, bullfights in Costa Rica consist of two teams who each try to herd the bull in question through a set of orange traffic cones on either side of the ring.

The teams enter the ring and begin by throwing one of their compatriots several feet in the air on what may at one point in time have resembled a parachute. The attempt to catch the flying team member in said parachute is genuine though not always successful. It is at this point that the first fire breaks out.

I am under the mistaken assumption that fire in a rickety stadium is something to be avoided, however when laughter ripples around the audience, I realise I am missing the punch line. A few pieces of newspaper have been twisted together, tucked into the back of someone’s trousers and set alight. The fun begins when the victim registers his predicament and tries to snatch the burning newspaper from his ensemble before he himself is set alight. Somehow the elementary-school anti-fire advice “stop, drop and roll” does not seem appropriate in a dirt-floor arena that has been absorbing the last few hours’ constant drizzle.

The first bull to enter the ring is named Dynamite and seems more the spindly bookish adolescent than the bully who shoved your head in your locker. It’s difficult to tell which team is ascending toward victory as the spectators are more apt to shriek at the bullfighters scaling the arena walls as Dynamite patters towards them that hoot at actual scoring. The fiery newspapers continue to be tucked into unsuspecting fighters’ belts, adding to the mayhem and hysteria.

It is at about this point that I notice that one of the bullfighters is dressed in drag. It’s not the sophisticated fashion of a cross-dressing lounge singer but rather consists of a stretched neon green slip dress covering a size triple D chest with a haphazardly placed long brunette wig that may at one time have resembled a Beyonce do. It’s unclear whether the presence of a supposed woman is supposed to excite Dynamite further or calm him.

After a good while, three cowboys ride into the ring on horseback and lasso poor Dynamite to his knees, all the while with the announcer yelling “Aye yaye yaye!” as Dynamite is led off the stage.

Just as The Gift, the next bull who is only slightly more robust than Dynamite, enters the ring, what was a light drizzle turns suddenly to a windy downpour. The wind whips the rain around the stadium, drenching anyone brave enough to be seated in the first row. There was much shrieking as those being pelted tumble backward in search of drier ground, in the process giving one the sense that the stadium is slowly swaying with the massive synchronised movement. Thirty seconds later, it is back to a drizzle.

The Gift’s stint in the ring follows a similar pattern to Dynamite’s as he graciously chases a bunch of raucous men -one dressed as a woman- around the mud arena with a dog yapping as his feet. The moment The Gift turns to eye the dog personally, the small beast dashes under the rickety bleacher wall and barks back at The Gift from relative safety.

After The Gift, two more equally impressive bulls follow, all with equally mild temperaments, all equally sluggish in their pursuit of their tormentors, by which point my attention begins to wane. There are really only so many times that watching someone being set on fire is funny.

As we drift away from the makeshift stadium and back to the rest of the county fair in search of another beer, I am happy to note that the nearby port-a-potties are considerably better constructed than the stadium itself. The shrieking and clamouring from within the stadium echoes across the night sky until the sounds of the latin music tent take over.