Saturday is My Favorite Day
I open my eyes grudgingly, not because I have to get up, but because of the insistent stream of sunlight coming through my partially closed window. It is 6:00 in the morning in Alajuelita, Costa Rica, and the sun has been up for the last half hour. With a sigh I kick back my sheets and get out of bed.
It’s Saturday, my favorite day. I get myself ready and walk downstairs where I am greeted by my mom, my sister, and Spencer. Spencer was the youth pastor of my church in Florida, and when he decided to move his family to Alajuelita and start a non-profit organization to help the community here, my family and I chose to accompany them for one year.
We grab a handful of colones each and head out the door. Church bells chime in the not so far off distance as we begin our traditional Saturday morning journey through Alajuelita. Every time I walk outside I am awed by this place. Let me tell you now, the Costa Rica that you are imagining is definitely not Alajuelita. For starters, it is landlocked. I am surrounded by green mountains, blanketed by a bright blue sky. On the peak of a mountain to the northwest I can see the pale figure of a metal cross. It looks miniscule from here, but in reality it is 90 feet tall and absolutely worth the three hour uphill climb. Alajuelita is in the San Jose Valley, where it is said that in one day a person breathes the equivalent on a pack of cigarettes in polluted air. So, it’s not very touristy. In fact, these are essentially the slums. Alajuelita is the poorest county in all of Costa Rica. But it’s beautiful.
I always love walking through the streets of Costa Rica. Today is no different. Our small band of gringos takes its time as we walk along the busy street. A soft cover of cloud begins to sweep across the mountain peaks and slides down the slopes towards the valley so that the green and blue of earth and sky are separated by a gentle white mist. The juxtaposition of the surrounding natural beauty and the squalor of the local streets is quite astonishing. I step delicately past an emaciated middle-aged man lying on the broken and pockmarked sidewalk. He is shirtless and sleeps with a cap pulled over his eyes, fighting off the previous night’s drunkenness. His powerful odor follows me for several steps.
As we continue, the “huevos man” drives past. I smile as he drives past, shouting through his loudspeaker “Huevos! Huevos! Come and get your huevos!” Or something to that extent. I think of my small, close-net group of friends here and the game we invented using the sounds of Costa Rica, which includes huevos man’s sales pitch. It’s the same as the children’s game “Zoo,” but we substituted the “sounds of Alajuelita” for animal names.
Finally we reach the short hill the signals the nearness of our final destination. We all struggle up the incline, embarrassed by the local woman who passes us while wearing four-inch stilettos. Maybe I should start working out. First we pass the bakery. In Alajuelita there are bakeries on every corner, but this one is all the gringos’ favorite. We buy our bread here each week, but the tasty treats they sell in addition are what make them really special. My sister buys something that reminds me of a scone, but I will wait. In an hour or so a fresh batch of bread pudding will be put out and it is by far my favorite treat. After Angela hands over 200 colones, the equivalent of about 40 cents in the United States, we walk the few feet further and finally reach the market. Each Saturday the square next to the central park is blocked off and local farmers set up their stands piled high with fresh produce from their farms. The market is an assault on one’s senses: vibrant reds, yellows, and greens shine from the many vender tables. The delightful scent of strawberries is replaced by the stench of rotting fruit and urine as I wander past the gutter, only to be masked by the smell of ripe bananas that lie on the next table.
Venders shout as I pass, telling me exactly why their lettuce or oranges or watermelons are the best I will find at the market that day. I stop at a table selling pineapples. I’m looking for a white pineapple, something I have yet to find at any grocery store back home in the States. They have all the flavor and sweetness of a yellow pineapple without the acidity, and it has become my favorite snack. It’s difficult to tell yellow pineapples from white pineapples, so I explain in clumsy Spanish what it is I am looking for. The woman smiles at me and helps me find the perfect fruit. 450 colones, less than one dollar, buys me my treasure for the day.
I continue to explore the market. There are so many unique fruits and vegetables here, the likes of which I have never seen before. My family and I make up names for the items we don’t know. Snot fruit looks like an orange until you break open the orange peel. Inside is a glob of black seeds, each one cocooned by a slimy coating of God knows what. It tastes refreshingly of citrus, if you can get past the texture. Hairy beans look like a giant peapod, and inside the husk are small beans covered in soft white fuzz. I pop one of the beans in my mouth and suck off the sweet white coating before spitting out the bean. My last stop is at the juice stand, where an elderly lady and her sons have a bucket full of oranges that they juice for each customer. I’m pretty convinced that it’s the most delicious orange juice in the world. God, how I love this place. Saturday is my favorite day.
Analysis:
I do not believe that the images posted without text tell the same story as the images that are accompanied by the narrative. A picture may contain symbolism but it cannot portray sounds, smells, the significance of a person, place or object, or the friendly joke that may accompany it. Without words, a still image is open to interpretation and each individual's interpretation will mean something different. However, the pairing of an image with text gives the reader an understanding of exactly what the writer intended to say through their work. This allows a more concrete message to be delivered with greater accuracy. I do not believe that all images are impossible to accurately interpret without text. A film gives viewers room for their own interpretation while still narrowing their interpretation, or parts of their interpretation, to something specific. The use of dialogue, sound, and movement within the frame direct the viewers attention and allow a specific message to be understood by the audience.
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