Back to the land of Pura Vida

Saturday 10 November
Yesterday, I travelled from Dallas down to Costa Rica, flying from Fort Worth to Liberia with American Airlines.  I passed the flight surrounded by a couple and their three young daughters, who were travelling with a retired Spanish teacher, in order that they could all spend one week in Papagayo to learn medical Spanish.  After watching the in-flight movie (The Amazing Spiderman) and some reading (On The Beach - Neville Shute), I spoke with the retired teacher a little and discussed the merits of teaching - a topic that comes back to me time and time again. Could it be my true vocation in life?  I have often pondered that question and I think it has to do a lot with my 5th grade teacher Mr Noon, an awesome bloke who combined strictness, with interesting anecdotes and the ability to give away his beloved Murray Mints (too good to hurry mints) if you did something special in class.

So, everything was running smoothly, despite some sickness the night before, caused by some sort of flu-bug almost every member of my host family in Dallas had picked up.  I felt happy and excited to be heading back to Costa Rica.  The landing was a jolt, the hardest touch down on the tarmac I've experienced for a while and I think it generally shocked the entire plane, including the stewardesses, who came on the speakers to thank us for flying American in a very nervous sounding voice.  Once off the plane, we all made our way into the immigration hall to await our turn to get stamped in, usually just a formality. I had been seated towards the back of the plane, so it was no coincidence that I was near the back of the queue, but certainly there were people after me.  As I stood in line, one of the immigration officials caught my eye.  She was older, perhaps in her late forties or early fifties and looked as though she were in charge.  I made a mental note that I did not wish to end up at her desk. A minute later and again she was looking at me. Or was it just my anxiety making me think that?

My experience with immigration when entering Canada via Toronto in August, had been extremely unnerving.  I was told to report to a specialist immigration officer for questioning.  That experience had made me feel as though I had done something wrong, as if I was a criminal for leading the lifestyle that I lead.  I had to prove who I was, prove that I was a citizen of good standing and order.  It brought home to me how my mobile life of travel and temporary homes look when viewed through the eyes of officialdom.  Short stays abroad and no time in my country of residence.  I am certainly doing nothing wrong.  I am just leading an alternative, transient lifestyle.  A lifestyle that does not meet the black and white of immigration, that takes a little explanation to people who are trained to seek out those that do not fit.  Like the hair on my head, I am moving ever more into the grey.

I shuffled forward with the other passengers and slowly but surely my turn came.  I handed over my passport and landing card to the girl behind the desk, I smiled and said "Hola".  She swiped my passport, looked at her screen, frowned, swiped it once more.  She flicked through the pages of my passport, looking at the stamps.  She asked me what I was doing in Costa Rica, how long was I going to be staying?  A couple of months I said, then I'd be moving south to Panama probably.  That bit was a lie, something I never like to do.  Did I have a return ticket she asked?  This is a mandatory requirement or entry into Costa Rica and something I did not actually have, since I did not know when I would be leaving.  That is why I had said I would be heading down to Panama.  However, I did have a pseudo itinerary I had created to get around this problem.  I just hoped that they didn't follow through and contact American Airlines or I would be in a whole heap of trouble.  I handed over my itinerary and she took it and looked at it. This is not a ticket, she said.  I explained that I could not get the ticket until I checked in for the flight.  My nerves and anxiety were rising.  Was I foolish to create a fraudulent itinerary and hand it over? I could get into serious trouble here.  Maybe get thrown out, put on a plane back to..?  Back to where?  The UK?  Probably.

There was now no one else left in the immigration hall.  The officer called over the older woman, who was the supervisor.
"How old are you?", the supervisor asked.
"42."
"How old are you?"
"42", I replied again wondering if she had hear me correctly or not.
"What is you date of birth?"
I responded with my correct birth date
"How old are you?"
I smiled. "I'm still 42."
"Where were you born?"
"In England", then I added the town and county for clarification and to provide as much information as possible.  I did not wish to appear evasive in any way.
"Do you have any other identification?"
I handed over my UK drivers licence.
"How old are you?"
"Really," I said, "I am 42 and I'll be 42 if you ask me a hundred more times", I smiled at them as I replied.
The girl looked at her supervisor, then she handed me back my drivers licence and itinerary, before she began to stamp my passport.
Muchas Gracias, I said.  You speak Spanish they asked? And suddenly the mood changed completely.  I relaxed and I could tell something had shifted. 
"She likes your eyes", the officer said, indicating her supervisor.

I thanked them in Spanish and said goodbye, collected my bags from the baggage carousel and met my pick up.  I was back in Costa Rica.  It felt good to be back. A huge relief washed over me.  Yes, it was good to be back in the and of pura vida.