Papaya, Piel, and Penises

I've officially been back in Costa Rica for a week now, and I've rediscovered something beautiful. Laughter.

I'm convinced that the vice of modern man is busyness. Maybe I should specify the vice of the western man. Or even the Christian man. We're always rushing, always pressed for time, always in a hurry. I would venture to propose that it's the reason why western civilizations and Christianty began their relationship in the first place. Christianity is a religion of urgency--Save another soul before time runs out! It's occurred to me how we've translated our haste in the professional and academic and social worlds into the religious world. (And we'll save discussion of this dualily for another day.)

It seems to me that perhaps my favorite gift from God is laughter. It requires a living outside of the moment, a seeing of things not as they really are, but rather seeing a distortion. More often I think, it requires still a living outside of the moment but seeing things as they really are, seeing a reality from a different angle, maybe a more accurate angle--I don't know. Laughter. It dulls the sting of rejection, it's balm to broken expectations, it overshadows the grief of disappointment. Laughter's more infectious than the most potent virus yet as welcoming as a glass of cool water to a parched throat. When everything can be so damning, Laughter is breathing and it's hoping and it's pregnant with life.

I've never laughed so hard as I have in the past week. I think my boxers may even have urine stains. Okay, so I love laughing, and I feel like for a normal person, I laugh a lot. However, the past week has been inundated with that rib-crushing, gut-wrenching, eyes-burning kind of laughter. That laughter that lasts so long at such intensity that I'm crying for it to stop and praying it never does. I think laughter hurts so much because it's become something foreign to our bodies. But anyway, I attribute this rediscovering of a robust laughter to an abandonment of the busy. Don't get me wrong--Costa Ricans fight the busyness of life just as much as any American. It's just that the conditions of my stay here have afforded me with the opportunity to slow down, reflect more, enjoy everything. And laugh.

I read on Wikianswers (only the most distinguished of sources for me, please) that the average adult laughs about 5 times per day, while the average child laughs more than 25 times per day.

Life's slower for children, happier, filled with more hope, more fun, more adventure. As adults, I think laughter can get those things back for us. Therefore, allow me to share a few moments that have brought me and Rosalee (my gingo sister from the States here in CR) that kind of laughter that has turned our legs into jelly pulling us to mother earth, made our stomachs ache begging for respite, and caused us to look like maniacs. Though it probably won't be as funny this time around...these things never are.

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I hate papaya. Hate. Hate. Hate. I know, I'm such an American with my dislike of tropical foods. I just find it nauseating, and whenever I eat it, I fight the urge to vomit. Well, our mama tica (tica=Costa Rican) served Rosa and I papaya. I left that untouched on my plate, hoping to send a not-so-subtle-but-more-subtle-than-words message to the provider of my food. Rosa had never had papaya, and disregarding my warnings, with eagerness, shoved that putrid excuse for a fruit into her mouth. Needless to say to almost any gringo who has ever had the misfortune of tasting papaya, Rosa ignored the remaining papaya on her plate. The next day, we were walking through downtown San Jose when we both smelled something horrible. I've tried to preserve the words that exploded from Rose's mouth verbatim. I said, "Ugh, that smells awful!" to which Rose responded, "Are you kidding me? I can't tell if that smells like poop or papaya." Ticos cut glances at us as if we were lepers, and several had to step over our fallen bodies as we clutched our convulsing bellies. My shoulder still smarts from slamming into that pole.

I saw Michael W. Smith in concert on Saturday right here in downtown San Jose. I know, who would of thunkt... Well, on the bus afterward, I was talking to a tico who had also been at the concert. He saw ol' Gringo me and rushed to sit beside me and practice his English. He actually studied English the past few years at the Universidad de Costa Rica. We started talking about the concert, and he said, "I was so excited! It gave me chicken skins!" Which in Spanish makes sense. Piel de Gallina (chicken skin): it's like the equivalent of our goose-bumps. However, in English, it makes Keith's face turn embarrassingly red as he tries to stifle uncontrollable laughter. The guy was so seeking afirmation of his English, and I wanted to give it to him, I really did. I attempted to save face for both him and me, so I started to say, "Yeah, it gave me chicken skins too," but I only got about halfway through before I lost it. I hated that his pride was the price of my laughter, but asi es la vida. I decided the most pressing course to take was to make sure none of my saliva slapped his face as I tried to stop laughing. Poor guy.

Rosalee and I were on the internet, yahoo to be specific, and the article on the front page read, "Master this Habit for a Better Relationship." I couldn't help myself. Before I even really thought about it, or about the fact that my only present company was that of a lady, I smiled: "He calls it his habit?" You have to admit, that was a good one.   =)

My mama tica here is hilarious. She has the heart of a child, because she's got to laugh at least 25 times a day. She's the kind of person that cracks herself up to the extent that her words begin merging and dissolving into meaningless blubbering because she's laughing so hard. Well, on one such occassion when she was fighting to communicate a story through the laughter (which makes Spanish so hard to understand, mind you), I split a rib I laughed so hard. Apparently, the last short-term missionary that lived with her was named Hannah. Well, Hannah was on the bus one day, talking to serveral tica women in Spanish. One of the older ladies said something depressing or something, and so Hannah, trying to convey her sympathy, said, "Que pena." Well, she meant to say "Que pena," which translates as "what a pity/what a shame/how sad." However, what she actually said was "Que pene." Which means penis. "What a penis." Apparently, one of the old ladies had to be rushed to the hospital because of a stroke. And buses are beasts to manuever in Latin American hospital traffic.

"What a penis."