El Rey

Chepe (in the pink shirt) and I were the only sober ones at the party.  It was spectacular.

Despedida..or Not

I dreamt of Nicaragua last night.  I could see sunlight falling down through the pink and blue mosquito nets of my host family's house as I lay on a giant bed with all my Peace Corps friends (we all magically fit, as you can in dreams).  I could feel the dirt outside being warmed by the sun, feel my hands wringing out the pila water from my hair, and hear abuela pounding out tortillas.

Then I woke up, and I felt like crying.

The same thing happened when I arrived in Nicaragua.  I would dream of my parent's house and wake up trying not to cry.  I never thought it be the other way around.

People ask me why I chose to stay in Nicaragua an extra year, and the truth of it is that a big reason was that for the longest time I wasn't happy there.  My first year, especially my first six months, were the loneliest I have ever felt.  One of my Peace Corps friends described the kind of loneliness that we feel as something deeper than we've ever felt before.  For me, it felt bone deep, like the loneliness sat with me every waking hour, poisoning my body and mind.  I tried explaining this to some friends back home, and they said that yeah, sometimes they felt so lonely they had to turn on music in their house, but that then they felt better.

It was like telling a chronically depressed person that yeah, I totally get what you're going through, sometimes I get sad when I look at a picture of a sad puppy.

It's not the same thing.

Then something magical happened.  I found people in my town who actually wanted to be my friend.  Not the gringa's friend.  Not that white chick's friend.  Not the new Peace Corp volunteer's friend.  My friend. People who didn't constantly criticize what I did, because it's not what the previous volunteer did.  People who didn't make sexual advances out of the blue.  People who didn't give the stank eye when I told them I didn't know when I was next going to the states, so I couldn't really buy them that camera, MLB hat, etc. they wanted.  People who made me laugh, and who laughed at my odd jokes.  People who worried about me, and who I cried for when tragedy struck.  People who made me glad to be there.

And I felt cheated to have just one year of that.  So I stayed.  And I feel like a part of me still stayed behind when I left back in April (yes, it's taken me this long to write about it).  It's surprising how easy it is to slip back into my old routines, how real the danger of forgetting is.  Sometimes it feels like my time in Nicaragua really was just a dream.  But I never want to forget, especially not the bad times, because that's what made the good times so special; what made me stronger today than I knew I could be.  Also, what has given me a zero tolerance for bullshit (seriously ya'll, stop complaining about doing laundry in machines; imagine washing it by hand before you throw your pity party).

More than anything, I want to remember the people who made me so happy, and who I hope I touched as well.

This is Ili with her granddaughter, Leonela (and me).  She ran a comedor, always gave me an absurd amount of food, and made me laugh more than anyone in town.  One day, when her comedor was especially busy, and she was shorthanded, she "hired" me to be a waitress.  I did alright, until I put a glass of juice on the uneven part of the table, spilling it all over the customer.  After I apologized, mortified by what I'd done, we all laughed (even the guy), and she promptly fired me.

I've been remiss in updating this blog, mostly because it was hard to admit that I'm no longer in Nicaragua, but looking back  my photos, I see that I have so many more stories to tell.  So I'll be updating more often, with some photos and stories I haven't told yet.  Hopefully, when I'm feeling especially ambitious, I'll post some of my post-Peace Corps adventures to Panama, Ecuador, and back in the good ol' U.S. of A.  

There are still adventures, still travels, still stories left to tell.

Men Taking Up Too Much Space On The (Taxi)

Excuse me sir, does your leg HAVE to touch mine?  Yes?  Ok, keep yelling into your cellphone and staring at me.  It's cool.

An Open Letter to my Neighborhood Cats

Inspired by this post and this charmer:

Dear Cats,

I understand your appreciation of the fact that I have both a front and back balcony that are level with the tin roofs you frequent.  That, however, does not mean you can use my house as a shortcut to get from one balcony to the other, as you give me your haughtiest look.  I f*cking live here.  Get out.

La Boda

My host sister, Kimberlin, got married a little over a week ago.  She has been talking about it for a while now, but suddenly sprung the date on me a little more than a week before the fact, so I had to rush from a meeting in Managua to be sure I was there for it.  There was no way I could miss it, and I'm so glad I didn't.

As soon as I stepped off the bus, I ran into my sister-in-law, Olga, and niece, Dayana, as they were picking up Dayana's little bride's dress from the seamstress.  Instead of flower girls and ring bearers, the tradition is to have "little brides and grooms" who will dress up like mini versions of the actual bride and groom, and lead the procession into the church.  We all went to Olga's house where I changed into my dress, and Dayana into hers.

Notice all the bags of corn they have piled in the living room.  It is my host brother's new business endeavor - buying corn from the farmers, then transporting and selling it in Managua.

All dressed up.

I walked Dayana to my host family's house where everyone was still getting ready, even though the wedding party was supposed to be at the church in half an hour.  It was chaos, with most of my family still in their towels, running around, fighting over who would take a bucket bath next, and cooking all at the same time.

The neighbors and my cousin, cooking up vats of beef stew.

Jerson, all bathed, and ready to dress up as the little groom.

 About an hour after the supposed starting time, Kim was ready to head to the church, though everyone was teasing her at this point, saying that her groom had gotten tired of waiting, and left.

The procession

The wedding usually starts with a procession from the bride's house to the church.  It is usually walked, but my family was being their best, and took their car instead.  I should mention that this is the only occasion I have seen them drive this car.  Ever.

Can everyone just stop and recognize how badass Jerson is?
Coolest five year-old I know.

The ceremony involved a full mass, and instead of exchanging only vows and rings, it is tradition for the couple to be looped together with a garland, and for the groom to give the bride coins as a representation of his promise to provide for her...I'll leave my thoughts on the overt machismo of that practice aside for now.

My host mom, Doña Esperanza, with the little brides and groom.

All the girls I love: Danelia, my host sister; Yami, host cousin, Olga and Vanessa, both host sister-in-laws.

 After mass, (presided by the ever awesome Padre Cornelius) we walked back to my host family's house for the reception.  But not before Kim switched shoes with her mom, since she couldn't stand to be in her high heels for one more second.

The walk back home for the reception.

The rest of the night, I put my camera away, and danced like fool with the women of my family in our coconut tree-filled patio until about 1 in the morning when the sound system guys packed it up for the night. 

By that time, Dayana and Jerson were passed out next to each other on the couch, and out of town relatives had put their mats and blankets down on the ground to sleep, since we were out of sleeping space in beds. We hung around eating, drinking, and talking until around 2am, and then I assumed everyone was done partying for a while.  I should have known better.  When I went back to the house in the morning, my host brothers and their friends were still going at it.  Some more so than others.

This guy.  He started snoring not long after I took this.

Chagas and Texts

While researching Nicaragua before arriving here, nothing terrified me quite as much as learning about chagas.  It is a disease most often transmitted by bugs we call chinches in Nicaragua.  The bug will bite its victims while they sleep, usually on the face, and then leave their feces in the bug bite, because why just be satisfied with sucking the blood of your victims when you can defecate on them as well?

All this is rather unpleasant, and the bite will cause some mild flu-like symptoms, but that is not the terrifying part.  Oh no.  That comes ten or so years later, when the parasite has wrecked havoc on the body's nervous and digestive systems, as well as the heart, which will sometimes just go into arrest.  Imagine it, getting bitten by that bug, not realizing what has happened, and then dying of a heart attack years later.  Now imagine going to live in a place where those bugs live too.

Luckily, my department has a very low rate of chagas, and not many chinches, so I've never worried for my safety...but I still don't like the idea of them being around, which is why I got worried when my friend and fellow volunteer sent me the following text:  I think we had a chagas bug in the house :(

The rest of our conversation went something along the lines of:

Me: Did they take it to the centro to see if it was infected [with chagas]?
Her: No.  Should we do that?
Me: Yes, take it to the health center, you didn't squash it did you?
Her: Yeah, someone took a shoe to it after we chased it outside.
Me: Just don't squish it more, you need it kinda intact for the test.
(five minutes pass...)
Her: It got ran over by a car after they squished it.

At that point, I just started laughing, because of course, that happened.  My friend did eventually take it to the health center for the test to see if it had the chagas parasite in its gut, this is what she said:

On closer inspection, its head is much more rounded.  I showed nurse at the centro the remains and asked if this type of bug carries chagas.  She said no.

And all was right again in the land where death-bearing bugs are run over by cars on a daily basis.

Moroso Desgraciado

The hardest working man in all of my town, and possibly Nicaragua, is the arroz con leche man.  He walks all over town selling newspapers and rice pudding that he carries in a giant tupperwear container on his head, from sun up to sun down.  His shirt is almost perpetually soaked with sweat all the way to his waist, and if you sit anywhere for more than twenty minutes, you will see him pass at least twice, announced by his nasal cry of, "La Preeensaa.  Arroz con leeeeecheeeee."  A few months ago, I saw him walk by with a piece of paper taped onto his plastic container saying, "ya pronto, LISTA DE MOROSOS."  I suppose I should not have been surprised, seeing how hard he works, but I was indeed surprised to see that people had accumulated enough debt with him that he felt he needed to make a list of their names to shame them into paying up.

Are you unsure about your excessive use of exclamation points?  Just make them look like question marks, and add some uncertainty to your enthusiasm.

For that is what a lista de morosos is; a list of names of people who are in debt to a business.  Buying things on credit is pretty common here, whether someone has the credit or not to do so, which naturally leads to a lot of debts.  Businesses will often talk to the debtors, trying to settle things, but if that doesn't resolve anything, they know that shame will always work wonders.  That's where the lista de morosos comes in.  They will post it in the largest lettering possible, in plain view of everyone, so the whole town will know who is a moroso desgraciado.  Some will even include details of particular morosos, like where they work, or how much they owe.  I can't even imagine how mortifiying it must be for someone to find their name up on that list, and I know I would pay up immediately to have my name erased as soon as possible, if it ever happened to me.

It seems that all the arroz con leche morosos felt the same way, and payed up when they saw their names would be on a lista de morosos for pudding, none the less.  I suppose that is why I never did see the arroz con leche man post his list - everyone settled their debts, not wanting to call his bluff.  He knows what he's doing that arroz con leche man.  Well done sir.