Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Don´t You Mean Sardonic?
Sarcasim is a languange not spoken here often in Nicaragua, but obvious questions are very frequent. This will help to explain what happened when I carried my dirty clothes and laudry soap over to the lavandero one day, and my host niece asked if I was going to wash my clothes. Slightly amused with what I thought was a silly question I told her no, that I just like carrying around my dirty clothes and soap arround. Just por gusto. She then said good because she had a lot of washing to do, and proceeded to wash for one hour while I waited for her to be done. Serves me right, I suppose, for being a smarty pants.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Favorite Things (Way Better than Oprah´s)
If I were in the U.S. I would say that my prized personal possessions were things like my computer or other electronics, but since I don´t have many of those fancy new fangled devices, my priorities have changed a bit, and I have, perhaps, a surprising list of things that make my life a whole lot better here.
1. Headlamp My wonderful brother Daniel gave me his, complete with extra batteries, before I left the states, and it has been of immeasurable help to me. Not only is it useful for power outages and for trips outside my room at night, but it allows me to read before I go to sleep without getting out from under my mosquito net to turn off the overhead light. Speaking of which:
2. Mosquito Net Or mosquitero, which is pretty much my favorite word to say in Spanish now. Mosquitero. Not only does it protect me from malaria carrying mosquitos, but from all other sorts of creepy crawlies in the night. When I´m under it, I imagine that I am surrounded by a force field that keeps me safe from cockroaches and snakes and scarab-like beetles, and now that I´ve discovered that they are, indeed, entering my room, rats.* If I had to pick just one thing from this list to keep, this would be it, because I wouldn´t be able to sleep without it. It is the emotional safety blanket that just happens to hang above my bed.
3. Jumbo Box of Crayons I´m not sure my mom knew what a great thing she was doing when she put one of those huge boxes of crayons (complete with sharpener) in a care package to me. In the work I do, I make a lot of posters for presentations and the like, and because I always have to be aware that some of my audience might be illiterate I draw out most of waht I want to say. Now I actually have crayons to make my drawings look good.
4. Jackpot This is my electronic kettle that has a distinctly retro feel to it (I think it´s to do with the goofy flowers on the side), but it works wonderfully, at least when there is electricity. I imagine it symbolizes independence for me since with it I don´t have to rely on my host family for breakfast in the morning, which can be a hectic time. Instead of waiting for the beans and tortillas to be done, I can instead make instant oatmeal and tea for myself without getting in anyone´s way.
So there you have a brief list of my prized possessions here in Nicaragua. All I need now is a good mouser, and I´m set.
*On my scale of emotionally distressing discoveries, this ranked higher than finding cockroaches, but not quite as high as finding fungus growing on my clothes and shoes. My mom is convinced the only solution is get a cat to eat up all the rats.
1. Headlamp My wonderful brother Daniel gave me his, complete with extra batteries, before I left the states, and it has been of immeasurable help to me. Not only is it useful for power outages and for trips outside my room at night, but it allows me to read before I go to sleep without getting out from under my mosquito net to turn off the overhead light. Speaking of which:
2. Mosquito Net Or mosquitero, which is pretty much my favorite word to say in Spanish now. Mosquitero. Not only does it protect me from malaria carrying mosquitos, but from all other sorts of creepy crawlies in the night. When I´m under it, I imagine that I am surrounded by a force field that keeps me safe from cockroaches and snakes and scarab-like beetles, and now that I´ve discovered that they are, indeed, entering my room, rats.* If I had to pick just one thing from this list to keep, this would be it, because I wouldn´t be able to sleep without it. It is the emotional safety blanket that just happens to hang above my bed.
3. Jumbo Box of Crayons I´m not sure my mom knew what a great thing she was doing when she put one of those huge boxes of crayons (complete with sharpener) in a care package to me. In the work I do, I make a lot of posters for presentations and the like, and because I always have to be aware that some of my audience might be illiterate I draw out most of waht I want to say. Now I actually have crayons to make my drawings look good.
4. Jackpot This is my electronic kettle that has a distinctly retro feel to it (I think it´s to do with the goofy flowers on the side), but it works wonderfully, at least when there is electricity. I imagine it symbolizes independence for me since with it I don´t have to rely on my host family for breakfast in the morning, which can be a hectic time. Instead of waiting for the beans and tortillas to be done, I can instead make instant oatmeal and tea for myself without getting in anyone´s way.
So there you have a brief list of my prized possessions here in Nicaragua. All I need now is a good mouser, and I´m set.
*On my scale of emotionally distressing discoveries, this ranked higher than finding cockroaches, but not quite as high as finding fungus growing on my clothes and shoes. My mom is convinced the only solution is get a cat to eat up all the rats.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Dropping Anchor
I have been at site for three months now, and though I am still struggling to find my niche here, I have carved out a bit of a schedule which has helped me keep sane, and avoid the common temptation of new volunteers to ensconce themselves in their rooms reading book after book until they have left a pile of novels in their wake.
Nicaragua seems to wake up at around 5:30 am, at least that is when the chickens outside my room begin clucking and I can hear abuela splashing water around to start cooking and cleaning. I usually, with a kind of futile stubbornness, stay in bed until around six, telling myself that I might be able to sleep for a bit longer, but by that time my host family is pounding out tortillas, blue smoke from the cooking fire is drifting through the crack between the wall and ceiling of my room, and there is no reason for me to pretend that I will sleep anymore.
A little before eight I set out for the health center, greeting the people I know, ignoring the catcalls, and avoiding the many puddles of mud. When I arrive at the health center there is always a huge group of people waiting for appointments, which makes it difficult to give educational talks to them since I inevitably end up yelling across the waiting area to be heard.
Then I play this game I call "Keep busy, or Fake it." It involves sitting in my shared office and either preparing materials for charlas or reading one of the many Peace Corps books on how to be an effective volunteer. Sometimes I write out a blog entry in my notebook to type out later in a cybercafé...just an example. This game does serve a purpose though, as I am visible to the staff and patients, so they know me better and are more willing to work with me. As I start to involve myself in more projects though, I am spending less time there pretending to work, and more time out in the community actually working.
After lunch, and after I have sweat to an unprofessional degree in the tropical heat, I head to the Casa Materna to hang out with perhaps my favorite people in site-the pregnant ladies. I really do enjoy spending time with them as it is time to just sit and chat with the women. I often give little talks on nutrition or breastfeeding, and lately I´ve been trying to teach them how to crochet, but most of the time we just sit there enjoying the company and teasing each other. One of the doctors at the health center said to me once that he liked to go over to the Casa Materna to joke around with the women, and, more often, have them make fun of him, because there is nothing more beautiful than a laughing pregnant woman. When he said it I thought he might be right; it really is wonderful to see a woman, one hand on her back, one on her baby belly, laughing happily. I think that is why I enjoy my afternoons so much, the woman in the Casa Materna don´t seem to be as shy as in other regions of Nicaragua, and we are able to laugh together, which is a beautiful thing.
By the time I arrive home, my host family is stationed around the tele, flipping through a variety of shows, occationally landing on a news program, which is one of my few opportunities in the day to actually catch up on what is going on in the world. But, at this point I am exhausted, and I usually retire to my room to knit or read, and fall asleep by eight. That might seem a bit early, but that is my daily schedule, which my mother assurred me would not be boring to read, which doens´t seem like to best precedent on which to base a blog post but there you go.
Nicaragua seems to wake up at around 5:30 am, at least that is when the chickens outside my room begin clucking and I can hear abuela splashing water around to start cooking and cleaning. I usually, with a kind of futile stubbornness, stay in bed until around six, telling myself that I might be able to sleep for a bit longer, but by that time my host family is pounding out tortillas, blue smoke from the cooking fire is drifting through the crack between the wall and ceiling of my room, and there is no reason for me to pretend that I will sleep anymore.
A little before eight I set out for the health center, greeting the people I know, ignoring the catcalls, and avoiding the many puddles of mud. When I arrive at the health center there is always a huge group of people waiting for appointments, which makes it difficult to give educational talks to them since I inevitably end up yelling across the waiting area to be heard.
Then I play this game I call "Keep busy, or Fake it." It involves sitting in my shared office and either preparing materials for charlas or reading one of the many Peace Corps books on how to be an effective volunteer. Sometimes I write out a blog entry in my notebook to type out later in a cybercafé...just an example. This game does serve a purpose though, as I am visible to the staff and patients, so they know me better and are more willing to work with me. As I start to involve myself in more projects though, I am spending less time there pretending to work, and more time out in the community actually working.
After lunch, and after I have sweat to an unprofessional degree in the tropical heat, I head to the Casa Materna to hang out with perhaps my favorite people in site-the pregnant ladies. I really do enjoy spending time with them as it is time to just sit and chat with the women. I often give little talks on nutrition or breastfeeding, and lately I´ve been trying to teach them how to crochet, but most of the time we just sit there enjoying the company and teasing each other. One of the doctors at the health center said to me once that he liked to go over to the Casa Materna to joke around with the women, and, more often, have them make fun of him, because there is nothing more beautiful than a laughing pregnant woman. When he said it I thought he might be right; it really is wonderful to see a woman, one hand on her back, one on her baby belly, laughing happily. I think that is why I enjoy my afternoons so much, the woman in the Casa Materna don´t seem to be as shy as in other regions of Nicaragua, and we are able to laugh together, which is a beautiful thing.
By the time I arrive home, my host family is stationed around the tele, flipping through a variety of shows, occationally landing on a news program, which is one of my few opportunities in the day to actually catch up on what is going on in the world. But, at this point I am exhausted, and I usually retire to my room to knit or read, and fall asleep by eight. That might seem a bit early, but that is my daily schedule, which my mother assurred me would not be boring to read, which doens´t seem like to best precedent on which to base a blog post but there you go.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Happy Fourth Day of the Seventh Month of the Year
My cousin sent me a letter a while ago, and in it she said she didn´t know many people who would put their lives on hold for two years to serve in the Peace Corps. When I read that I immediatly thought, "I´m not putting my life on hold, I´m living more than ever now," but in some ways I think she is right. My mom also sent me a postcard not too long after that telling me the african daisies were blooming in Phoenix, and I was shocked. It seemed I had forgotten that the world back home was still going on ahead without me. I left Phoenix in the winter, it should stay that way until I get back, those daisies should have just kept their little orange spring-heralding heads under the sand for two years.
Maybe it has something to do with the lack of discernable seasons here. A friend of mine in Ecuador explained to me that the sheep get all sorts of confused there since there is only one season, seeing as how it´s on the equator. The non-native sheep then don´t know when it´s time to make babies because they need the change of seasons to tell them when the time is right. That´s not a perfect analogy for my situation since there is no baby-making going on here except for the several buns in the oven over in the Casa Materna, but it might explain my state of general confusion.
Since I don´t have much access to internet, or newpapers, or television, or anything of that sort I loose track of holidays. Without the bombardment of advertisments, I forgot which Sunday of the month Mothers´and Fathers´Day was, which resulted in slightly awkward phone calls back home. The highlight of my phone call on Fathers´Day was when I asked my dad what he had been doing and he said, "well, we just got back from dinner since today is Fathers D-"
"HAPPY FATHERS DAY, I totally knew it was today...yes."
And then, about a week ago another PC friend asked me if I wanted to do something for the Fourth of July. I had just been going over my schedule, looking up important dates - when I would have to go to the capital, when a medical brigade would be coming in - and I totally neglected to notice our nation´s day of independence. I feel like I am suspended in my own personal little bubble, full of my own thoughts and frustrations and insecurities, and I have forgotten to come out of my head and look at the world around me, not just in my own little site. My life is not on hold, that much I know, but I cannot expect that others, or nature for that matter, will put theirs on hold either. Nor can I sit in my own head, only acknowledging what I feel is important to me in my own self involved way, which does not include, apparently, holidays.
Anyway, be it weather or narcissism related, I vow to break free of my own personal time-space contunium flux-thingy. So happy Fourth of July everyone, I´m going to celebrate by doing something very American, like refering to the United States as America.
...
America.
Maybe it has something to do with the lack of discernable seasons here. A friend of mine in Ecuador explained to me that the sheep get all sorts of confused there since there is only one season, seeing as how it´s on the equator. The non-native sheep then don´t know when it´s time to make babies because they need the change of seasons to tell them when the time is right. That´s not a perfect analogy for my situation since there is no baby-making going on here except for the several buns in the oven over in the Casa Materna, but it might explain my state of general confusion.
Since I don´t have much access to internet, or newpapers, or television, or anything of that sort I loose track of holidays. Without the bombardment of advertisments, I forgot which Sunday of the month Mothers´and Fathers´Day was, which resulted in slightly awkward phone calls back home. The highlight of my phone call on Fathers´Day was when I asked my dad what he had been doing and he said, "well, we just got back from dinner since today is Fathers D-"
"HAPPY FATHERS DAY, I totally knew it was today...yes."
And then, about a week ago another PC friend asked me if I wanted to do something for the Fourth of July. I had just been going over my schedule, looking up important dates - when I would have to go to the capital, when a medical brigade would be coming in - and I totally neglected to notice our nation´s day of independence. I feel like I am suspended in my own personal little bubble, full of my own thoughts and frustrations and insecurities, and I have forgotten to come out of my head and look at the world around me, not just in my own little site. My life is not on hold, that much I know, but I cannot expect that others, or nature for that matter, will put theirs on hold either. Nor can I sit in my own head, only acknowledging what I feel is important to me in my own self involved way, which does not include, apparently, holidays.
Anyway, be it weather or narcissism related, I vow to break free of my own personal time-space contunium flux-thingy. So happy Fourth of July everyone, I´m going to celebrate by doing something very American, like refering to the United States as America.
...
America.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Don´t Worry, Be Happy
A number of people have asked me, after my last post, if I´m doing alright, and if I have enough water, and should they worry about me? I´m fine. My host family is lucky in that we get water for at least two hours a day, and we have a big cement holding tank, so we just let that fill up and use the water throughout the day. Even with nine people in the house we´ve never gotten to less than one-fourth of the way full.
Also, the rain has started so, now we can just set out garbage cans, and barrels, and buckets, and they fill up fast. Like really fast. And they tell me that this isn´t anything yet. I spent four years in Oregon, I thought I knew rain, but this is a different beast. It´s not constant yet, but it will be, and apparently when it is, it will be pouring like I have never seen, as opposed to the steady, but reasonable amount of Oregon rain. This will be an absurd amount of rain...speaking of absurdity, have you ever seen a wet chicken? It is the silliest looking thing ever. That´s all for now.
Also, the rain has started so, now we can just set out garbage cans, and barrels, and buckets, and they fill up fast. Like really fast. And they tell me that this isn´t anything yet. I spent four years in Oregon, I thought I knew rain, but this is a different beast. It´s not constant yet, but it will be, and apparently when it is, it will be pouring like I have never seen, as opposed to the steady, but reasonable amount of Oregon rain. This will be an absurd amount of rain...speaking of absurdity, have you ever seen a wet chicken? It is the silliest looking thing ever. That´s all for now.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Water´s for Fighting
It was a normal afternoon at site-me sitting in the Casa Materna chatting with the pregnant ladies; one of the doctors from the health center writing down blood pressure, belly measurements, fetal heartrate; the smell of burning trash filling the air-but there was something tense in the atmosphere. A sense of desperate anticipation that had been mounting since the day before had us stiff in our rocking chairs. It was the doctor who first noticed, necessity no doubt lending him superhuman senses, so that he looked up from his paperwork and gasped,¨"viene el agua," before sprinting out of the room to next door where he started yelling for someone to bring him a barrel. I, along with the fastest moving pregnant ladies I have ever seen, started grabbing empty liter-and-a-half soda bottles to fill up and save for later. The water was back on.
We were able to fill up the several dozen soda bottles and two barrels about the size of a ten year-old in the hour before the water was shut off again, only to be turned on again at some undetermined hour the next day. That was two weeks ago. Since then the water situation has gotten worse.
When I first came here I wondered why my host family, with perhaps the nicest house in town, complete with tile floors and a large t.v., would choose to use latrines and bucket baths. Now I know that toilets don´t flush and shower heads don´t drip when there´s no water, and there hasn´t been water for quite some time. Río San Juan has one of the longest and wettest of the rainy seasons in Nicaragua, but we still suffer from water shortages in the dry season, and the Casa Materna was down to just two liters a few days ago. When the water was turned back on a few days ago no one was around to notice, and it all fell on the ground, and it´s been difficult to bring water in from outlying streams.
Dishes are sitting unwashed in the sink and cooking is difficult since even rice, beans, and tortillas all need water to prepare. The women have to go to the stream to bathe, and numerous of them have contracted UTIs, and since they are all in their last month of pregnancy this can be a dangerous problem, and I don´t even want to think about what would happen if one of them slipped and fell in the stream.
Two days ago, during a meeting with the health center, the director suggested building a well for the Casa Materna, and I silently wondered how I had been so slow as to not even consider the idea. It won´t be easy. True to Peace Corps philosophy of sustainable development, I would have to make sure I was working with the community as opposed to for them, so I´d need their full support. That means community meetings, estimations, supplies, someone who actually knows how to build wells, and waiting until the end of the rapidly approaching rainy season to begin construction, but I am very anxious for the community to support the idea.
I am almost scared to write about this on here, because I don´t want to get other people´s hopes up along with my own, but I feel as if someone keeps whispering "well" in my ear every five minutes. The gestation period will be long, but I hope that before my time here is done, the Casa Materna will have a beautiful baby well.
We were able to fill up the several dozen soda bottles and two barrels about the size of a ten year-old in the hour before the water was shut off again, only to be turned on again at some undetermined hour the next day. That was two weeks ago. Since then the water situation has gotten worse.
When I first came here I wondered why my host family, with perhaps the nicest house in town, complete with tile floors and a large t.v., would choose to use latrines and bucket baths. Now I know that toilets don´t flush and shower heads don´t drip when there´s no water, and there hasn´t been water for quite some time. Río San Juan has one of the longest and wettest of the rainy seasons in Nicaragua, but we still suffer from water shortages in the dry season, and the Casa Materna was down to just two liters a few days ago. When the water was turned back on a few days ago no one was around to notice, and it all fell on the ground, and it´s been difficult to bring water in from outlying streams.
Dishes are sitting unwashed in the sink and cooking is difficult since even rice, beans, and tortillas all need water to prepare. The women have to go to the stream to bathe, and numerous of them have contracted UTIs, and since they are all in their last month of pregnancy this can be a dangerous problem, and I don´t even want to think about what would happen if one of them slipped and fell in the stream.
Two days ago, during a meeting with the health center, the director suggested building a well for the Casa Materna, and I silently wondered how I had been so slow as to not even consider the idea. It won´t be easy. True to Peace Corps philosophy of sustainable development, I would have to make sure I was working with the community as opposed to for them, so I´d need their full support. That means community meetings, estimations, supplies, someone who actually knows how to build wells, and waiting until the end of the rapidly approaching rainy season to begin construction, but I am very anxious for the community to support the idea.
I am almost scared to write about this on here, because I don´t want to get other people´s hopes up along with my own, but I feel as if someone keeps whispering "well" in my ear every five minutes. The gestation period will be long, but I hope that before my time here is done, the Casa Materna will have a beautiful baby well.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
How Radio Disney Saved a Bus-full of Nicas...
...and one very patient Peace Corps Trainee from a not so patient PCT. This is the story of the bus ride from my site visit in Rio San Juan back to the capital Managua.
In the very early morning two weeks ago I woke up and dressed by the light of my headlamp, took my bag, and woke up my host brother to walk me to the one direct bus from my site to Managua. The one that brought me there was an actual touristy bus with comfortable seats and a television. I was under the impression that I would be on the same bus on the way back. I was wrong. Before me stood a big yellow school bus that probably had failed to pass safety regulations in the U.S. ten years ago, and so was sent to Nicaragua to die.
Under the yellow light of the only open pulperia, or cornerstore, in town Ismael and I said sleepy goodbyes, and I claimed a seat on the bus. I looked at my watch. 3:50am. Surprisingly though, I felt good, and forty minutes later we passed the next town where another Nica 55 trainee go on ready to return from her own site visit. Then we sat. The busdriver, the yeller, and the cobradora all got off the bus to eat breakfast, go to the bathroom, or take a nap, I´m still not sure, but they left us waiting for fifteen minutes. It was a sign of things to come.
An hour later we arrived at the departmental head of San Carlos where I had a quick breakfast of coffee and a piece of bread, and chatted with the other trainee. Then it was back on the bus, and we were off...for five minutes, until we had another arbitrary fifteen minute wait, after we had just been sitting in the bus terminal for thirty minutes.
This is when things started to go bad. I had not planned well for the trip, and brought no food with me for the ten hour bus ride, thinking I would be so tired I would sleep most of the way. I had not counted on the school bus, nor on how crowded it would be, so that I was forced to stand when I gave up my seat to a mother and child. The other trainee was the first, actually, to give up her seat, and when I pointed out a free seat to her I was surprised to see her standing again only minutes later.
"The guy next to me threw up, and then other people started too," she explained, "I don´t do well when people around me get sick."
Usually one of us had a seat while the other was standing so we were able to switch off a few times, but by this point, about four hours in, I was a foul cloud of grumpiness. My plummeting blood sugar, lack of sleep, the bumping of the unpaved highway, and the resulting dust that coated my hair and face, along with the blaring ranchera music drilling its way into my unwilling skull made me hate everything and everyone. Especially the people squished up against me, and the chicken that little girl was holding. Did you pay for your ticket, bird? I thought not. I´m going to have the cobradora take care of you, and then I´m gonna fry you up and eat you, you flapping nuisance.
Then, miraculously, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, the bus driver changed the station to Radio Disney (to be said Rahdio Disnehy), and instead of nasally trumpets suddenly the bus was filled with all the cheesy Spanish-language pop my little corazon could desire. Chino y Nacho, Selena Gomez, and Tito el Bambino, along with all my other guilty pleasures came to keep me company. Then next thing I knew, a gentleman gave up his seat for me, and I spent the rest of the hours drifting between sleep and the serenades of teenage heartthrobs until two in the afternoon when we pulled into Managua, took a taxi to the Peace Corps office, then on to the hotel where I took the most satisfying shower in my whole life.
And even the chicken was spared...at least until dinner.
In the very early morning two weeks ago I woke up and dressed by the light of my headlamp, took my bag, and woke up my host brother to walk me to the one direct bus from my site to Managua. The one that brought me there was an actual touristy bus with comfortable seats and a television. I was under the impression that I would be on the same bus on the way back. I was wrong. Before me stood a big yellow school bus that probably had failed to pass safety regulations in the U.S. ten years ago, and so was sent to Nicaragua to die.
Under the yellow light of the only open pulperia, or cornerstore, in town Ismael and I said sleepy goodbyes, and I claimed a seat on the bus. I looked at my watch. 3:50am. Surprisingly though, I felt good, and forty minutes later we passed the next town where another Nica 55 trainee go on ready to return from her own site visit. Then we sat. The busdriver, the yeller, and the cobradora all got off the bus to eat breakfast, go to the bathroom, or take a nap, I´m still not sure, but they left us waiting for fifteen minutes. It was a sign of things to come.
An hour later we arrived at the departmental head of San Carlos where I had a quick breakfast of coffee and a piece of bread, and chatted with the other trainee. Then it was back on the bus, and we were off...for five minutes, until we had another arbitrary fifteen minute wait, after we had just been sitting in the bus terminal for thirty minutes.
This is when things started to go bad. I had not planned well for the trip, and brought no food with me for the ten hour bus ride, thinking I would be so tired I would sleep most of the way. I had not counted on the school bus, nor on how crowded it would be, so that I was forced to stand when I gave up my seat to a mother and child. The other trainee was the first, actually, to give up her seat, and when I pointed out a free seat to her I was surprised to see her standing again only minutes later.
"The guy next to me threw up, and then other people started too," she explained, "I don´t do well when people around me get sick."
Usually one of us had a seat while the other was standing so we were able to switch off a few times, but by this point, about four hours in, I was a foul cloud of grumpiness. My plummeting blood sugar, lack of sleep, the bumping of the unpaved highway, and the resulting dust that coated my hair and face, along with the blaring ranchera music drilling its way into my unwilling skull made me hate everything and everyone. Especially the people squished up against me, and the chicken that little girl was holding. Did you pay for your ticket, bird? I thought not. I´m going to have the cobradora take care of you, and then I´m gonna fry you up and eat you, you flapping nuisance.
Then, miraculously, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, the bus driver changed the station to Radio Disney (to be said Rahdio Disnehy), and instead of nasally trumpets suddenly the bus was filled with all the cheesy Spanish-language pop my little corazon could desire. Chino y Nacho, Selena Gomez, and Tito el Bambino, along with all my other guilty pleasures came to keep me company. Then next thing I knew, a gentleman gave up his seat for me, and I spent the rest of the hours drifting between sleep and the serenades of teenage heartthrobs until two in the afternoon when we pulled into Managua, took a taxi to the Peace Corps office, then on to the hotel where I took the most satisfying shower in my whole life.
And even the chicken was spared...at least until dinner.
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