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Published: January 20th 2007
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The Office - Cash count on day 2
Hoping it's all there...
(For LI readers - Thinks "If there's enough here I'll bribe Riki not to go to Pests") The trip started auspiciously, despite the night before being thoroughly disturbed by frantic last-minute packing and insomnia. Between them South Eastern and First Capital Connect trains managed to arrive on time and in the places expected, although as a mark of the fully integrated transport system boasted by modern Britain getting to the airport did involve an interminable wait for a connection on London Bridge station which, apart from a few other people plainly bound for Gatwick seemed to be deserted and closed. Cold coke from a machine on a freezing platform substituted for hot coffee in a warm buffet, but eventually I completed the first leg of the journey.
Things took a bit of a downturn at Gatwick, however. I’m not a huge fan of airports in any event, but on this occasion it appeared that a new circle of hell had been opened for anyone daring to fly to the United States with an airline I’ll call Continental as that’s its name. The pre-screening of passengers is, to put it nicely, thorough. The first guardian of the check in desk examined my passport then glibly informed me I couldn’t travel to Costa Rica as I didn’t have a
The Office - Day 2
Demonstrating how to crash a bobsleigh. visa. “But I don’t need one,” I protested. “Oh yes you do”. “Oh no I don’t”. “Oh yes you do,” etc ad nauseam until he relented and started grilling me about the contents of my bags. I almost suspected that I would be invited to assume the position while hearing the snap of a latex glove onto a probing hand. Airport security was similarly populated by people who were life’s traffic wardens but was at least swift which meant, because of my habit of arriving for flights ridiculously early, I had several hours to kill airside. Eschewing the shopping opportunities beyond the bookshop (I’ve spent all my money to come here!) I settled down to people watch and came up with the observation that it is never too early for my fellow countrymen to settle down to a hearty breakfast of strong lager and cigarettes. Of the flight itself there is little to say beyond having secured an exit-row seat and spotted that the in-flight entertainment was hardly likely to be challenging for honours at the BAFTAs I slept nearly all the way across the Atlantic.
After the Gatwick security experience I was expecting something really special at Newark. Instead, apart from a fairly sizeable queue, the process was quick and efficient even though I am slightly alarmed about my full biometrics and for all I know it DNA and inside leg measurement being on the US Government’s database. Indeed the only comment I had from the immigration officer was to make sure I got home safely before my passport expires in July. Knowing I have to be back for my sister’s wedding in June or face being shot this is not a major concern. Newark airport had yet further retail-therapy opportunities which I managed to resist, but I did have the traditional chilli-dog in honour of being on American soil. Again the flight to San Jose was uneventful save the fabulous views of Manhattan by night as I took off and I caught up on further much needed sleep disturbed only by the presentation of a meal consisting of a turkey and cheese roll which had been baked to the consistency of a brick, superheated until the cheese had adhered firmly to the wrapper and then liberally coated in a mixture of marmite and engine grease.
Getting into Costa Rica was also pretty painless although having cleared immigration and customs one is literally thrust onto the pavement outside the airport where a huge crowd of meters, greeters and taxi and hotel hustlers await to relieve the traveller of his colons (don’t laugh, the currency here is the colon…) Luckily I was overheard declining the offers of transport, accommodation and feelthy postcards and requesting that my bags (and myself) be unmolested, someone from Raleigh and the British Consul in roughly that order and was rescued by Lucy, the team medic who had also just arrived, and conveyed to the tender care of Ross from Raleigh who was there to meet us. After a short wait for the final member of the party for the day we were taken to a hostel for the night. Only problem was that said hostel, despite having taken reservations for the night, was not only very firmly closed but also demolished and now the site for a brand-new swimming pool. We eventually found somewhere to rest our weary heads at a different hostel inhabited by the drunkest American I have ever met (picture a bearded Vietnam-vet type swaying about and in great danger of falling into the swimming pool while being effusively welcoming) and a miraculously still-open café where we found refreshment despite our lack of Spanish and the waitress’s lack of English.
The following morning after gallons of coffee and a traditional breakfast of Gallo Pinto (beans, rice, cheese and scrambled eggs) we boarded the bus for Turrialba, field base for this project. I was disappointed that the bus was not very Latin American: modern rather than antiquated and not laden with baskets of chickens and an absence of parcels and locals strapped to the roof, but this meant the trip was comfortable and we could enjoy the view. I’ll try and get this cliché over and done with for once: this country is green. Green and beautiful. After leaving the main toll road, the road swept in incredible switchbacks as we climbed towards the Central Valley (confusingly named as it’s actually a 3000-4000m plateau between mountain ranges) past a combination of forests, plantations and pastures. Occasionally a mist-filled gorge would open up to the side of the road and similarly mist-shrouded peaks rise above. The Costa Rican love of fenced compounds round their houses and sturdy bars and grilles at the windows give the place an air of an idyllic maximum-security Alpine resort. Turrialba itself did not disappoint and felt suitably bustling with its markets and street vendors. Our base is just outside town on a site loaned from CATIE, a sort of tropical Royal Agricultural College without the Hoorays. Home consists of two single-storey buildings separated by 100 yards: one the main block with offices, medical and communications rooms, briefing-cum-staff room, classrooms and kitchen; the other the staff house with Spartanly-comfortable bunkrooms. Outside the main block is a covered eating area, a herb garden and the pig pen where the ingredients for the end of tour barbeque will live. The view from my desk is of trees and the agricultural land belonging to the college stretching away to a forest covered volcano and mountain range in the distance.
We newcomers were introduced to the rest of the pre-advance party over an al fresco lunch, enlivened by fly pasts of a range of colourful birds and a vulture gazing down lugubriously from a tree, possibly eying up our lunch. Then it was down to work. We have a packed programme of induction over the next couple of days and started with a walk about the immediate site and then the CATIE campus where we have access to a computer suite, gym and pool (of which later) and I was shown the Bank and the Post Office which I will visit daily in pursuit of my duties. The pool is great, with attached café, but our first introduction was less leisurely as we were to take place in some synchronised drowning aka the swimming test. I kept my head literally as well as metaphorically above water, but was slightly ashamed to be last swimmer home. A pleasant stroll through the college’s farmland brought us back to the office and yet more learning up on our jobs. Finally as the nodding dog syndrome set in we were called to dinner, an interesting chicken, banana and peanut curry (tasting better than it might sound) prepared by Nina, the logistics manager and chef for the evening. Nina did admit once we had scraped out the pan that because of the vagaries of Costa Rican supermarkets that she had made some minor substitutions of ingredients from her planned recipe of beef stroganoff. Having lingered over a cup of tea I made my way back to a bunkroom full of gently snoring forms. And so to bed. It was 10pm!
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Brendan
non-member comment
Foggy..
Keep it going FOGGY!!!!!!!!and IIIIRRRRIIIIIIISSHHHHHHHHHH.