All Those Dangers You've Heard About Living Abroad

---

My wife and I were having lunch in the Central Mercado in downtown San Jose, the capital of Costa Rica. The market was at one time the sprawling outdoor heart of the city crammed with vendedoras and goods. Now the entire city block is covered with a roof, but is still the carazon of the city.

Alisa ordered Olla de Carne (Pot of Meat), and was surprised at the heaping plate of vegetables and beef placed in front of her for a mere 2.200 colones, or 4 American dollars. I was more than happy with my seafood stew—giant crab claws sticking out of it—and was secretly pleased, looking at Alisa’s plate, that I would probably get half of that too. And I did.

The subject of our conversation over lunch had to do with the Clinica Biblica—which had been recommended to us by the local farmacia. We needed to find our way there after lunch to get Yellow Fever vaccines. We don’t need them in Costa Rica, but will need them when we head to Peru in a few months. Alisa asked the waitress for directions.

“Perdon, como se va a la Clinica Biblica?”

To me the woman’s response sounded like everything still does after only two weeks of Spanish classes—a foreign language. But Alisa seemed to understand, thanked the woman, and we headed back to Avenida 0, the walking-only street.

“She said the walk is long and dangerous, and so we should take a cab. If we just say Clinica Biblica, the driver will know where it is.”

And so we emerged into the perfect warmth of another Costa Rican afternoon. Avenida 0 is always crowded, and the yells from the vendors in the doorways of their shops are trumped only by the yells of the vendors squatting on the sidewalk. At the first cross street we walked up to a parked cab, got in, and off we went to get our vaccines.

The drive was a short one, through streets that seemed neither long nor dangerous. The fare was a little over $1. We thanked the taxista with a friendly “gracias,” and stood on the sidewalk looking for the clinic. At the time we didn’t know it was a large hospital, and thought it might be small. There were many farmacias and clinicas on the block.

“Just ask that guy where it is,” I told Alisa. I’m great at telling her to talk to people, because I don’t have to do it.

“Should I, isn’t it dangerous?”

“Whatever, just do it.”

And as has happened every time we ask someone for help, the grizzled, dark man we found all but walked us through the doors.

The reason we had waited until we were actually abroad to get the Yellow Fever vaccine was simple. Cost. In the United States, my wife is a nurse and I am a teacher. But our insurance wouldn’t cover the cost of the vaccine. The cost to do it at a travel clinic was even more ridiculous than at Safeway, the cheapest place we could find, which would have still run us $150 each. A friend had recently traveled around Central America, and told us we could probably get it cheaper while abroad, and since we weren’t going straight to Peru, we decided to wait and see what we could find.

After two or three other helpful Costa Ricans guided us by hand to the vaccine department, we were informed it would be 8.000 colones—just under $15. And so two foreigners, without health insurance, without anything, can just walk up to the hospital and get what they need for a good price. You see, Costa Rica is a third world country. Their idea of health coverage is that it should be free for its citizens, and cheap for everyone else. It was like they were still living in the Dark Ages.

But there was one problem.

We needed to provide our passports in order to get the vaccine. Because of the numerous warnings only to carry what you need when walking around San Jose, Alisa and I had a little bit of cash and our California Driver’s Licenses. We figured if we got robbed, at least we wouldn’t lose our passports. We sighed, thanked the woman, and went back out into the city to find the Corta Bus to take us home. Our vaccines would have to wait another day.

We took another cab to the bus stop, because the man and woman at the information desk of the hospital wouldn’t give us directions. It was too dangerous to walk, and very, very far. Just take a cab, it will be better, they pleaded. So we did.

And even though we hadn’t walked anywhere, it seems like the rest of the country is always on foot. And in Costa Rica, there are these beautiful people walking down each and every street. Muy bonita! Alisa and I were constantly taken aback at how beautiful the people were in this warm country. It seemed like every person we passed by in the speeding cab could potentially sell underwear on la television. The reason for this then struck me.

There aren’t any fat people!

Scanning each quiet block we passed, I couldn’t find a single man, woman, or child grossly overweight. And by grossly I mean both “very” and “ewwww.” It wasn’t so much that people in Costa Rica are better looking than Americans, it’s just that when half the population isn’t waddling in and out of McDonald’s all day, more room is available on the sidewalk. And they do have McDonald’s in Costa Rica. It even delivers, so you don’t have to leave your house. Yet somehow—someway, people’s bellies aren’t overflowing with nuggets de pollo.

It made we wonder about all the warnings shouted to us about the food in Central America. Are we supposed to bemoan the fact that there aren’t enough trans fats or cholesterol? Because judging the bodies of the hurrying citizens of downtown San Jose, the food was doing something right.

That got me thinking about all the warnings we’ve heard from our friends, and parents, and the television, and the internet. And as I made a list in my head of the various ways I would probably be robbed, raped, and murdered, and then have someone steal my identity and move back to the Bay Area to teach my high school classes posing as Matt Amaral, I began to wonder just how dangerous Costa Rica really is.

They tell you not to walk at night.

Shit, I live in Oakland. I never walk around at night. I wouldn’t walk down half the neighborhoods in broad daylight.

Be careful of the food.

The sickest I’ve ever been from food is from the Taco Truck by the Oakland Coliseum. Thus far abroad, I’ve been muy regular.

Don’t go to the late-night clubs. In San Jose, that would be El Pueblo.

We went. I’ve felt less safe in almost every hip-hop club in San Francisco.

Yeah, but their ghettos are really bad. Way worse than ours.

My friend Jeff lives in Hatillo, which is a neighborhood the cabs won’t drive into. My teachers gawk at me when I tell them that’s where I spend my weekends. Hatillo is actually the only place I have walked around at night. I wouldn’t do the same on Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue or 92nd Avenue in Oakland, The Tenderloin, Hunter’s Point, “A” Street in Hayward, various parts of Richmond, and, well, various parts of California in general.

Don’t get sick, because their healthcare system is horrible.

Well, I applied for health insurance in the US, but was rejected for, and I quote, “excessive snoring.” I am a 29-year-old semi-professional soccer player in perfect health. I just hope the horrible system here can match up to the great one back home.

A few days later, passports in hand, Alisa and I took the bus back to downtown San Jose. We decided to walk to Clinica Biblica. The cab rides there and back the first time hadn’t looked all that dangerous, and we needed to get some exercise seeing as we were told never to walk anywhere. We even had a travel book, and pulled it out in broad daylight to find our way. Everyone we asked for help tried to invite us to their houses for dinner, and perhaps to marry off a daughter or two, and we made it back to the hospital without a problem.

After both vaccines set us back a total of $28, we then hit another snag. The nurse informed us we would have to go across town where we would show them the boxes our vaccines had come in, so we could retain proof of the vaccine when we head to Peru. She told us the name of the building, The Ministry of Health, and advised us to take a taxi.

Alisa and I smiled at one another and thanked the nurse for her help. On our way out of the hospital, we again stopped at the information desk for directions to the Ministry.

“No, no. Taxista!” They pleaded, pointing toward the automatic glass doors to the many red and yellow cabs parked and waiting behind it. “Muy peligroso. Very dangerous! Very long.”

“Yes but what is the address, in case the taxista doesn’t know? Can you write it down, in case we forget? The addresses are so long, I might not remember? Can you just write it on this?”

And they wrote it down, because they are Costa Rican, and don’t know how to say no to someone in need.

“Gracias!” Alisa and I said in unison. And the glass doors slid open soundlessly as we emerged into another afternoon of beauty and blue. Hand in hand we walked down the sidewalk, past the taxis, lined up looking for people just like us.

We were going to get some exercise after getting 90% off on our vaccines, and if we got lost, we knew there would be plenty of people to help us on the long, dangerous walk.

“Wait, wait, where you go?” The woman at the information desk had followed us outside. Real worry showed on her beautiful, petite features. “Los taxistas right here!”

I turned around and said the one phrase I know in Spanish, “Yo soy de California.” I then smiled sadly, “It doesn’t get much worse than that.”

---