San Jose, Costa Rica

Today dawned as if with reluctance, the clouds opening only slightly to let the sunshine out. I climbed from my mattress, and, by moving several tons of clothes I was able to dig up those garments worth wearing. In the hallway of what must have once been a grand colonial residence I stepped loudly past sleeping bodies and to the kitchen. Corry stood with tousled hair and slowly spooned pancake mix onto a saucepan, with a very Dickensian air.

After eating and chatting up some American backpackers, I threw random objects into my bag and departed the hostel with my crew in tow. We trod to the nearest park in a tight bunch, Damian habitually grabbing at me as I veered over the pavement into oncoming traffic.

After half an hour of bus journeys we arrived in a neighborhood far removed from the grubby urbanism of downtown San Jose. The houses here were still barred but there were more trees and I felt at peace as I wondered down the leafy streets. To my left looms a bright yellow house with sloping tile roofs and an air of tranquility around it. Through the gate an elderly gardener smiles and continues to prune. The building we are ushered into is that of a small Spanish school which we are visiting for a lecture.

For two hours of learning we explored the roots of Costa Rican politics and history. Afterwards, with heads filled with conquests and coups, dictators and liberators we climbed back on our bus and headed into the smog. Looking though the window at the dusty streets I thought about the Ticas and all they have achieved. As men wearing football shirts clambered over my legs I was amazed with this country I had found myself in. A place where traditionally the ruling class worked the fields alongside peasants. A country which was given independence without wanting it, and that only found out they were free from Spanish rule several months after the agreement was signed.

Several days ago I would not have said this but truly I am happy to be here, free from the chains of Western culture.