Well, as several of you (thanks) have reminded me, many days have passed since I last posted anything. I am not sure why but think it might have something to do with a reticence to assume there is any interest in following an ongoing narrative of what might, at first blush, seem a celebration of the mundane. However, I have discovered the recounting of events helps me gain a deeper understanding of the impact of trying to live in a foreign country without the help of anything but a rudimentary capacity to communicate. For instance, I am learning that language is jut one of many tools that help to build relations; gestures, pantomimes and well timed nods are vastly under rated. Difficult for a rather verbose guy like me.
Anyway, I will tell you in this post about the first of two incidents through which I invite you to make meaning about my rather strange life here.
The Traffic Ticket
After spending a great two days at Playa Carrillo with my buddy Davis who spent ten days here, I was feeling quite confident in my Costa Rican acculturation. After all, my Spanish is somewhat better than his and, my vast experience in dealing with the bureaucracy and cultural norms here is well documented in previous posts. Oh. how the self-deceived can fall. And usually do.
After a warmish three and a half hour drive, punctuated by the ubiquitous suicidal and homicidal driving of Tico motorists who always risk life and limb of themselves and anyone else imprudent and arrogant enough to use the highway as a form of transportation, we finally arrived in San Ramon. Driven by pride and an odd, yet persistent trait I have of demonstrating my acumen, I casually slowed down to make an illegal left turn in order to avoid the longer (7.5 minute) drive to the main intersection. After all, we locals always use the shortcut (it's kind of our way to self identify as vicenos in the barrio of Santaguita). As I was making my turn, we could hear several other motorists yelling something. The way my brain was (or wasn't) working I assumed it was part of a cultish welcome reserved for those of us who have been anointed as locals. Or maybe not.
Just as I made the turn, I was greeted, no not by the welcoming waves of my friends and neighbours, but by the commanding presence and beckoning arm of the Police who had set up a roadblock to reinforce the traffic laws. And reinforce them they did. None of my tried and true strategies had any impact on their resolve. Pathetic sniveling, whining "I am sorry, but I am a stupid Canadian who has no knowledge of the laws and had no idea a double yellow line preceded by a sign with the clear international icon signifying no left turn means no left turn. After a polite and professional examination of my license, passport and the papers from my rental vehicle, the officer, using a very cool hand held gadget printed out the ticket and informed me I had thirty days to contest the ticket.
Yeah, like that was going to happen. Unless utter imbecility is grounds for absolution, I had no chance. I was imagining the scene at the hearing. Bearing in mind, only last year, I spent two months responding to the question posed at the supermarket, "Algo mas?" which translates as "Anything else?" with "Si,si gracias, adios," and then walking away. So what kind of a defense for the indefensible could I offer? I am so Spanish challenged that when I am asked if I want anything else, I respond "Yes, yes, thank you, goodbye". In retrospect, it might have worked, but I am unsure as to whether or not my travel insurance would cover the requisite, ensuing medical examinations.
Upon an initial study of the ticket, I was pleased to let Davis know that $52 or so was not going to impoverish me, and I deserved it and blah, blah, blah. The next morning, I could not resist sharing my cute little misadventure with my friend Alfredo and his daughter Kattia. When I offhandedly apprised them of the amount of the fine, Kattia looked at me rather sceptically and asked if I was sure. She then told me that the government had recently enacted the harshest fines for traffic infractions in Latin America in an attempt to curb the carnage caused by the aforementioned Ticos, some of whom act out their machismo while behind the wheel, sort of a 21st Century dance of the toreadors.
What's in a comma or a decimal point, you might well ask. Ohh, about $500 or so, give or take a few dollars. Upon closer inspection and forty-two checks on the currency exchange program... well, let's just say the penalty was a bit steeper than I originally thought.
After Davis and I finally discovered I had to pay the fine, a fine set of adventures in itself, I, who had meticulously had the exact amount at the ready, was a bit bemused to learn (ah, it is all about the learning and, in this case, the earning), that a 30% sales tax was added to each traffic fine. I resisted the impulse to try to explain I wasn't really interested in buying anything and haplessly handed over the equivalent of at least a month's salary for the average Costa Rican professional.
At least, I played my role in keeping the roads safe!
My next posting will outline the thrilling journey I recently completed in getting my malfunctioning clothes washer repaired.
Algo mas?
