And the sun sets on the end of Spring break...
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Today is Juan Santamaria Day, also known as Easter Monday, and a nice extension to the busy holiday. According to Wikipedia the holiday is held every year on April 11, and today is the 13th, but here we are. The old "if the holiday falls on fin de semana we celebrate on Lunes thing..." And who was Juan, you might be wondering along with the rest of us gringos? Well, read on to your ultimate enlightenment...
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Young Juan is one of only two bonafide national heroes of Costa Rica and his holiday is held on the day of his death in 1856. As the story goes, there once was this guy named William Walker, the self-proclaimed grey-eyed man of destiny, who put the F in Filibuster. I have spent the morning surfing the internet but can not verify the rumor that he is the ancestral "W" our own illustrious past Prez was named for but it is fun to think about their similarities. William was hanging around San Francisco in the mid-1800's when he had this brilliant idea to turn Central America into a private English speaking slave colony and subsequently began his quest for glory by taking over Nicaragua and declaring himself the 6th President, killing all who opposed him or called him bad names. So you can see some potential genetic traits emerging with our own 43rd Prez...
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With one banana republic neatly tucked under his belt he set his sights on his new neighbor to the south, our own Costa Rica, never known for its ferocious military might. He and his welcome wagon of mercenaries headed off to the land of Pura Vida, thinking the Ticos would line up neatly and speak English, damn it! Instead he met with armed resisitance thanks in part to the financial assistance CR received from Cornelius Vanderbilt, whom Walker had pissed off. In those pre-Panama canal days the tycoons fought over access and control of a shortcut from the Atlantic to the Pacific thru this fair isthmus - no, we do not live on an island - and Nicaragua was the place to flex your big cojones as boats could sail up the San Jaun River and into Lake Nicaragua, offloading there for a short jaunt by oxcart to the Pacific. These were the heady days of the goldrush and the building of vast fortunes and economic battles between giants like the V's and the Morgans, the latter having backed young master Will in his endeavors for control of the banana republics.
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Young Juan is one of only two bonafide national heroes of Costa Rica and his holiday is held on the day of his death in 1856. As the story goes, there once was this guy named William Walker, the self-proclaimed grey-eyed man of destiny, who put the F in Filibuster. I have spent the morning surfing the internet but can not verify the rumor that he is the ancestral "W" our own illustrious past Prez was named for but it is fun to think about their similarities. William was hanging around San Francisco in the mid-1800's when he had this brilliant idea to turn Central America into a private English speaking slave colony and subsequently began his quest for glory by taking over Nicaragua and declaring himself the 6th President, killing all who opposed him or called him bad names. So you can see some potential genetic traits emerging with our own 43rd Prez...
*
With one banana republic neatly tucked under his belt he set his sights on his new neighbor to the south, our own Costa Rica, never known for its ferocious military might. He and his welcome wagon of mercenaries headed off to the land of Pura Vida, thinking the Ticos would line up neatly and speak English, damn it! Instead he met with armed resisitance thanks in part to the financial assistance CR received from Cornelius Vanderbilt, whom Walker had pissed off. In those pre-Panama canal days the tycoons fought over access and control of a shortcut from the Atlantic to the Pacific thru this fair isthmus - no, we do not live on an island - and Nicaragua was the place to flex your big cojones as boats could sail up the San Jaun River and into Lake Nicaragua, offloading there for a short jaunt by oxcart to the Pacific. These were the heady days of the goldrush and the building of vast fortunes and economic battles between giants like the V's and the Morgans, the latter having backed young master Will in his endeavors for control of the banana republics.
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Meanwhile, back in Guanacaste, the grey-eyed Will was routed out of Santa Rosa just north of us here and pushed back to Rivas in Nicaragua with some hot Ticos in pursuit, taking strategic refuge in a fort. Enter Juan stage left, the poor boy born of a single mother who heeded his President's call to arms, volunteering to march his country's army to the beat of his drum. After several failed attempts to burn Walker and his men out, Juan traded his drum sticks for a flaming torch, asking that his country take care of his mother as he successfully set the fort on fire, his last dying act before meeting his own destiny. He was named a national hero for freeing his people from the threat of shackles and the audacity of saying "Hello" instead of "Hola." Walker's name is the nasty equivalent of a different four letter word in this part of the world and the reason most Nicos still distrust fast talking gringos. And Ollie North didn't help matters any...
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The little drummer boy, Juan, was only 24 years old when he beat out a Latino rhythm on the world's oldest instrument for the last time. Now we all fly into the national airport in San Jose named for him and give thanks for this extra beach day before heading back to the school routine. Walker, on the other hand, was sent home by the US Navy to an unlikely NYC hero's welcome where he sat down and wrote his memoir. He then made the ill-fated decision to go on a book tour to Honduras, this being the glory days of publishing before you needed the expert advice and services of a literary agent, who might have wisely advised him on a different marketing strategy while convincing him to drop all adverbs and exclamation points. The Hondurans gave him a clear consumer response, executing him by firing squad before he could write anything more about his big idea to hear them all cry, "Yes, Master!" In the end, slavery never held much in the way of popular appeal, regardless of what language spoke its name.
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The little drummer boy, Juan, was only 24 years old when he beat out a Latino rhythm on the world's oldest instrument for the last time. Now we all fly into the national airport in San Jose named for him and give thanks for this extra beach day before heading back to the school routine. Walker, on the other hand, was sent home by the US Navy to an unlikely NYC hero's welcome where he sat down and wrote his memoir. He then made the ill-fated decision to go on a book tour to Honduras, this being the glory days of publishing before you needed the expert advice and services of a literary agent, who might have wisely advised him on a different marketing strategy while convincing him to drop all adverbs and exclamation points. The Hondurans gave him a clear consumer response, executing him by firing squad before he could write anything more about his big idea to hear them all cry, "Yes, Master!" In the end, slavery never held much in the way of popular appeal, regardless of what language spoke its name.
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