Lost and Found

I just came back from Costa Rica and I am still buoyed up by the experience I had. I don’t bother with maps because I am not good at reading them anyway, so on my second day in San Jose, I was lost like a needle in a haystack. I did not know how to get back to my hotel. Don’t ask me, but yes, I did not have the phone number or the street name of my hotel. And by the way it was not a hotel but a dungeon… I mean a hostel. It’s not like I can just tell the driver to take me to the Hyatt or the Holiday Inn.

After asking 7 policemen who could not even say -No English, and 3 attempts to get a taxi to take me, I soon realized my only help is Jesus. I scanned the place for people who looked “white” and or dressed like they were going to their offices --with the hope or assumption, that they would be able to help me in English. None of them was able to help me. I walked and walked hoping to find a familiar building only to find myself feeling more confused. If only I could find that corner store called “El Kiosko,” that would be my reference point. I was almost hysterical because I started to question myself. Maybe it is not the direction that’s the problem, maybe it’s me. Maybe I am losing my mind. Then I came up with an idea to call a big hotel in town and get their English- speaking receptionist to help me. I crossed the street where I saw a young woman on a pay phone. “ Do you speak English?” She looked at me with the same look everyone has been giving me the last 3 hours.

Then suddenly, a young man appeared to my left in perfect English – “what do you need, I speak English.” “Can you help me dial a number?” “You have to have a phone card.” I didn’t have a phone card. He saw the paper in my hand with my hotel name that I scribbled earlier for the useless policemen. I now started to notice his disheveled look. On non-emergency situation, I would run away from this guy, but his English was so valuable to me at this time. His left eye was very red, hair matted and a big crater on the right corner of his parched and cracked lips. “I can’t find my way back to my hotel and I don’t speak Spanish to direct the taxi drivers.” He glanced at the paper in my hand again – “ Are you staying at Pangea?” Yes.

He knew how the hotel looks like and he gave me directions. I could not believe my ears. “Would you walk with me please?” I was almost begging, I just could not take the chance of getting lost again. “ I can’t, I have to meet my mother at the bus station.” He was walking away as he was saying this. I headed in the direction that he gave me and tears started to well up. I kept flickering my lashes so people won’t notice me crying. I was so grateful to Jesus for providing the man to help me but I also wanted to do something for the man. But no way in the world I would try and find him.

From a distance I could already see the gate to the hostel. I am home, I thought, but my heart was heavy for that man. I wanted to do something for him; he looked like he could use some food. I got back to my room, laid in bed for a while then went up to the roof deck restaurant and swore I am not leaving the hostel until I leave for the airport to come home. That’s how traumatized I was. Two hours went by and I gathered enough courage to get myself out of the building and venture out in another direction. Maybe this other part of town won’t be so difficult to navigate, I encouraged myself. I needed to go find a bookstore and buy some books. I decided to walk since I can’t communicate with taxi drivers.

After a few blocks I sat down to a cup of cappuccino in one of the nicer cafes’ and found a waitress who spoke enough English to give me directions to a bookstore. This time I wrote every street landmark to guide me back to the hostel. I found 7th Street Books. Browsed around for 30 minutes, bought a cookbook and headed back, but I passed by the plaza and thought I could get some sun while I read my cookbook. I had my head buried in my reading when a man approached me in Spanish; all I could understand was the word “Senyora” but I gathered he was trying to sell me some odds and ends.

I noticed the book in Spanish was almost dilapidated, 2 coasters made of cardboard and a green box of dental floss in his hand. “No Espanol” I cut him off right away. He reverted to English, “ I just need to buy bread and coffee, I have AIDS and I have been living on the street for 29 days now because my mom thinks I am gay. I am not gay and I don’t do drugs. She is ashamed of me.” I was staring at him and tears just started streaming down my cheeks, I could not believe it. “ Don’t you recognize me?” “Senyora, I am sorry, my memory is bad because I am very sick.”

“You were the one who helped me at noontime, I was lost for 3 hours and you don’t understand how distraught I was. I wanted to look for you to thank you.” I asked him to sit down but he shook his head and pulled his shirtsleeve and showed me the lesions on his arm and stomach. I insisted and had him sat down next to me because I wanted to hear more of his story.

He used to live in America a long time ago, he does not know who gave him the AIDS virus because he had sex with several different women. I asked him if he was sad or bitter, he said no. He does not feel sorry for himself either because he knows that when his body finally give out, the worms will feast on him in the ground, but his spirit will go back to God who gave it. He just wants his mother to accept him and believe that he is not gay or a drug user. His mother promised so many times to see him but has yet to show up. She was not at the bus station. I thought of taking him to a restaurant to eat but instead I just handed him the money. As he turned to walk away, he said, “ I don’t know if I will see you again, but I will not forget you.” I will not forget you either Eric, and yes, we will see each other again. When Jesus comes back.