Monday January 15, 2007

Photos: Inside my apartment (left), and an extinct, lake-filled volcano from the descent into Managua.

Landing in Nicaragua means throwing away my American conveniences, like my plush apartment and ability to communicate with people around me. Jilma, the exceptionally nice Nicaraguan abuelacita seated next to me helped ease me into the language and culture by sharing family photos, assuring me su casa es mi casa, and insisting we exchange phone numbers. She was adamant I visit her grandchildren in Nicaragua and Virginia. Pretty nice start. The exchange helped reopen the Spanish-language part of my brain, partly relieving the language apprehension, which was promptly restored upon arriving at my host family’s house.

My $12/night room and board consists of two small rooms attached but separated from a few other small rooms shared by two older women and two young boys. Their names and relation were lost in translation, but I’m pretty sure one of the women works at the National Lab. The Archangel Gabrielle and Tweety Bird posted above my twin bed covered in yellow flowered sheets are supposed to protect me from danger, but I remain focused on the thin deadbolt between the noisy outside street and me. The adjoining room has a few chairs around a small table with a shrine simultaneously worshipping the Blessed Mother and miniature ceramic cats. An outdated 2005 San Francisco tapestry wall calendar momentarily returns me to my famous corner of the world. I share the bathroom with the world’s largest cockroach, but, per our agreement, not at the same time.

The nighttime drive through Managua from the airport found me witness to skinny stray dogs, corrugated tin, low-lying dwellings, and shirtless, tan young men riding bicycles and dirt bikes under an orange, fluorescent glow. My wide, inexperienced eyes rapidly sponged the surroundings, a sensory overdose. This is without a doubt the least developed land I’ve visited in my privileged years of privileged travel and I’m brought back to the niceness of Jilma to tell me what matters most in the sphere of human existence.

I may stand out, and I need to become all right with this. Ideally, smiling, expressing genuine interest in the language in culture, and being open to suggestions by my host mother of eating tongue and intestine can minimize this. Pero no pescado, por favor. Let’s not risk any allergy disasters.

There’s an element of helplessness so far. From that you build and grow, right?