Nicaragua Ain’t for Sissies

 “Nicaragua ain’t for sissies, but it’s got a lot of soul. Folks accustomed to life in the US need an incredibly adventurous spirit if they are to adjust to Nicaragua. Life is challenging here,  for everyone. If you’re from the US,  forget the creature comforts of home. But the reward is that one develops intimate relationships with the people and the land, and these will fill one’s heart forever” ~ Silvio Sirias

He’s right, you know. Nicaragua ain’t for sissies. When the water stops running just as you step in the shower or start a load of wash, the electricity blinks off near the end of your favorite movie,  and the lack of a reliable infrastructure rears its ugly head…

When the fiery dragon breathes down upon the land in March and April, and the only relief is to stick your head in the freezer, find a shade tree, go swimming, or spend an hour in the air-conditioned ATM…
When you make an appointment and the office is closed for a two-hour lunch, or “manana” means today, tomorrow, or a year from now, or you wait in a long line at the bank, only to have ten people step in front of you because there is a SPACE …
Don’t be surprised if your frustrations melt away, and are replaced by contagious chuckles and a ‘knowing’ smile because…..
Nicaragua is a country of poets, artists, and lovers. There are no strangers, everyone is welcome.
Generosity, creativity, and a simple zest for life abounds. Smiles are freely passed along the dusty trails. Adios means hello and goodbye.
Passion and humor light up every face. Sometimes, you just gotta laugh in the land of the not quite right.
Frustrations? Yes. However, the rewards of developing intimate relationships with the people and the land far surpass my frustrations. My heart is full; I am sitting on top of the world.
If you would like to read more about the Nicaraguan author, Silvio Sirias, click HERE.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Parades of Culture

If you really want to experience the culture in Nicaragua, then go to a parade. Bombas burst, drummers rat-tat-a-tat, horns blast soulfully, and vendors shout enthusiastically. Vibrant colors assault the eyes, while smells of perfumed flowers and freshly shampooed hair swirl through the crowds. Sweat drops on freshly pressed costumes, children lick  melted drips of ice cream from their chins, while La Gigantona entices the crowds with fruit laden hats and remembrances of traditions of long ago.  Everyone loves parades in Nicaragua…and I’m no exception.

Weekly Photo Challenge: A Good Friday

Ron returned from the states yesterday bearing gifts for all. This morning, after completing my outdoor chores, my two favorite girls came to visit. Lourdes wanted to make cupcakes for Semana Santa. So, I sent her to the side porch to see if there were any eggs in the box. “Dos huevos,” she shouted. “Perfecto,” I responded. Just enough for cupcakes. She mixed, blended, and gleefully decorated two dozen cupcakes.

Then, Johnson and his girlfriend arrived. Last week, Johnson came to my house to visit. He pulled a plastic bag out of his backpack and said, “I have a present for you. It is something for your house.”  His gift to me was his Survivor Run trophy mask. “Johnson, are you sure you want to give your trophy mask to me?” I said kind of teary eyed because I was so touched that he would give his trophy to me. “Of course,” he responded as if I had asked him if he wanted a glass of water.

Johnson is the most humble and gracious person I know. He never complains and works extremely hard to better himself. His goal is to be in the 2016 Olympics as a marathon runner representing Nicaragua. Yet, he has no good running shoes. “Johnson, come here,” I said as I directed him to my laptop. “Pick out a pair of good running shoes. I’ll order then online and Ron can bring them back from the states.”

Today, Johnson tried on his new running shoes. They fit him perfectly. I am so grateful that I can do just a little thing to help him meet his goal.

Next, Marvin and his daughter, Lauren stopped by with a warm, delicious bowl of alvimer. It is a traditional Semana Santa dish of sweet mixed fruit. In exchange, we gave Lauren some Mardi Gras beads that Ron found at his sister’s house in the states.

Soon, Cory, Tina, and Sam arrived. It was a hot afternoon. We are on our second day without running water. AGAIN! It was either go swimming or eat watermelon and play spoons. We opted for both. After teaching all of our Nicaraguan visitors how to play spoons, we joined the crowd swimming on our beach.

At sundown, we watched to cormorants chatting with each other. Then, everyone headed home. Ron and I settled down to a light supper of toasted cheese sandwiches. We still don’t have any running water and I didn’t feel like using my bottled water to wash any dishes.

This evening, I voted for my Cradlepoint Entry. I was trying to win a mini-iPad for Ron, but he bought a new laptop in the states. Now, I have a new goal in mind. I’m trying to hep my young friend, Ever, win this mini-iPad. Ever is the head guide in the Los Ramos rural tourism program. He really needs the internet to communicate with tourists interested in the Los Ramos cultural immersion programs. Presently, my son does all the communication. So, if you can find it in your heart to vote for Ever, please go to this Facebook page to vote. You must have a Facebook account to vote. You can vote every 24 hours until April 12th. Thank you so much for your help.

I’m working on my Weekly Photo Challenge post..a day in the life of…while Ron is passed out on the couch watching basketball games.
It has been a good Friday. Full of love, friends, gifts, and fun. It would have been perfect if we had running water! Feliz Semana Santa!

My two favorite girls

Johnson’s new running shoes

Vote for Ever

Lauren’s Mardi Gras beads

The cormorants chat on a branch

A crowded ferry passes by our house

Yummy alvimer

Sound asleep

Writing my Weekly Photo Challenge

Teaching our visitors how to play spoons

Lourdes makes cupcakes

A chicken in a box

A Semana Santa beach day

Picking jicotes

Johnson’s trophy mask

Johnson and his nephew, Dustin

Three Eggs in a Box

A popular TV show in the states asked Ron and I ( actually, the producer found my blog) to make a casting video. No, It isn’t “Honey Boo Boo”, but I think it would make a fine “Green Acres” episode.   I’m not sure if anything will ever come of it, but it was fun to make.  The requirements were to smile, show lots of energy and enthusiasm, and start the video in a beautiful location. Well, I definitely exuded play acting enthusiasm when I screeched, “Three eggs in a box!” However, we did get the beautiful location at the beginning. And, I learned how to embed a Vimeo video using a shortcode.  I hope you enjoy our production, which I call “Three Eggs in a Box.”

Weekly Photo Challenge: When a Kiss is More Than Just a Kiss

A kiss is almost always more than just a kiss. It is a language with its own grammar…a recipe of love with unique ingredients. People actually have careers studying kissing; they are called philematologists. Kisses are classified into three categories: the “basium,” for the standard romantic kiss; the “osculum,” for the friendship kiss; and the “savium,” the most passionate kind, sometimes referred to as a French kiss.

But, in Nicaragua I’ve encountered another kind of kiss, which I’ll call “desolo” or the Latin word for abandoned. Eight years ago, I lent my camera to my 10-year-old neighbor, Luvy. Her mother was visiting from Costa Rica where she was working as a maid to support her family on Ometepe Island. When Luvy’s mother returned for a short visit, I told Luvy to record her most precious moments on my camera and I would print the pictures for her.

For most of Luvy’s young life, her mother lived in Costa Rica. Luvy’s elderly father cared for her and her household of siblings and extended family members.  At the age of seven, Luvy bent over the cooking fire preparing meals for her family, as well as tending to the daily needs of her younger nieces and nephews who lived with them.

When Luvy was a teenager, her mother returned to live with them. Sadly, Luvy still lives with a feeling of abandonment, as do most of the younger Nicaraguan children whose parents leave them to find work in Costa Rica. Luvy turns 19 next week. She is following in her mother’s footsteps by moving to Costa Rica to find work. I desperately wish we could stop this perpetual cycle of abandonment.

The photo above has a happier ending. This is Bobby’s dog, Luna. Bobby died a little over a year ago abandoning Luna. She was placed in a loving foster home for a short time, until the woman could no longer care for her. Finding loving homes for pets in Nicaragua is not easy. First, most Nicaraguans don’t understand the concept of pets. Second, Bobby pampered Luna, again something unheard of in Nicaragua.

My friend, Carol, came to the rescue. She lovingly opened her home to Luna. Last week, when we were visiting Granada, we stopped in to say hello to Luna. Very grateful and sloppy Luna kisses smothered Carol with love.

Next time you happen upon kissing, remember that a kiss may look deceptively simple, but a kiss is almost never just a kiss.

 

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: Love as a Dove

“We must combine the toughness of a serpent with the softness of a dove, a tough mind and a tender heart.” ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

High in the rafters of our porch, pairs of doves return during their mating season to display their affection and faithfulness, their love for each other..for doves mate for life. These emblems of love represent our lives on Ometepe Island for several reasons.

First, the dove is a traditional symbol for love and peace. I like to think of myself as a messenger for peace, spreading the word that tolerance and fairness is possible in this troubled world of ours.

Second, we live in the tiny community of La Paloma, which in Spanish means ‘the dove’. La Paloma is a model of peace and understanding. We blend our cultures successfully in our community; I feel that we represent a microcosm of how humankind should respond to one another in our troubled world.

Finally, Ron and I are committed to sharing our lives together. We have been married 37 years…a commitment of love, faithfulness, and trust that is sadly lacking in our troubled world today. Spread your wings..love as a dove..and go with peace and understanding…for that’s what love is all about.

 

Tuning into Twelve..the Nicaraguan Way

Today is 12/12/12: the last of the triple-number dates until the next century. Reflecting on the significance of the number twelve, I’ve discovered that it is the foundation of many facets of our daily life in Nicaragua, from sports to religion. Today, I’m tuned into the number twelve the Nicaraguan way.

1. In Latin, the duodenum means “twelve”. The duodenum is the first part of the small intestine, and about 12 inches long. Living in Nicaragua, I am constantly aware of how my duodenum is functioning. I check the fingernails of street vendors before buying fruit in bags. Once I saw a street vendor use her knife to clean her fingernails, then cut the fruit. My duodenum shouted, “Warning! Parasite invasion.”

2. Nicaragua is predominately a Catholic nation. When we were the chosen as the Godparents of Albia Liguia for her confirmation into the Catholic church, we learned about the 12 Fruits of the Holy Ghost: joy, peace patience, benignity, goodness, longanimity, mildness, faith, modesty, continency, and chastity. Faithful Catholics in Nicaragua live according to these 12 fruits of the Holy Ghost daily.

3. Many of the Nicaraguan children are named after one of the 12 apostles or the 12 tribes of Israel. Reuben, Issac, Levi, Joseph, and John are some of the most popular names.

4. There are twelve months of the year. In Nicaragua, the months of the year are not capitalized: enero, febrero, marzo, abril, mayo, junio, julio, agusto, septiembre, octubre, noviembre, diciembre. I’ve learned that Spanish uses significantly fewer capital letters than does English.

5. There are 24 hours in a day, with twelve hours for half a day. Nicaraguans are very laid back. In the United States, people are very future, or goal oriented…not so in Nicaragua. They, for the most part, are more interested in their daily chores and how each day brings with it its routine challenges. I’ve learned that in Nicaragua, we do a lot of waiting. If people are to arrive at a meeting at 12 o’clock, it could mean an hour or more later, or maybe even manana.

6. In Nicaragua, soccer is almost as popular as baseball. The number 12 can be a symbolic reference to the fans, because of the support they give to the 11 players on the field. The country’s national team’s success in 2009 ( qualifying for its first international tournament), has helped elevate soccer’s profile in Nicaragua.

7. In ancient times, the moon phases were the most reliable source of determining the time to plant and harvest crops. Most farmers in Nicaragua use the simplest method of moon planting by observing the 8 phases of the moon in its waxing or waning period. Then, according to the phase of the moon, they group their crops into four categories: root crops, foliage, crops with seeds on the outside, and crops with seeds on the inside. Using the simple 12 method ( 8 phases of the moon + 4 categories of crops), they  usually yield very productive crops.

8. Nicaragua is known as the country of lakes and volcanoes. Out of the 19 active and dormant volcanoes, 12 are listed on the ViaNica website as being the most interesting volcanoes and volcanic structures. List of the 12 most interesting volcanoes in Nicaragua.

9. Banana and Plantains are big business in Nicaragua. It usually takes 9-12 months before the bananas and plantains are ready to harvest. From our experience of growing banana trees on Ometepe, we find that it usually takes an average of 12 months from start to delicious finish.

10. On the average, a troop of Howler monkeys consists of 12 members.

11. There are twelve days of Christmas in the famous song, The Twelve Days of Christmas. To make it more Nicaragua friendly, I would change a few items: 12 drummers drumming, 11 pigs a squealing, 10 Sandinistas shooting, 9 monkeys howling, 8 dogs a starving, 7 bombas bursting, 6 hens a laying, 5 golden bananas, 4 chattering parrots, 3 Rosa mangoes, 2 fighting cocks, and a La Paloma in our Pera tree.

12. To wrap up my list of Tuning into Twelve…the Nicaraguan Way, here are a few recommendations for my Nicaraguan friends: the movie, Twelve Monkeys, the poem, The Twelve, by Aleksandr Blok ( because Nicaraguans are natural-born poets), the music of D12, a rap group ( Nicaraguans love rap), and the video game series, Street Fighter, with the character, Twelve in the video games ( simply because video games are a Nicaraguan passion).

I hope you enjoy my list of twelve. Have a wonderful 12/12/12. It is the last of the repetitive dates we will ever see in our lifetimes. Celebrate and have 12 times the fun today!

 

 

 

 

Blood Sport

On weekdays, Marvin and his sons work hard building houses and designing iron furniture, gates, and windows. But, when the weekend arrives, they spend their time the way most macho Nicaraguan men do: training roosters to fight to their deaths with small razor blades attached to their legs.

Like NASCAR is to rednecks, cockfighting is a cultural event of grand proportions in Nicaragua. All sectors of society are brought together to pop beers, place bets, and cheer on their favorite cocks in the ring. Living among galleros (those who train and fight the roosters), it seemed only fitting that I should learn more about this gruesome blood sport. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to attend a real cock-fight. I’m a chicken when it comes to blood and a frenzied fight to death.

So, when we were invited to Lauren’s 10th birthday party (Marvin’s daughter) and I spied cages of courageous cocks, my curiosity overcame my fear…only to explore this violent sport that brings out the machismo in most Nicaraguan men.

Marvin’s son proudly introduced me to the champion cock. He was three years old and had won the last three fights in a dirt ring at Johnny’s bar on the beach. I wondered how they choose a champion and Alejandro explained that it is very similar to training a boxer. When the chicks hatch, they are carefully monitored for the strongest and most aggressive roosters. Apparently, roosters are born with a congenital aggression toward all males of the same species and they quickly become natural enemies.

The cocks are given the best care until near the age of two years old. A good training program involves running the roosters to build stamina, and throwing the bird in the air over and over to build wing strength. Their lower bodies are plucked of all their feathers, and their skin is massaged daily with the juice of sour oranges and lemons. This treatment hardens the skin, making the cocks less vulnerable to punctures and pecks from the opponent. I do know that the sour orange juice makes a delicious marinate for grilled chicken, so it seems to me that when the dead cock goes into the cooking pot after losing the last battle, it is kind of like a well seasoned Butterball turkey.

They demonstrated a practice fight for me. First, Marvin’s son shook the brown rooster in front of the champion, taunting him to fight, like a shake and bait tease.

The champion stared down the shaken brown rooster, waiting patiently for his opponent to be released. In less than a minute, the practice fight was over. Basically, there was a lot of squawking and strutting by the cocks, and a lot of cheering and clapping by the birthday party goers. This was my kind of cock fight…no injuries…no blood…and wholesome entertainment for everyone involved.

Marvin’s other son, Jose, lovingly held the champion once again after the practice fight.

In order for the rowdy roosters to train for the added weight of sharp hooks or razor blades, and to feel comfortable in the ring with little daggers strapped around their legs, they wrap a nut in a soft piece of leather and strap it around one leg of the cock.

In a real cock-fight, the birds are equipped with either metal spurs, called gaffs, or razor blades tied to the leg where the bird’s natural spur used to be. They often remove the natural spur of the rooster, and sometimes the comb and wattles are cut off to protect the gamecocks from their opponent’s sharp claws.

The champion pounces on the loser. Five minutes later, the little brown rooster hobbled out of the practice ring. They explained that in a real fight at the local arena at Johnny’s Bar, the roosters are weighed first. Then, the razors or hooks are strapped to their legs, the bets are cast, the beers popped, and the fight begins. The frenzy flapping in the rings lasts for 15 minutes, or until one bird dies in the ring. The winner recuperates for several weeks before the next fight, and the loser is thrown in a pot for a soup befit a Monday morning hangover.

This is the closest I will ever come to watching a gory, bloody cock-fight. I don’t think I will ever understand this cultural blood sport, but then again, I could never understand NASCAR either. Below is a video of a real cock-fight in Nicaragua…if you dare.

A video of fighting cocks.

Lost in Translation

It is the season of hope and thanksgiving…the time we profess to care..to love others…to offer help and encouragement. I’ve stepped beyond the words. I’ve lived hope…breathed understanding…and walked a compassionate path. Love is a verb…an action. It requires that we DO something to show our support…our concern…our love for our fellow human beings. Yet, today in the season of hope and thanksgiving, I feel abandoned and betrayed…as if everything has been lost in translation.

My words of hope are swirling out of control…my actions are tainted with a bitterness that is difficult to swallow. I could blame sickness on my feeling of depression. I’ve been sick most of the month of November. It could be Dengue, then again, it could be a horrible case of the flu. I just can’t shake it. It leaves me exhausted, questioning my sanity, and wondering why I am still here.

However, I believe the real cause behind my feeling of despair centers around my loss of faith in people I have trusted on Ometepe Island. In a year of posts, I’ve written about the importance of cultural immersion, humorous daily life with our neighbors and local friends, and living a simple, carefree lifestyle. I debated whether to write this post and click ‘send’ because I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a whiner…generally I’m not. If there is one thing I’ve learned while living in Nicaragua, it’s to keep a sense of humor and have the patience of a saint.

I scoffed at expat statements: “Don’t get too chummy with the locals.” “They are expert con artists.” “They will patiently groom you and pretend to be your best friend, then rip you off… zooming in for the kill before you know what happened.” Instead, I believed in the goodness of people. I thought we could transcend cultural differences by understanding our similarities. I thought we could form lasting friendships that sliced through cultural norms. I was wrong in one situation.

What do I do when the dawn brings lies..when I awake to a realization that I was used because I am a gringa, not because I am a trusting and compassionate friend? I wanted two things at the same time; I wanted revenge and I wanted to rise above the situation and offer forgiveness to the people who wronged me. But, I could do neither because I saw  half-hearted forgiveness as coming off as condescending in my present frame of mind and revenge would only make me feel as bad as the people who hurt me…who took advantage of my kindness and generosity.

Believe me…I am NO saint. I sent the threatening guilt-laden text messages…”I am contacting a lawyer.” “I am going to the police.” You should be ashamed of yourself for lying to us.” “You are no man, you are a thief.” “May God have mercy on your soul.” Everyday, for two weeks, I sent the horrible translated text messages. It took me hours to translate and pitifully punch in the letters one at a time. I wouldn’t win any prize for texting rapidly. Punch…punch…punch…anger…anger…threaten..shame…shame…shame.

Everything was lost in translation…there was no response. I was a tormented texter…a vile victim…a grief stricken gringa. So, how could I get out of this rut and the feeling of betrayal and emotional pain that accompanied it? Well, I’m still working on it, but here is some advice from a slowly recovering expat realist…me.

1. Never lend money. As an expat living in an impoverished country, the local people are always going to ask for money. The little kids in the barrio down our street are trained by well-meaning tourists to say, “Dame un dollar.” It must work because tourists take pity on them and hand them a few coins. Instead, offer them food or a job for a day or two. Once walking back from town, I was carrying two heavy grocery bags, when one of the kids asked for money. I handed him my heavy bag of groceries and asked him to help me carry it home. Then, I paid him for helping me carry my groceries.

We usually never lend money, but in this one circumstance, after a relationship for two years, we thought that we could trust this family. We had the father sign a notice of debit and made an installment plan for paying back a little money each month. Unfortunately, he lied about the reason for needing the money and has left the country…probably never to be seen again.

2. Face it. It is going to happen someday. You will be ripped-off and betrayed by people you thought you could trust. When it happens, stand back and gain some detachment. View yourself as the helper and not the victim…if only for your own sanity. It’s important to grieve and to feel the pain of betrayal, but chalk it up as a learning experience and move on with your life.

3. Living abroad is challenging. Communication is difficult. Cultural immersion is still a very important part of my life, but it is important not to lose myself, my own cultural norms, values, and traditions. I am a foreigner, I will always be an outsider. I will probably never completely understand or fit into the Nicaraguan culture, nor do I want to be a Nicaraguan.

4. When chaos ensues and you feel like you are spiraling out of control, or homesickness blankets you with melancholy, or a tropical bug bites and infects you with some weird disease, or the heat becomes unbearable, seek a confidant..someone who has survived the same betrayals, illnesses, or homesickness and has come out the other side.

5. Work for a tomorrow that will be better than yesterday. It is all too easy to become fixated and obsessed with being wronged. The obsession and need for revenge can turn a loving, caring person into a bitter, paranoid, and very angry person. Who needs it? Life is too short, there are still many seasons of sweet mangoes to pick.

6. Live in the present and don’t idolize the past. We worked hard to fulfill our dreams of moving abroad. I am blessed with an abundance of beautiful sunsets over the lake every evening, lovely neighbors, and a friendly safe community. I simply won’t let one betrayal or one nasty bug bite, or one day of chaos destroy my dreams.

In the end, forgiveness belongs to those who know how to love in the first place. Nicaragua has shown me much love and once I come to my senses again after this bout with illness and betrayal, I’ll be walking the compassionate path in this season of hope and thanksgiving…living hope…breathing understanding…and offering help and encouragement to others.

Thanks for listening to me..it’s not my usual style of writing..but sometimes, I have to express my vulnerabilities and my fears…my naked truths of living on an island in the middle of a huge lake, in the middle of Nicaragua, in the middle of Central America.

 

 

 

The Sacrament of Confirmation

At Alba Ligia’s confirmation, touch became the language of communication. Mothers lovingly knotted their sons’ new ties, while fathers gently patted their children’s backs in encouragement and pride. Parents combed, fluffed, and plastered gel into unruly hair. Hands held smaller hands and led them to the entrance of the church to await the Bishop.

Once a year, the Bishop arrives from Granada to confirm all of the faithful teenagers on Ometepe Island. This year, three towns and hundreds of teenagers prepared for their confirmations. Alba Ligia’s family arrived at the church in Urbaite on the back of a pick-up truck dressed in all their finest. All the young girls wore panty hose for the first, and hopefully last time. I wondered where they even bought panty hose on the island.

After much anticipation, the Bishop finally arrived. We filed into the highly decorated church festooned with palm leaves and smokey incense. Since Ron and I were Alba Ligia’s sponsors and Godparents, we were hoping for a good seat. However, by the time the line finally cleared, all the plastic chairs were taken and we ended up standing through a long, exceptionally hot and crowded service.

After what seemed like several hours of kneeling, and watching young acolytes wipe sweat from the Bishop’s forehead and redirect the fan to his sweat drenched face, it was time for the confirmation to begin. Sponsors lined up behind their teenage charges and we slowly shuffled to the front of the church where the Bishop individually blessed each confirmed student. Alba knelt before the Bishop, Ron and I laid our hands on her shoulder, and she was anointed with chrism, an aromatic oil that has been consecrated by the Bishop. “Be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit,” the Bishop chanted.

An hour later, after pictures with the Bishop, and a procession of gift filled baskets of fruit and toilet paper for the visiting dignitary, it was time to celebrate the confirmation in each family’s home. I was more excited about finding a bottle of water because it had been a long, hot day in a crowded church filled with rituals and rites I knew nothing about. I’m just grateful I didn’t have to wear panty hose.

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A Piñata Kinda Day

Sayid turned one year old in October. In honor of his first birthday, we were invited to a modest celebration, which included his initiation into the world of piñatas. His mother made a small orange carrot piñata. But, when she showed it to him the morning of his first birthday, he burst into tears and wailed like a pig going to slaughter.

I can understand his fear because according to the Catholic interpretation of the piñata, it symbolizes man’s struggle against temptation. The traditional piñata has seven points, which represent the seven deadly sins. To me, it resembles Sputnik, whirling around in space forever reminding us of our greed, sloth, pride, envy, gluttony, lust, and anger. No wonder the Nicaraguans named the famous land grab of the Sandinistas  “La Piñata”. After losing the 1990 election, the Sandinistas frantically confiscated property and government funds sharing their bounty among themselves.

With preparations for the fiesta underway, balloons “chimbombas” inflated like the rising cost of frioles, cooks flipped tortillas like IHOP professionals, and a political rally down the street seduced party goers with ear-piercing music and fireworks minus the sparkling fire. But, they soon returned when they discovered there was no piñata. For the piñata is the life of the party… the soul hidden among clusters of candy… seducing and reminding good Catholics everywhere to heed temptations that could lead to a life of misery.

Adults with sharp machetes whittled sticks of various sizes for the fiesta clad participants. When it was time to begin the celebration, Sayid swung his miniature stick at the swaying piñata with glee and determination. Older children, blindfolded to represent their faith, wiggled their hips to the ear thumping music, while adults tuned them in circles several times to represent the disorientation that temptation creates.

Whacking the piñata over and over, symbolically portrays the struggle against temptations and evils. When the piñata finally broke, the forlorn look on the children’s faces said it all. Where was the prize, the treats that represented keeping the faith? Ron and Francisco frantically searched through the shredded piñata and discovered the candy tightly wrapped in the head of the carrot. A few more strong whacks, and the candy showered the faithful children. The day was saved!

Some say that the piñata has lost its religious significance, but I don’t agree considering how many birthday parties I’ve attended in Nicaragua. Birthday parties ooze religious significance. After the broken piñata, the mountains of food, and the exceptionally long birthday song over Sayid’s first chocolate chip cake, I asked Francisco why the gifts were not opened in front of the guests. He said without a thought,  “It is a sin.” “I don’t understand why it is a sin,” I questioned. His response was, “We believe in the act of giving regardless of how small the gift. We would never embarrass anyone who offers something small, for all gifts, regardless of size, are gifts from God.” Now, that’s what I call a piñata kinda day!

Weekly Photo Challenge: Foreign Chicken Buses

If you ever ride an eccentric and flamboyant Central American chicken bus, you will begin to understand the term ‘foreign’. These retired American and Canadian school buses are plastered with outlandish stickers, painted in vibrant colors, and anointed with bumper stickers confessing their love for God, Jesus, soccer, and Playboy bunnies. Chicken buses ooze of strange aromas like a mixture of sweat, cow manure stuck on the bottom of flip-flops, rice and beans, and strong perfumes.  There is NO concept of personal space and there is always room for one more…one more person…one more chicken…one more basket of fruit…one more crying baby..one more sack of rice. Everyone and everything can ride on a chicken bus. Discrimination is not a word in a chicken bus’ vocabulary.

 

Loud music blasts from speakers taped in every corner of the bus. Vendors and beggars board at every stop pushing their way through invisible aisles hawking Flintstone vitamins, Chiclets, alien drinks in plastic bags, and preaching sermons or displaying x-rays of their guts ( or somebody’s guts) for a cordoba or two.

 

Chicken buses are a wacky form of entertainment for me. I chuckle at the sayings on the Goodwill t-shirts because most of the people that wear them can’t read English. Recently, a bus driver wore a t-shirt that said on the front, “What do you call a woman with PMS and ESP?” On the back it said, “A bitch who knows everything.” Exiting the bus, I told the bus driver that he had better not show that t-shirt to his wife. He just laughed, of course, with no understanding of what I was talking about.

 

Riding a Central American chicken bus is certainly one of the most exotic and foreign experiences I have ever had. Truthfully, I’m addicted. I’ve held sleeping babies, crowing roosters confined in rice sacks, and birthday cakes dripping icing in the tropical heat. I’ve even balanced my backpack on my head because there was no place to sit…for hours! Life on a chicken bus brings the world smack dab in front of your face…it’s a macro of foreign, the stupendous of strange, and the ultimate alien experience.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Happy Masks

“I wish everyday could be Halloween. We could all wear masks all the time. Then we could walk around and get to know each other before we got to see what we looked like under the masks.” ~ R.J. Palacio

Masks fascinate me and make me happy.  They are reflections of unique cultures, worn like bridges from the outer phenomenal world to the inner person. Embossed with bold colors and expressions, masks evoke many reactions to the beholder, but for me, they always make me smile in wonder.  Masks are the poetry of a culture, the exquisite spirits of the past, and entertaining portrayals of our inner emotions.

Enjoy the masks of Nicaragua. I hope they make you smile.

And this just in! Nicaragua is the 8th happiest country in the world! Click here.

Great Expectations

 

 

“There are two ways to be happy: improve your reality, or lower your expectations”
―Jodi Picoult, Nineteen Minutes

Yesterday, a friend sent me a link to this article: Migration in the Americas. The first comment asked about the cost of living in Nicaragua, so I responded with information and a link to my blog. Throughout the day, I watched as the hits to my blog steadily climbed. By the end of the day, I had received more than 3,700 hits. Why? Is it because people are desperate to fulfill dreams of sipping margaritas under gently swaying palm trees, while watching the ocean waves lap at the doors of their tiki huts? Is it because of frustration and economic despair that life has so rudely thrust in their paths?

Comments ranged from curious to hopeful, and on the other end of the spectrum, from hateful to distorted with many bitter political viewpoints. Are we all doomed because we dream of a better life with great expectations? Are we fearful of improving our reality or are we expecting too much out of life?

We moved to Nicaragua without too many expectations, for I have learned that great expectations lead to great disappointments. Life has not been easy here. We knew better than to expect an idyllic lifestyle surrounded by margaritas with those cute little umbrellas poked into frosty glasses. Instead, we learned to take one day at a time, and improve our reality without playing the blame game.

I am not a victim of my circumstances. I consciously chose a simple, culturally immersed lifestyle and deal with the challenges it presents every moment of every day. As a result, I’m happy and fulfilled because I chose to be realistic and live without great expectations. Not that I lowered my expectations..I don’t agree with that part at all. I simply don’t have expectations. For me, life is easier without them.

Life in Nicaragua can be described with the Big Brother motto, “Expect the Unexpected.” After building a house in the worst flood in 60 years, encountering daily power and water outages, discovering that I have a severe allergic reaction to ant bites, a frustratingly slow internet, and watching my close friends commit suicide out of hopelessness and despair…I am still here. Why? Because this is….my life…one day at a time.

 

 

 

 

Expat Extremophiles

In August, a U.S. expat chopped up his Nicaraguan translator and drinking buddy in Jinotega, Nicaragua. He stuffed Harley’s dismembered head and other assorted body parts in garbage bags and placed them on the curb for the garbage truck. When the police arrived, they found the confessed murderer calmly eating lunch and surfing the web. Basil Givner, 56, confessed, ” I couldn’t stand him anymore.” See article here.

I posted this article on Facebook because  I met this confessed murderer in Jinotega when we were visiting last September. He had just returned from the states and was staying at our hotel until he found another house to rent. He appeared to be friendly and talkative, which led me to wonder about the masks of sanity that some expats wear and why we become expats. One of my local friends commented,” This may slightly change the way some Nicaraguans treat their foreign neighbors, don’t you think?”

What do I think? I responded to my friend, “I’m more afraid of some of the expats in Nicaragua, than the Nicaraguans.” Are we all expat extremophiles? Extremophiles are microorganisms that live life on the edge. They are adaptable and flexible organisms, which have made extreme environments their home. Some are cunning escape artists, who through the process of natural selection, have adapted to incredible worlds of extreme hot or cold, radiation, darkness, or other harsh environments in which humans could never hope to survive. They had no choice: It was survival of the fittest.

As human beings, we like to think that we are flexible, adaptable, and capable of thriving in a variety of environments. As expat extremophiles, we do have choices. We consciously choose to expatriate and settle in environments very different from our former habitats. Like the microorganisms, we adapt to extreme changes in our environment. Unlike extremophiles, we can move on if things don’t meet our needs.

• But, why do we choose to live life on the edge? Why have we left family, friends, security, and all comforts of familiarity to move to an alien environment that challenges us daily? We are not political refugees, although I know many expats who use the term to describe their reason for expatriation. Join the forums, NicaLiving or The Real Nicaragua, and you can find many political refugees wrapped in blankets of conspiracy theories.

• We are not pedophiles. Walk the streets of Granada and you can find places nicknamed, “Pedophile Perch”, where old demented gringos lie in wait to buy young, underage Nicaraguan boys or girls. In their sick expat extremophile world, they believe they are helping to support an impoverished family. See recent arrest here.

• We are not criminals or cult leaders, like Pierre Doris Maltese. We’ve never been arrested or convicted of money laundering, murder, or drug offenses. I got a couple of speeding tickets in my lifetime, but I don’t think that counts.

• We aren’t trying to escape from a heinous past. We aren’t victims of our life experiences…nor are we bitter, jealous, or revengeful.  We are not alcoholics, or drug addicts. We don’t stumble through the streets of our local town disheveled and dirty,  looking for our next connection or our next fix.

• We are not medical refugees…knock on wood! I know several expats who were forced to move to Central America because they were denied health insurance for pre-existing conditions. They found affordable health care here at a fraction of the cost in the states. I admire these expat extremophiles because they aren’t afraid to explore alternative health care in the form of herbal remedies and homeopathic care options.

• We are not International Real Estate developers, like most of the International Living folks. We don’t buy ocean front properties for pennies, kick out the locals, and then hire them to be our maids and gardeners.

• We don’t want to start a hostel or an eco-friendly resort, or develop programs in permaculture or a surf camp.

• We are not Peace Corp, missionaries, or NGOs, another admirable type of expat extremophiles.

So, who are we? Why have we moved to Nicaragua? I don’t think we fit into a group of expat extremophiles. Not that it matters anyway. We just want to live comfortably, simply, and cheaply immersed in a new culture….one more adventurous journey around the sun…one day at a time.

I guess the closest we could come is to be categorized as economic refugees who thrive on challenges of growing a tropical garden, helping our neighbors and friends, and exploring the mysteries a new culture presents. We are just your normal expat extremophiles…and that is an oxymoron if I ever heard one.