Something peculiar is happening to me here in Nicaragua. When I first arrived I could barely stand the sight of this place. Everything either irritated me or depressed me. The macho whistling on the street, the trash lining the roads, the trash in the lake, the smell of the lake... all of it created a distinct taste that lurked in my mouth, as if I had tried something incredible disgusting and could not rid myself of the aftertaste. I had panic attacks here daily, and cried to my parents on skype frequently. I made an escape plan for myself. I would leave in a month and go back and work in the States. I would apply for graduate school. I would pretend that I had never left. I would pretend like this was all a bad dream and scurry back to my First World excessive comforts. No one would be the wiser, and indeed, no one would question me.
During the weekends I started traveling all around the country, mostly to escape from Granada for a few precious days. I saw the colorful squares of Leon, and screamed in terror as a man hurled firecrackers into the crown during an annual celebration of a devastating volcanic eruption. I donned an orange jumpsuit and slid on a board down Cerro Negro, an imposing black volcano that still smoldered in its caldera. I flirted with the fierce tides of the Pacific Ocean and as I breathed in the salty breeze that smelled to sweet but stung my eyes, I imagined that I was far, far away from Nicaragua. I dreamed that I was back in Hawaii or Oregon on pristine beachs where seven year old boys scrounding for food or selling shody crafts could not be found. I lamented the poverty I witnessed in Nicaragua, and I felt overwhelmed by it, confused how my own country could have so much money and this country have so little.
One weekend I traveled to San Juan del Sur and basked in the sun during the day, and partied with travel buddies from Europe, South Africa, and the States in the evening. Another weekend I did the same with Ometepe, an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua (also called Lago de Colibolca). During the weeks I was trudging through teaching Biology. My spanish was such that while I loved the kids I could not understand them when they asked questions, which pains me immensly because for me questions are the most important part of learning. My in inadequacies burned inside me, I felt trapped, frustrated, helpless. "What have I gotten myself into?" I was constantly wondering.
I'm not sure when things changed, but I am sure that it had to do with my Spanish lessons. Donna, my supervisor here found an excellent discount for me for one on one tutoring lessons. Every morning for 11 days now I've gone at 9 in the morning for two hours of grammar, excersizes, and pronunciation. I've made two Nica friends, my teachers, and have started to get an insight into Nicaragua from a local perspective. One of my teachers asked me for english lessons. About my same age, it was a delight to meet secretly (students and teachers are not supposed to hang out outside of class) and mountain bike through long twisting barrios to her house.
I've also become involved in Soccer without Borders, or Futbol sin Frontires. I helped teach english one night, and afterward a group of kids went into the street and we played pick up soccer late into the night. That night, in 90 degree weather, the sweat trickled down my skin, forging paths amid the thick Nicaraguan dust that has permanently settled upon my body.
More updates to come, im sure! overandout
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