With Costa Rica's mail,
it's address unknown
Marla Dickerson / Los
Angeles Times
SAN JOSE, COSTA RICA --
Pity the poor Costa
Rican postman. Sure, he
doesn't have to deal
with sleet or snow. But
consider what passes for
an address here:
From the Tibas cemetery,
200 meters south, 300
meters west, cross the
train tracks, white
two-story house.
That's actually a pretty
easy one. Making his
rounds on the outskirts
of this capital city one
recent morning, carrier
Roberto Montero Reyes
pulled envelopes from
his canvas sack whose
addresses read like
treasure-hunt clues or
lines of haiku.
There was one for
someone who lived on
"the south side of the
Red Cross" and another
for a family whose home
is "125 meters [410
feet] west of the Pizza
Hut."
"You've got to be a mind
reader, . . . a
historian and a
detective" to do this
job, said Montero, a
27-year veteran, who
walks his route in
camouflage-print
sneakers.
It may be difficult for
GPS addicts to
comprehend, but Costa
Rica doesn't have a
standardized system of
addresses -- at least
not ones that can be
typed into MapQuest.
Many streets aren't
named, and virtually
none have signs. Many
houses don't have
numbers. Only a few
pockets of the country
use anything close to
the "123 Main St."
format that Americans
would recognize.
Instead, most Costa
Rican addresses are
expressed in relation to
the closest community
landmark. In colonial
times, that was the
church or town hall.
Today it could be a
fast-food joint or car
dealership.
For some, the quirky
system is a reassuring
link to their country's
agrarian past, a
colorful affirmation of
what it means to be "Tico,"
or Costa Rican. Almost
everyone beams when they
talk about the "old fig
tree" and the "old
Coca-Cola plant." Both
of those San Jose-area
landmarks have been lost
to history, but locals
still cite them when
giving directions as if
they still existed. For
a disoriented visitor,
it's proof that magical
realism is alive and
well in Latin America.
"It's part of the
idiosyncrasy of Costa
Ricans," said historian
Francisco Maroto Mejia,
director of the postal
museum for Correos de
Costa Rica, the nation's
postal service.
The trouble is that
these rustic addresses
aren't keeping pace with
Costa Rica's
development. A nation of
more than 4 million,
Costa Rica boasts the
highest standard of
living in Central
America and has a
vibrant technology
sector. But until
recently it took an
average of nine days to
deliver a letter -- if
it got there at all.
Postal authorities say
that 1 in 5 pieces of
mail is undeliverable
because they can't
figure out where the
addressee lives. The
problem is worse in new
subdivisions, where
neighbors don't know one
another and can't advise
carriers.
Mail is just one
problem. Emergency
crews, cabdrivers,
utility workers and
delivery people spend an
inordinate amount of
time on cellphones and
knocking on doors to
find out where they're
supposed to be.
"It's total chaos," said
San Jose-area retiree
Claudio Gonzalez, 73,
who recently spent three
fruitless hours
searching for a friend's
home in an unfamiliar
suburb. "I could find my
way easier in a foreign
country."
Postal authorities have
embarked on a major
overhaul. Recent changes
in the way mail is
sorted have cut the
average delivery time to
two days nationwide. Now
the postal service is
assigning numbers,
street names and ZIP
Codes to every home and
building in the country,
which at about 20,000
square miles is slightly
smaller than San
Bernardino County.
Officials have rolled
out more than 430,000
streamlined addresses,
mostly in urban areas.
They hope to convert the
entire country over the
next two years if the
government allocates
about $1 million to
finish the job.
Erecting street signs
will take a lot longer
and cost a bundle.
Correos de Costa Rica is
trying to persuade the
private sector to help
pay for that effort. But
the biggest challenge
will be altering the
Tico mind-set, said
Alvaro Coghi Gomez, the
postmaster general.
"It's a cultural
process," Coghi said.
"We have to stop
thinking about the fig
tree."
Costa Rica isn't the
only nation with an
address system
potentially befuddling
to outsiders.
Neighboring Nicaragua
uses the same landmark
system, with a few added
wrinkles. Residents
often write arriba, or
"up," to denote east
(where the sun rises),
and abajo, "down," for
west (where it sets).
Instead of meters, they
use city blocks, or
varas, an antiquated
Spanish unit of
measurement equivalent
to about 33 inches.
Costa Rican carrier
Montero has his hands
full at home.
A third-generation
postal worker, he joined
the ranks because it was
respectable work and he
liked the benefits,
which include
company-paid pants,
shirts and shoes.
He begins his day at
6:30 a.m. sorting mail
at Correo Central, the
grand if slightly
scruffy downtown San
Jose post office
constructed in 1917.
Workers handle the mail
now much the way they
did back then. Every one
of the 28 million
letters and packages
mailed last year had to
be sorted by hand.
Modern equipment isn't
capable of reading the
addresses.
Some of the nation's 330
carriers make their
rounds by car,
motorcycle or bicycle.
Montero prefers to walk.
After collecting his
mail, he rides a public
bus 15 minutes to the
start of his 4-mile
route in San Jose's
northern suburb of Tibas.
His first stops are
small businesses along a
busy commercial strip.
These are a snap because
their signs speak for
themselves.
Neighborhoods are
trickier. Many residents
appear to be
logistically challenged
and colorblind to boot.
Homes whose addresses
state they are 100
meters, or 328 feet,
from a landmark might be
half that or double
that. Homeowners who
repaint rarely bother to
change the descriptions
in the addresses they've
filed with banks,
utilities and retailers.
Montero showed a letter
for someone who
supposedly lives 164
feet south of a beauty
salon. The home is
actually north of the
shop.
"People don't even know
where they live," he
said with good-natured
exasperation.
The guy whose house is
"next to the Miranda
Furniture Store" got
lucky. Montero, 59, knew
that the property
changed hands years ago
and now houses an
appliance retailer with
a different name.
Most homes on Montero's
route don't even have
mailboxes, but he
doesn't take offense. He
always knocks on the
door or rings the bell
before he slides a
letter through the
ubiquitous security
fences. If he can't find
an address, he collars
neighbors and quizzes
business owners.
"Someone might be
waiting" for that
letter, he said, turning
serious for just a
moment.
He acknowledges that
adapting to a new system
won't be easy after all
these years. But the
changes can't come soon
enough for one of his
customers, 80-year-old
Yolanda Cerdas.
She scoffs at the notion
that there is anything
poetic or sentimental
about needless disorder.
"How can a tree be an
address?" Cerdas said.
"Bad habits. That's our
problem."
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