Paintball - Article 11

Last weekend here in Costa Rica, I went to a sleepover at a guy’s house from school, not really knowing what to expect. I showed up fifteen minutes late, knowing that it’s never cool to be the first one there.
I’ve since learned, however, that the Costa Rican version of “fashionably late” means about two hours, not fifteen minutes. It was alright though – I got the full “first time over at the house” routine, which consists of introducing you to every member of the family, showing you every room of the house (along with explaining the purpose of each), and forcing you to eat at least three items from the fridge. Drinks are optional.
But soon enough, the other boys from school arrived, and we sat down to eat dinner. With respect to eating, things are much more organized here. Everyone makes sure the coke is shared evenly, and nobody begins their meal until appropriate silverware is handed out. Eating pizza is like the NBA draft – the box is solemnly passed around in a circle, everyone struggling to pick the best piece. Taking seconds is strictly forbidden until everyone’s had firsts – or so I assume, judging from the looks I got when I tried to grab two of the best slices in the first round. Even the after-meal clean-up is orderly, with any leftovers being put in the fridge and the table scrubbed until it shines. Needless to say I was a bit shocked, because my usual version of “clean” just implies that most of the food is still on the table.
We spent the rest of the night watching comedy movies; literally, the entire night. Watching movies in a group is always difficult for me here, because people like to watch with English audio, and just read the Spanish subtitles, giving them the freedom to talk and laugh hysterically while I struggle to hear. I’ve actually gotten to like subtitles though, finding them somewhat helpful, despite the lack of emotion they contain by translating every bad word to the equivalent of “blast!”
But by about 4:30 in the morning, I could barely keep my eyes open. I kept slapping myself awake as I remembered the advice I had gotten in the evening, “Don’t be the first to fall asleep.” Twenty minutes later I breathed a sigh of relief as a boy across the room was discovered snoring in his chair, and was promptly given a mayonnaise moustache. (He was a heavy sleeper.) I must have dozed off after that, because suddenly I was shaken awake by people climbing over me to get their helping of breakfast rice-and-beans.
Still bleary eyed, I was told to put on some clothes I could get messy, because we were all going to go meet some friends and play pinball. I stared at them in confusion, unable to imagine any version of pinball hardcore enough to require a change of clothes. However, after running “pinball” through my Costa Rican accent filter a couple of times, I realized they had actually been saying paintball. Suddenly things made much more sense.
I’d never played paintball before, as it was always frowned upon during my childhood, along with Lucky Charms and MTV. I was excited but a bit nervous as we all stuffed ourselves in a car, and drove through the pouring rain towards the arena. Regular traffic here, as bad as it is, is nothing compared to the rainy season – cars slow to a crawl as they struggle through eight-inch deep rivers that span the roads, sometimes having to stop altogether. It’s not uncommon to see small houses on the side of the road halfway submerged in water, the family’s clothes drying on the roof. Luckily for us our car made good use of its low gears, and we arrived only a few minutes later than we had expected.
After being handed a heavy metal gun and given instructions (“Just don’t get hit, kid, and you’ll be fine”) we entered the arena. Barriers made of old wooden slats covered the field, looking old enough to be leftover from the Costa Rican revolutionary war. (Speaking of which, during my first week of school we had a school assembly to celebrate Costa Rican independence. I asked the guy next to me what the occasion was, and he excitedly told me, “Today we celebrate the killing of some jerk from the U.S. who tried to colonize us!” Obviously, I felt a bit uncomfortable during the rest of the event.)
Before I could even get my bearings, a whistle blew, and suddenly paintballs were flying past my face as I dove to the ground. I managed to crawl over behind a stack of old tires, the whole world a blur of rain, paint and yelling. After about ten seconds of hyperventilating I poked my gun over ledge, and fired at the first movement I saw, getting rewarded with an explosion of yellow paint and swearing.
After that, things sped up. Lying in the mud, trying to wipe the rain from my goggles with any piece of clothing that wasn’t soaked (which very quickly became just my boxers), I realized that playing paintball might be the most fun I’ve ever had. We played round after round, each one more intense than the last.
Looking back on the day, I now notice a slight problem that seems to be happening to me more and more lately – I tend to forget the phrase “It’s just a game”. Twenty minutes into playing, I’d entirely lost the notion that we were only shooting paint. I jumped over barriers as if my very life were at stake, screaming, “Cover me!”, and firing at anything that resembled the other team. (At least I screamed what I thought was “cover me;” thinking about it later it seems I may have been yelling “Wrap me in a blanket!”)
At the peak of getting carried away, two players remained on the other team. One peeked his head out and I shot him in the facemask, hitting him again when he didn’t call himself out fast enough. I dove around a wooden fence and rolled towards the enemy base, the remaining player a young, timid girl who hadn’t come out all game. I stuck my gun through the window, gleefully prepared to say the “Surrender!” necessary to win. I opened my mouth and then awkwardly mumbled something incomprehensible, as I realized I had no idea how to say “surrender” in Spanish. I stood there in embarrassment, everyone slowly starting to laugh as they realized my predicament, even the girl standing up and giggling, knowing I couldn’t shoot her from that range, but technically couldn’t call her out either. “Humbled” would be an understatement for how I felt.
One good thing -- I’ve learned to keep myself in check for the next time I play. And, of course, I’ll never again forget how to make someone surrender in Spanish.