I Am....Harry

I woke up the other day feeling really in between, one of those days when you're not sure what direction to point first. I knew I had a few basic errands to run before I got down to whatever it was that I would later say was what I did that day. So that got me out of the house and on a bus to begin with. A couple of the errands didn't work out (ATM machine down, I don't remember what else) and after dropping off a sample at the lab (maybe it was pesky parasites?) I found myself headed to a sector called Tres Rios. It's a community about 10-15 minutes from our house in Curridabat by bus, and one where I had taken groups before to walk and pray for the people in the area. As I wasn't sure how I would get my failed errands accomplished, I figured I could at least think about a plan to solution everything while walking the plaza. Maybe I could meet some people and make some new friends. I boarded the bus and remembered that I also wanted some maps of the town, for planning purposes concerning our Institute project.

Upon arriving, I headed for the municipality building, not a very good translation, huh? No maps there, it was mostly a place for paying bills and taxes. I did a bit of exploring after that hoping to find the right ATM that wouldn't be out of order. No luck there, and then I had a brainstorm. I needed a haircut, and I had seen a barbershop on the main road before. Why not drop in there and see if I couldn't make contact with the community while improving my appearance? And who knows the community better than a barber, right?

He wasn't doing anything when I walked in, and the price was right, around $3.00 for a haircut. I sat down, and he got started. When I get my hair cut in the USA, I just hate it, because I don't like to talk with someone I don't know. And I don't get to know a haircutter in the USA, because it's so stinkin' expensive. But in Costa Rica, getting my haircut in Spanish, it's easy for me to just talk with someone. After the prefunctory chit chat about how I wanted my hair, I noticed a number of photos on the wall, all of soccer teams. So I asked. Indeed, he was in a couple of them, and told me about them all. In one photo, I recognized the church at Orosi in the background, and thus learned that he had grown up there. He told me he was 64 years old, but had left Orosi when he was a youth. He was mostly from Tres Rios by now, and had cut hair for many years. From there, it was all about his daughter who lived in the USA, his visits there, fishing as a boy, those mountains over there where all our water comes from, the time he was mugged in San Jose, how many times someone had broken into his barber shop and what part of the building they came in, and so on and so on.

Somewhere in the midst of this lonely-barber saga, another older gentleman came in, dressed kind of like a cowboy, sans spurs, more like someone who worked in the hay field, with long sleeves and a straw hat cinched up under his chin. He greeted the barber and asked him if he wanted some of what he was selling, which turned out to be a fruit drink. "What kind is it?" he returned. "Noni," came the reply. Affirmative, and the offered refreshment appeared straight away, along with a little salsa kind of dance, no extra charge. So I asked about noni, a fruit I had heard little about. Noni, I was told, was good for many things, just like vitamins, but they say it is especially good for "sexo". That sounded good, and I told him I bet it was cheaper than Viagra, too. That drew a pretty good laugh, an honest laugh, and I think we were hitting it off.

From there we continued talking, and presently he asked if I would like an order of noni fruit drink for myself. How could I say no, after all we had shared? He went to the door and whistled for his friend, and paid for my first noni drink in Costa Rica. It was really and odd kind of sweet, but I've tasted worse in my travels, and was able to easily get it down. Before I left, we had exchanged names, which doesn't always happen right away in Costa Rica. He is Edgar, don Edgar, and I told him my name was Darrin. I couldn't say it very well, though, and in the end he preferred to call me Harry, which does sound a lot like Darrin when you pronounce it in Spanish. I told him that as of yet I hadn't been given a nick name in Costa Rica, which almost always happens more than once when you grow up here. He did a good job with my hair, as you can see in the picture, but I did change the combing style after I washed it. I have a barber now, and I hope a good friend, and I am Harry.

Darrin