People are amazing. There are so many stories. Stories that go untold, stories yet to unfold, stories in the faces we behold. I went to Nicaragua this last weekend for my 3-day break. It was a rush decision, made when I realized I would have to go across the border this weekend if I wanted to get my passport renewed and receive compensation for my flight change--but I am so glad that I did. I have fallen in love with Nicaragua. I am enamored with the people, with the culture, with the personality that can be observed in the beaten up streets to the beaten up people. Everything tells of a story--stories of laughter, love, and adversity. And for a lover of stories, it was more than I could take in, despite how hard I tried to absorb it all.
In Costa Rica, we are assured of how safe it is--so much more safe compared with other Latin American countries. But ironically, I felt safer in Nicaragua, a country with greater poverty and a presumed higher crime rate. In Costa Rica, as soon as dusk begins to fall, people begin locking themselves inside, locking the steel-barred gates. Everything is padlocked and sometimes the gates give the area more the feel of a prison block than a neighborhood. Hardly anyone walks out on the streets at night. Few people greet each other on the street.
As soon as we left the bus terminal in Nicaragua, however, the first thing I noticed were the people outside their houses, sitting in rocking chairs in front of their doors, chatting with each other as their dogs rested contentedly at their feet. Doors and windows still had bars and gates, but they had a more aesthetic appeal to them, and it gives the buildings a less austere feeling. The buildings are painted bright, bold colors--some of them clash terribly, as if the architect had handed a child a paint brush and told them to do as they please. Other buildings are designed with gorgeous wood and metal paneling, rich in detail.
But what stays with me most is the people. The people give the country so much character, so much life. In Granada, there are four main types of transportation--car, bus, bike, and horse cart. Horses trotted all over town, carrying loads of goods or tourists. People zipped around on their bikes, many doubling up for passengers of two and sometimes even three. One man pedaled his bike past the bank, carrying what I assumed to be his 90-something mother, sitting curled up in front of the handle bars, curlers still in her hair and gumming her lips. Little boys run around, looking for tourists they can sucker out of money. They do all sort of tasks in order to make a few bucks--weave together palm leaves into ornate flower ornaments, take pictures, play music, or simply look pathetic and rub their bellies. The people are very diverse--at one end of the spectrum, you see people dressed smartly in business attire, at the other you see old, weathered women, hobbling on crutches.
That was the second biggest difference I immediately observed between Costa Rica and Nicaragua--the poverty and the amount of crippled. Everywhere, I saw them. The man with the deformed face at the bank. The old woman that sat outside her stoop every day, who shot out her hand for money and began mumbling incoherently whenever someone made eye contact. The woman crouched under a threshold, rapping her finger obsessively against the beautiful face of a Revlon model that smiled coquettishly from a torn magazine page. The woman dressed in shorts tied up with a ragged, faded yellow towel that served as a skirt, sporting a shirt that read "How's my attitude? Call-1-800-Who-Cares" and smiling a gaped-tooth grin that reached her glowing, hopeful eyes as she pleaded for money--and then hobbled away on a bloated and gnarled clubfoot that seemed to pain her with every step. I saw their faces and read so many stories in them, in the clothes that they wore, and my heart tweaked with guilt when I had to turn them down, or ignore them, or pretend I didn't have money when my purse jingled with change.
But I met so many people. Like the 16-year-old teen on the bus who told me he was going to Granada to work. When I asked him what he did for work, he responded "de todo"-- every thing. Like Gracie, wearing the Hannah Montana shirt, who circles the park, selling the chocolates that her parents make. Like Marion, our sweet, young hotel receptionist that always greeted us with a smile and a "Buenas". Like Osmont, our taxista we invited to lunch, even after he asked us, "if we like cocks"--which led to a very confusing discussion with four very disarmed and perturbed women until he explained to us the sport of cock-fighting.
And we can't forget Michel. He had seen Laurie and me taking pictures of people in the park and decided to pose for us on his bike. He then insisted on seeing the photo and having each of us take a picture of him while he kissed our cheeks (and several bold attempts for the lips). He insisted I show him the ones I took of him as well as each of the 300 pictures I had still on file, and every time it came to a picture of a girl, he would kiss the screen and murmur "bonita"--beautiful . He then proceeded to break our hearts when Laurie asked him if his parents were in the park.
"No."
Are they at home?
"No."
Where are they?
"No tengo." I don't have parents.
Where do you live?
"En la calle." In the street.
We saw Michel several times after that. Later in the evening as we were eating dinner outside--his face lit up and he gave us greeting kisses on the cheeks and Laurie gave him some of her fries--and the next afternoon in the park when I turned around to an excited voice shouting "Ammiiiiga!"
All these people made such an impression on me. I'm not sure what may be in store for me, but I think Nicaragua could hold something special. I want to come back. Maybe I will look into programs when I go back to Fox--whether its teach English or something else, maybe leaning towards missions--I would like to give back to Nicaragua tenfold the small taste it has given me. I want to have more time to read, to learn, to listen to the stories--to absorb them and make them as part of my own. Three days wasn't enough. I barely scratched the surface.
