Costa Rica: Americana Blowing in the Wind (cont.)

Her denim-clad ass was immense, literally blocking the sun as she quaked above me. I, momentarily cooled in her shadow, assessed the dynamic—heavy woman perched on tire about to crash onto boat deck, boat deck littered with sharp and bulky implements such as hooks, poles, and ice chests, no one around to help—and my hesitant hands were soon on her body in places they didn’t want to be, trying to support her weight, do the right thing. I thought a full cupping and pushing of her rump was, despite the severity of the situation, uncalled for. So after an instant of fluttering around, I grabbed hold of a belt loop and pulled up and away, spotting her—the bench-press partner guiding her bulk building final rep—to safety.

Once there, she realized that I who “had given her a shove, wouldya!” was not her husband and she began to explain.

“Oh, thank you. See, I got blown out a couple of weeks ago and hurt my knee and foot real bad. I tore some ligaments and broke my foot in three places—”

“So you blew out your knee?” I asked.

“No, I got blown out and slammed my leg real good and—”

“So you tore your ACL,” I queried, knowing few other definitions of “getting blown out” besides the classic knee injury so common to athletes or the overweight when put in compromising positions their bodies could not withstand.

“No, No. I was in my trailer—in western Nebraska—and there was a big windstorm—70, 80 miles per hour gusts—and I went to bolt the door shut and I got blown out of my trailer. I held onto the door tight, but was blown right out, a good ten feet and hit the side of my house,” she said nonchalantly.

“Oh.” I was incredulous. This does not happen to old ladies on the plains, I thought. They do not go to close their doors and get “blown out” and flung violently against rigid walls like dolls against the headboard of a tantrum-throwing child. I thought of my mother of advancing years and imagined her in such a predicament. She wouldn’t make it, I thought. This does not happen to sweet old ladies from Nebraska. This does not happen with such regularity that “I got blown out” becomes a phrase common in their Plain State vernacular, so common that she wouldn’t expect a stranger on a Costa Rican river tour to deflect the reference. This could not be.

We walked the path from the dock to a shady, thatched roof hut the river company keeps to feed the tourists. It was less like a cage than a gazebo. If you wanted to, though few did, you could leave the hut and walk the grounds of a neighboring house. It was poor, rural. A pit lay in the yard, black from burning garbage. Chickens, huge and red and amber and black with crimson gizzards and vermilion cock’s combs, clucked about, indifferent to our invasion. The woman sat, eating the tasty rice and beans we were provided, soaking in the Costa Rican culture, and turned to the woman sitting next to her.

“I got blown out, that’s why I’m walking so slow,” she began.

Page 2 of 2  Previous Page

All contents copyright ©2005 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.