Semana Santa

The week before last was semana santa or holy week. In order to celebrate this religiously significant occasion, all of Nicaragua got drunk and went swimming. The oceans, rivers, brooks, streams, and puddles were filled with drunken Nicaraguans. Accordingly, a handful of volunteers and I headed literally for the hills. We all traveled up to Nueva Segovia, one of the most northern departments of the country where we celebrated the engagement and forthcoming departure of our friend, John and his Nicaraguan fiancée, Jessica.

In order to get to Nueva Segovia, it is necessary to travel 16 hours in boat/bus from my site. Luckily, I broke it up and did not attempt the entire trip in one go. Regardless, I had my fair share of transport “adventures.” My first and favorite was the money-collector (cobrador) on the boat whose t-shirt read: “Women Want Me, Fish Fear Me.” Whoever the Myrtle Beach vacationing redneck that donated that shirt to goodwill was, he deserves a pat on the back.

Then I boarded the nightmarish old American school bus that travels 14 miles an hour for 7 hours on unpaved, dusty highway. While I am used to this grueling physical and emotional trial and can usually just zone out, I was put to a further test when a woman with a bucket full of chicks boarded the full bus halfway through the trip and decided to stand in the aisle right next to me. And to hold the bucket of chirping baby chickens right next to my ear. For three hours. This was, obviously, extremely annoying but as testament to my cultural adaptation and newfound patience my immediate thought was: “What else can you do? If you have to transport a bucket of baby chickens, you gotta transport a bucket of baby chickens.”

Once united with my fellow Peace Corps buddies, we confronted the reality of traveling on a day in which everyone else in the country is traveling. Every bus that passed us was packed so full that people were hanging off the back. Not too long ago, the cobradores would allow passengers to ride on top of the buses but recently this has been deemed too dangerous. Better to let people barely cling with one hand and one foot onto the back. So, we were forced to hitch, which I get an enormous thrill out of and which is commonplace in Nicaragua and generally safe if performed with common sense and in a group. We broke up into two groups of 5 and began what became a two-hour ordeal. Finally, we flagged down a very friendly NGO worker and were on our way. The only slightly bizarre thing about him was his notion that the fields we passed were burning simply because the sun was so hot. I asked him if he thought it was due to spontaneous combustion and he said that yes, sometimes that was the cause and other times it was glass. Like from a bunch of magnifying glasses lying on the side of the road, I asked? Exactly, he replied.

We eventually made it to the capital of Nueva Segovia, Ocotal, and met up with the remaining volunteers who had made the trek. On Thursday, we were all bussed to the party, which took place at what can best be described as a botanical garden with a sweet dance floor and many tents with tables set up underneath. It was a gorgeous day and the food was delicious and we had brought all the necessary ingredients to make bloody mary’s. All told, there were probably about 30 Americans and 60 Nicaraguans and we had an amazing time. I hope this doesn’t come across as elitist (although it is) but these were upper crust Nicaraguans and it just felt so nice to mingle and interact with them instead of the rubber boot wearing, machete wielding, machisto campesinos who hiss at me as I pass them and with whom I have very regular contact due to the economic realities of my site. Perhaps if I didn’t live where I do, I would have a very different view of Nicaraguan men. Perhaps not. Anyway, we spent the following day on the farm of Jessica’s family’s friends surrounded by the mountains of Nueva Segovia. It was the Nicaraguan equivalent of visiting someone’s mountain home and it was the perfect way to relax, chat, and nurse our hangovers.

On Easter Sunday since neither the Easter bunny, nor peeps, nor Cadbury’s eggs exist in Nicaragua, a group of us decided to head to the nicest hotel in Managua, the Intercontinental, for a champagne brunch. It was amazing and we took advantage of every minute that passed during its 4 hour duration. We ate sushi, lobster tail, veggie lasagna, zucchini stuffed with olive tapanade, tandoori chicken, salmon, cheeses, crepes, crème brulee, chocolate mousse, tiramisu, and plenty of champagne. It rounded off a perfect semana santa.

Now before you all go jumping to the conclusion that living in a third world country doesn’t seem all that bad and that maybe, just maybe, you too might want to join the Peace Corps, I’ll share my last transportation experience on the return ride back down to the Rio San Juan. Again, the bus was full and there were people standing in the aisles. Luckily, I had a seat but this time, rather than a chicken bucket, I had a man who decided that rather than hold on to the bar above his head to keep his balance as he stood, he would grab on to the back of the seat in front of me. End result: his armpit on top of my head for the entire sweaty 7 hour ride. Now, I don’t care how culturally adapted or patient I become, sweaty armpits swaying back and forth over my head are and will always be, just plain nasty.

Beauty and The Chino

As usual, I had a pretty laid-back weekend in Sábalos. I did, however, go to the big party on Saturday night. Normally, I try to avoid the parties in my site, I never have fun and just end up avoiding the drunken men and repeatedly checking my watch to determine when I have put in enough “face time” so that I can get the hell out of there. But this party was going to be different. It was to be held on the multi-use court and there was to be a beauty contest between girls from the different high school classes including a bikini portion! This was something I couldn’t miss.

I went with my closest girlfriends, Claribel and Jhassua, and I decided to actually dress up a bit and wear dangling earrings and high heels. In the past when I have put a little effort into my appearance, I have always regretted it once the catcalls began. But this time, I received no unwanted attention. Perhaps all my barking at the men has finally paid off.

We entered the party just before the girls came out in their bikinis. To my surprise, they were each escorted by a guy from their class and to my greater surprise; the Chino was one of the escorts! Now, the Chino is not actually Chinese, he’s Taiwanese and he’s the oldest son of the Taiwanese family that lives in my site. However, I’m pretty sure no one else in my town knows that they’re Taiwanese (or that Taiwan exists for that matter) and they don’t help to clarify matters as they call themselves Chino and have it written on the side of their general store (Store The Chino). Even if they didn’t adopt this nickname, it would be bestowed upon them. Nicaragua is not the most politically correct place and it is common practice to call people by their apparent ethnicity. Thus, black people are negros, white people are cheles, and all Asians are chinos.

There are four members of the Chino family: the father, who is called Chino, the mother, who is China, the oldest son, who is also Chino, and the youngest son, who is called Chinito. Honestly, no one knows their real names. Perhaps for those of you who live in multicultural societies it is difficult to imagine a place where everyone is the same ethnicity and there is virtually no variation. But that’s Nicaragua, which means I stick out like a sore thumb and so do the Chinos. My site is pretty far out there and not very accessible. It’s certainly not the first place people come to when they decide to immigrate to Nicaragua. But for some reason, the Chinos came here. The parents don’t speak Spanish very well but they have a favorite joke with me: Whenever I buy something in their store, they quote me the price and then double it, laughing about how since I’m a gringa, I can afford it. It’s our little foreigner joke.

Anyway, back to the beauty contest. In the end, it wasn’t even a beauty contest. The girl who won was the girl who raised the most money for her class through selling tickets. So, these kids pranced in front of the big crowd in skimpy bathing suits for nothing. Well, almost for nothing because I couldn’t stop laughing hysterically at the entire scene. Now, my town is not the poorest place in Nicaragua. Practically no one has a dirt floor and there are no houses with walls made of plastic sheets, which are common in this country. We’re still not a rich community but you wouldn’t have known it from this party. There were tents set up throughout the multi-use court with strobe lights, rotating colored lights, the DJ had his own huge tent complete with 6 amplifiers and there was a tent filled with refrigerators for all the beer that was being sold. I danced all night with Jhassua and we consistently had to refuse the men that came and asked us to dance. Of course, in Nicaragua it is much easier (and crueler) to turn a man down. Once these guys get up the courage to ask, we simply wave our index fingers back and forth and turn around. This is the symbol for “no.” And it’s as simple as that.