We took a weeklong trip to Costa Rica recently. It was a structured tour attended by 38 plus the seasoned tour guide and bus driver. We visited many of the highlights of the country, a place noted for its biodiversity and plethora of flora and fauna.
The latter, in particular, were a matter of not a little interest. As a lad, I’d briefly considered becoming a naturalist.
Meals were provided, something for which to be grateful in a foreign country. There was no assigned seating when dining, so, over time, one had different tablemates.
Our last night, in the capital, San Jose, where the tour started and ended, our tablemates were a couple from Canada. Well into the repast, the bespeckled grey haired man spoke to me.
“I want to compliment you on something.”
My ears perked up.
As Tallulah Bankhead once observed (I paraphrase): “Fie on criticism! Praise is good enough for me.”
I rapidly scanned my memory bank but recalled nothing that, in my estimate, merited commendation. I barely knew the Canadians.
“It was near the beginning of the week, on the bus,” he continued, as if to jog my memory.
But my memory was blank, and remained so.
“The young lady came aboard the bus, and you gave her money. I didn’t know if you were giving on behalf of the whole group, or were starting something for the group.”
Then I remembered.
Most of the roads we traveled were narrow 2-lane, 1 in each direction. On bridges many became 1-lane. Our bus, an ample Mercedes-Benz diesel, had stopped at a place where the black tar pavement, like the day itself, was hot and there was little space between two buses going opposite directions.
In that narrow space, seemingly oblivious to danger, pranced brightly clad young men and women.
“What are they doing?” we asked the tour director.
“They’re raising money to go to Chile,” he replied. He didn’t elaborate further.
On the highway, to Latin music, they danced. Traffic was at a standstill but people didn’t seem to mind.
“Do you want them to come aboard?” asked the tour guide.
Some of us nodded assent.
So one winsome colorful lass boarded our bus.
She was attired in the colors of the national flag: red, white and blue, colors with which most of us were familiar.
I, seated near the front that day (we rotated seats daily, so as to provide members the opportunity to sit on both sides, as well as fore and aft), apparently was one of the first to plunk a bill into her collection jar.
She did not stay long, but long enough for me to snap this shot of admittedly limited quality.
She walked from the length of the bus, then debarked, all the time smiling.
“So,” continued my meal mate. “You started something.” He smiled.
I paused, then spoke. “Are you acquainted with Aesop? He of fable fame.”
“Yes.”
“One thing he wrote I rather like. And try to incorporate. He said: ‘No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.’”
Later that last evening in San Jose the group posed for an ensemble photo, a memento of the tour, during which new acquaintances, even friendships, were made.
After the photo, G, a woman with plenty of figurative tread worn on her life tyres, came up to me, compact camera in hand.
“I want to get a picture of you,” she said.
Simultaneously a bit flattered and flabbergasted, I said, “OK. But why?” Again, I barely knew her.
“You’ve been very good to me.”
I was about to remove my newsboy cap, the better to scratch my head, then remembered.
G was from the Midwest. Her adult daughter L was her roommate during the tour and sat on the bus with her.
L was an avid participant, and well traveled. She had bungee jumped at Victoria Falls and, during the week, zip lined near Guanacaste.
G was almost as avid, at least in heart if not entirely in body.
Almost 3 months before, she had had total knee replacement surgery. Her left lower extremity was still swollen and somewhat painful. On some group excursions she walked with a cane, which she kept in an overhead compartment above her seat.
Her doctor had told her, “You’ve got to keep going.”
And she did.
So what had I done for G?
Very little, that I could recall.
Most times I saw her I would ask how her leg was. I wasn’t an orthopedist, but I was interested, and concerned about her welfare.
A couple times she hobbled to the back of the bus, where she had 2 seats to herself and could better stretch her infirm leg.
Once, being on the right side of the bus, I offered to change seats so she could stretch her left leg into the aisle, but she demurred, saying she was fine as was. This as she massaged her knee.
One day she wished aloud for some cold bottled water (water in Costa Rica is generally considered potable — some tour books equivocated — but, to be on the safe side, fresh bottled water was provided daily on the bus).
Those bottles would, with time, warm to the ambient temperature and lose some appeal. The contents were still wet, of course, but no longer cool.
I remembered there was a cooler at the back of the bus containing extra bottles of water.
I raised the lid of the cooler and handed G a bottle.
So G took a photo.
What followed was akin to two ships passing in a dense fog or at night: silence.
I don’t expect to see her again.
And may never see the couple from Canada again.
But I shall not forget them — or this trip.
And Matthew 25 remains a favorite read.
