The Nice Things People Say

Being the fourth Peace Corps volunteer in a community has its advantages and disadvantages, one of the latter being the insecurity that I’m just the last in a line of many, the final American girl to prance around the street of Sábalos talking health in imperfect Spanish. Perhaps I’m making a big deal out of nothing (a storm in a drinking glass as they say here), but recent comments from various people have made me think that maybe I mean as much to them as they do to me. For those of you who are disappointed or angry (i.e. Nick) with me for not coming home until the end of my service, perhaps this will help you understand why I am trying to squeeze out every last bit of my time here with my (occasionally) loving community.

First there are the normal comments, like from Norma, my soy cooking partner, who tells me everyday how much she is going to miss me or from Maria Jose, a member of my youth group, who insisted I write down my U.S. home address now, in case she forgets to ask me for it when I leave (in six whole months). Then last night, I was chatting with my good friend Johanna, the daughter in law of my host mother, and she asked me what I would like for a present. I told her that her friendship was enough but when she insisted, I told her to buy me something representative of Nicaragua, a recuerdo, which means both memory and a gift that inspires a memory. She told me she would buy me a gold ring and when I protested telling her that was too much; she told me she wanted to give me something so nice because she appreciates me so much and because I am her very best and only true friend in Sábalos. As I am slightly uncomfortable around open declarations of feelings (as well as anything involving mood candles or the musical stylings of Enya, which have nothing to do with the story at hand), I quickly told her my ring size so that we could move on. It was, however, a very nice thing for her to say.

Then there is Gino, the absolute worst student in my adult English class, so bad to the point that I think he is either dyslexic or was consistently beaten in the head as a child. In the nine months that he has been in the class, he has made not one stitch of progress whatsoever. But he’s a very nice man and the other week he asked me how much money I needed per month to live in Sábalos. I always try to avoid conversations about money and how much I make, my parents make, how much my camera cost, or how much I can lend to someone, but as I started to be evasive, he quickly cut me off. He told me he was asking so that he could start up a collection in order to pay my expenses and keep me in Sábalos teaching English for a few months after my service is up. I had to keep myself from chuckling at the fact that he thought a few more months might do what the last year hasn’t been able to, but again, it was a sweet sentiment and I was touched.

Finally, during a meeting with the public cleanliness committee, we discussed a plot of abandoned land in the middle of town that has become a sort of impromptu garbage dump and various solutions were proposed to clean it up. Antolin, my neighbor and member of the committee, put forth with a big smile his grand solution: we burn all the trash and then give the plot to Alexis to build a house and that way; she can stay in Sábalos forever! And as tempting as a burned garbage dump is for the site of my future residence, I let him down easily, explaining the necessity of returning to the U.S. to continue studying.

Given all the sweet offers being thrown my way (I know, the torched garbage dump really does top the list), perhaps you’re all wondering how I could ever leave Sábalos. I wonder the same thing sometimes for about five minutes until I find another damn scorpion in my house. I’ve found and promptly killed three in the last two days and the little suckers really freak me out. Then you add in the unbearable heat, the unreliable Nicaraguan counterpart situation, and the mold that has (oh yes!) reappeared this rainy season but this time on my shoulder, and I quickly find my motivation to head back to my homeland come March 2007. Great packages from home reminding me of all I am missing serve the same purpose. Thanks so much mom, Mrs. Jessica Kelley Garrett, and of course the reverend Jamie Gregorian. Early in my Peace Corps service I was given the advice that packages with written messages about God and crucifixes on the outside are less likely to be tampered with at Nicaraguan customs. I relayed this information to my family and they really took it to heart. I always get a kick out of picturing my family members (remember: we’re mostly Jewish and this is why this is so funny), tongues in cheek, carefully drawing crucifixes and inscribing Christian messages on the boxes they send me. However, Jamie just took it to a whole new level, creating his own church for the return address, adorning every flap of the box with crosses, and writing messages in Spanish such as, “No Christ? No Peace.” Sorry Sábalos, but no amount of gold rings, small salaries, or abandoned plots of land can beat a package like that.