1. Lasso the cow by its horns and tether it to the side of the corral.
2. Tie the cow´s hind feet together. Be careful - if she doesn´t feel like being milked, she´ll make it hard on you. Also, you are in the "discharge" danger zone while doing this - be aware!
3. Let the cow´s baby out of the other side of the corral. If necessary, help it find the udder. (Little cows are apt to try and suckle knees, pants legs, and tails in an effort to eat the first few days!)
4. Make sure the calf suckles at each teat for at least a few seconds, and then lasso it and tether it to the side of the corral with its mom.
5. Splash water on each teat to rinse it of calf spit, dirt, grass, ticks, and who knows what.
6. Milk! Don´t be afraid to seriously pull - that calf is rougher on her than you will ever be.
7. Attempt to be cool and develop a sophisticated "finger drumming" type technique for squeezing out milk. Realize you´re not that cool and will just have to settle for whatever movement makes milk come out.
8. About halfway through, let the calf nurse again for a few seconds to encourage milk to keep coming.
9. Pour the last of the milk from the pitcher into the bucket, carefully release the cow´s legs, and let the calf nurse in earnest.
10. Use this distraction to undo the cow´s horns and slip out of the corral.
11. Repeat daily.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
FLASHBACK NUMBER ONE - ¡Quinceañera! (Part One)
Since the day I arrived in Costa Rica, I´ve heard about one event more than any other: the upcoming quinceañera of Fernanda, my host sister. If you´ve never heard of a quinceañera, think wedding without a groom, or, if you´re from the old south, debutante party. At fifteen, girls here get to be the princess of a huge party celebrating their coming of age, complete with an enormous cake, a court of 14 girls and their escorts, a principal table, toasts, and first dances. It´s pretty wild, and I was beside myself to get to be a part of it. Even better was the timing - my mom and brother were down in Costa Rica visiting for the new year, and their trip overlapped with the party!
In the days leading up to the big event, the Chinchilla farm was a crazy flurry of activity. Arriving from Dominical to celebrate Christmas with the family, I was immediately and happily thrown into the mix of helping prepare. Luz and I scrubbed her husbands old house from top to bottom using laundry detergent, brooms, and liberal hosing down. (I will never get tired of the taboo feeling I get from being allowed to spray a hose at the inside wall of a house. I want tile floors in my own house just so I can one day do this.) I chopped enough carrots into half moons to fill an entire refridgerator crisper drawer. We polished and decorated 30 champagne flutes, reminicsed about the older daughter´s party as we reworked her decorations and imagined how they would once again be reworked for Daniela. We hauled some thirty mattresses, blankets, and pillows into the newly cleaned and de-batted house for incoming guests. We made cookies and baked sweet tamal. And the guests began to slowly trickle in. Each day, the excitement about the party inched higher and more faces showed up to lend a hand. Lucky for me, those faces soon included my mom and brother. :)
On the day of the party, both preparation and excitement reached a critical mass. I went early to the party site with my mom, Luz, and a big handful of other helpers to bedeck the place with as much purple and pink as it could handle, and then returned to bedeck myself in party gear for the first time since I´d left the country. After months of baggy work pants and technical tees, my lacy dress and flashy heels felt beyond bizarre. Luz and I giggled at one another in our finery - we´d gotten pretty used to only seeing each other in scrubby work clothes. But complete with my new digs, a fresh haircut, and the first make up to touch my face in weeks, I felt scrubbed clean and ready to go.
In the days leading up to the big event, the Chinchilla farm was a crazy flurry of activity. Arriving from Dominical to celebrate Christmas with the family, I was immediately and happily thrown into the mix of helping prepare. Luz and I scrubbed her husbands old house from top to bottom using laundry detergent, brooms, and liberal hosing down. (I will never get tired of the taboo feeling I get from being allowed to spray a hose at the inside wall of a house. I want tile floors in my own house just so I can one day do this.) I chopped enough carrots into half moons to fill an entire refridgerator crisper drawer. We polished and decorated 30 champagne flutes, reminicsed about the older daughter´s party as we reworked her decorations and imagined how they would once again be reworked for Daniela. We hauled some thirty mattresses, blankets, and pillows into the newly cleaned and de-batted house for incoming guests. We made cookies and baked sweet tamal. And the guests began to slowly trickle in. Each day, the excitement about the party inched higher and more faces showed up to lend a hand. Lucky for me, those faces soon included my mom and brother. :)
On the day of the party, both preparation and excitement reached a critical mass. I went early to the party site with my mom, Luz, and a big handful of other helpers to bedeck the place with as much purple and pink as it could handle, and then returned to bedeck myself in party gear for the first time since I´d left the country. After months of baggy work pants and technical tees, my lacy dress and flashy heels felt beyond bizarre. Luz and I giggled at one another in our finery - we´d gotten pretty used to only seeing each other in scrubby work clothes. But complete with my new digs, a fresh haircut, and the first make up to touch my face in weeks, I felt scrubbed clean and ready to go.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
San Juan del Sur
After a quick layover in Rivas and a stop at the ATM to get into the local currency (which is plastic! genius!), I hopped on a chicken bus to San Juan del Sur. Chicken bus, you say? Apparently these reapportioned old school buses get their name from the fact that nearly any cargo is permissible to haul on, though all my fellow passengers on this trip were firmly human.
The trip was nice - I got to see a good glimpse of the Nicaraguan countryside, including a famous island in the enormous lake Nicaragua called the Isla de Ometepe, which is made up by two narrowly connected volcanos.
Stepping off the bus, though, I was greeted by my least favorite part of Nicaragua so far: the wind. I had really hoped that things would be different than they were in Rivas (pretty silly, as the ride was only about 40 minutes), but I quickly gave that up. The wind hit me full in the face as I stepped down from the bus steps, carrying dirt and sand up with it. Sigh. As I had done the night before and for all of that morning, I reached down and grabbed each side of my skirt in a fist, struggling to keep things modest. You see, while packing for this trip, I had only thrown skirts into my tiny backpack. I´m going to the beach, I thought. Skirts will be great because they are comfortable, cool, and I´ll look presentable wherever I end up. I did not look presentable. I looked like a woman at war with her wardrobe. And still do. This area of Nicaragua is experiencing a freak windstorm of some sort which has lasted nearly a week now. I keep having people promise me that it´s going to let up tomorrow, each tomorrow that comes just brings more gusts. The beach is an impossibility - I tried walking along the edge the first day I got here, and could think of nothing other than camels. The wind was so hard that the sand rushed in currents across the beach, stinging as it found its way into my ears, armpits, and teeth. Bleh.
Needless to say, it hasn´t been a picturesque beach trip. I did luck into a great hostel though, where I´ve devoured 4 books and met lots of frustrated surfers from around the world. Tomorrow, I´ll start my trek back into Costa Rica, having gotten just enough of a taste of this new country to want to come back. After the storm.
The trip was nice - I got to see a good glimpse of the Nicaraguan countryside, including a famous island in the enormous lake Nicaragua called the Isla de Ometepe, which is made up by two narrowly connected volcanos.
Stepping off the bus, though, I was greeted by my least favorite part of Nicaragua so far: the wind. I had really hoped that things would be different than they were in Rivas (pretty silly, as the ride was only about 40 minutes), but I quickly gave that up. The wind hit me full in the face as I stepped down from the bus steps, carrying dirt and sand up with it. Sigh. As I had done the night before and for all of that morning, I reached down and grabbed each side of my skirt in a fist, struggling to keep things modest. You see, while packing for this trip, I had only thrown skirts into my tiny backpack. I´m going to the beach, I thought. Skirts will be great because they are comfortable, cool, and I´ll look presentable wherever I end up. I did not look presentable. I looked like a woman at war with her wardrobe. And still do. This area of Nicaragua is experiencing a freak windstorm of some sort which has lasted nearly a week now. I keep having people promise me that it´s going to let up tomorrow, each tomorrow that comes just brings more gusts. The beach is an impossibility - I tried walking along the edge the first day I got here, and could think of nothing other than camels. The wind was so hard that the sand rushed in currents across the beach, stinging as it found its way into my ears, armpits, and teeth. Bleh.
Needless to say, it hasn´t been a picturesque beach trip. I did luck into a great hostel though, where I´ve devoured 4 books and met lots of frustrated surfers from around the world. Tomorrow, I´ll start my trek back into Costa Rica, having gotten just enough of a taste of this new country to want to come back. After the storm.
Crossing the Border
As crazy as it seems, I have now been out of the country for three months. Costa Rica grants Americans an automatic ninety day tourist visa when they enter the country, which I used nearly to the day. Tomorrow will officially be day ninety for me, but as many of you know, I am chronically punctual, and this apparently extends to visa deadlines. In order to renew my visa, I simply need to be outside of Costa Rica for more than seventy-two hours. After that, I´ll reenter with another full ninety days to spend. When I first came down, I was quite worried about the length of time that my return ticket showed. Surely the Costa Ricans would be on to me, and know that I fully intended to skip out of the country and skip right back in! As it turns out, there are people in Costa Rica who have been doing just that for years on end. My probably two or three times is hardly worth batting an eye at. There is some level of gossip circulating that with the elections coming up in February, the visa laws are due to change and become more strict, but given the amount of money that tourism brings to Costa Rica, I´m not putting all that much weight on it. In any case, the point of all of this is that I am writing to you now from Nicaragua!
I headed out of the country Monday after saying goodbye to my mom and brother (clearly something you´ll hear about in a flashback soon!) alongside a big busload of Nicaraguans. Having never crossed a border by land before, I was anxious to see what it would be like. Honestly? Sort of underwhelming. Lots of coyotes (local citizens offering a range of legal and illegal unoffical services) trying to convince me that their fanny pack stuffed with bills was certainly the most secure way to change my money, lots of long lines, and a sadly dusty and rundown office.
I did get to witness a clumsy bribe go down, however, which provided enough entertainment to last me most of my time waiting in line. As I lazily peered outside while waiting my turn, an American outside held an animated conversation with some of the coyotes, and then edged into the office building. He ambled in what I´m sure he thought was a casual way past everyone waiting in line and stood beside the processing window, shifting his weight nervously back and forth. And then he waited while the next person got processed. And the next. Meanwhile, the coyotes, who I can only assume are not very welcome inside the building, banged on the window from the outside and ethusiastically mimed their wishes both to the American and the immigration employee. Finally, after about three minutes, the border employee grabbed the man´s papers, slapped a quick stamp on, and shoved them back through the slot. As I reached the window, a coyote sprinted into the room, flicked a bill through the slot in the glass, and sprinted impishly back out. I realize this was all supposed to be rather a serious, slick deal, but I couldn´t help but laugh a little. Especially when, 20 minutes later, I was standing by the American, hearing him explain to a friend that he had paid those guys twenty bucks to get him through and was still standing right there with the rest of us.
Otherwise, the crossing passed a lot like a birthday - I knew that something was different, and that it should seem different, but to me, any real change was intangible as we crossed that imaginary line. I found a hostel at the nearest travel hub of a town and collapsed gratefully into bed. What would be different, and what the same, about this new country?
I headed out of the country Monday after saying goodbye to my mom and brother (clearly something you´ll hear about in a flashback soon!) alongside a big busload of Nicaraguans. Having never crossed a border by land before, I was anxious to see what it would be like. Honestly? Sort of underwhelming. Lots of coyotes (local citizens offering a range of legal and illegal unoffical services) trying to convince me that their fanny pack stuffed with bills was certainly the most secure way to change my money, lots of long lines, and a sadly dusty and rundown office.
I did get to witness a clumsy bribe go down, however, which provided enough entertainment to last me most of my time waiting in line. As I lazily peered outside while waiting my turn, an American outside held an animated conversation with some of the coyotes, and then edged into the office building. He ambled in what I´m sure he thought was a casual way past everyone waiting in line and stood beside the processing window, shifting his weight nervously back and forth. And then he waited while the next person got processed. And the next. Meanwhile, the coyotes, who I can only assume are not very welcome inside the building, banged on the window from the outside and ethusiastically mimed their wishes both to the American and the immigration employee. Finally, after about three minutes, the border employee grabbed the man´s papers, slapped a quick stamp on, and shoved them back through the slot. As I reached the window, a coyote sprinted into the room, flicked a bill through the slot in the glass, and sprinted impishly back out. I realize this was all supposed to be rather a serious, slick deal, but I couldn´t help but laugh a little. Especially when, 20 minutes later, I was standing by the American, hearing him explain to a friend that he had paid those guys twenty bucks to get him through and was still standing right there with the rest of us.
Otherwise, the crossing passed a lot like a birthday - I knew that something was different, and that it should seem different, but to me, any real change was intangible as we crossed that imaginary line. I found a hostel at the nearest travel hub of a town and collapsed gratefully into bed. What would be different, and what the same, about this new country?
Happy New Year!
It has been altogether too long since I posted here, but I swear I have good excuses. The weeks since Christmas have flown by, filled with all manner of exciting things that I am looking forward to sharing. Having so many things going on, though, has also meant that I have not been near a computer with affordable internet for quite a while. I´ve tried to go back and write my posts in order so that I could keep everything chronological here, but let´s be honest: that´s pure OCDism and nothing else. So, I´m going to start with what´s going on now and let you guys know about my holiday adventures as periodical flashbacks. Sound good? Good!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Las Ventanas
South of Dominical is a small beach called Las Ventanas. It is, in short, like a dream. A horseshoe beach with wild caves on one side through which the tide rolls in and out. I was able to go before I left Dominical with Gretchen and Octavius, two wonderful people I´ve met here. This place is best described in photos and not words, so here we go:
The first cave. I went all the way in, swam through out into the ocean, and swam back in the other side into a different cave. (!!)
Gretchen and Octavius
Looking out at the beach from inside the second cave.
Loving this scene in the middle of December....
How could you ask for more?
:)
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