Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Friends, I went on one of the best adventures of my life this weekend, not only great because it was on a volcanic island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua, but great because it was planned about 4 hours to us actually leaving and going. Those of you who know fine adventure know that the best ones are spontaneous and not well thought through. At 11:30 pm the night before, 4 of my roommates and I decided to go to Corn Island, which demands a plane ride. It never occurred to any of us that the 12 seater plane might already be booked by all the European hippies that wander around Nicaragua living off of their parents credit card and the money they make from selling crappy woven bracelets (among other things) on the street corner. After a two hour wait at the local airport to see if we could charter another plane (because for some reason, we couldn’t just call the pilot and ask) and the poor guy behind the counter having to use the calculator to see if there was any room left on the plane (I am not exaggerating. This happened), we were told that the plane was full and our dreams of laying on the Carribean, drinking out of a coconut, and finally seeing black people again were dashed. And thus, we ended up on Ometepe Island 8 hours later, sitting on a beach situated in between to majestic and terrifying volcanoes, toes curled up in the sand as the monkeys howled greetings from the trees. However, this was after 8 hours of public transportation, which meant a bus ride of standing up down a bumpy road, constantly falling into the waiting arms of the teenage boy in front of me or using the shiny bald head of the man sitting down next to me as leverage. I made both a boyfriend and an enemy on that trip. I rented a horse and galloped full speed down the beach, crashing through the surf with my ponytail flying behind me. I dove deep into a natural spring, and found myself thinking, “I have been here before. About twenty years ago, in my imagination. This is the kind of place you pretend you are as a kid swimming in the neighborhood pool.” In short, it was a feast for my senses. However, that adventure compares little to daily life. Strapping up a hammock on the front porch a house held together by tarps and sticks and waking up to little brown faces peering at you, grinning, beats the heck out of a soft bed and the whir of an air conditioner. Bathing out of a bucket with nothing but chacos on and looking up seeing the sparking stars strewn across a purple sky makes showering under a shower head seem contrite. Having my feet washed by the women in the village because they didn’t want me to return to America with dirty toes is far better than any pedicure a spa can offer. The conversations that have wound on and on sitting in a plastic chair on a dirt porch have formed the person that I am, and that I will be. I know that I won’t ever play Phase Ten again without being brought back to Lucia’s house, sitting on broken chairs, throwing cards on a table made from cinderblocks and pieced up plywood, drinking cold beer from plastic cups. A part of me will always answer to the name “Osita”, which means “little bear” and is what 272 familes in El Chonco have labeled me with since day 1, 5 years ago. I am overwhelmed by the blessings I have experienced throughout my time here. There are far too many hearts here that hold mine together to count, and I am grateful for the people that have made me who I am. They have changed me forever. And I will carry their hearts with me as I return home in July, this time not just for a few weeks visit. After a ton of prayer and equal amount tears, I realize that God is calling me home. I have spent three wonderful years- and the two summers prior to that- invested in an incredible place. I have learned more than I know how to ever adequately explain, and I love more fiercely than I would have before. I come back to Atlanta with those blessings. I am super grateful to all of you who have supported me over this journey and this decision. From front porch conversations to prayers on the run to encouraging emails and phone calls and monetary support, I couldn’t have done it without the incredible community of all of you. I am beyond excited to get to return to that everyday. What a gift. My love and thanks. I will see you all in July.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Go Tigres.

If I were to list out my top ten favorite things to do, that list would include: watching georgia football games in any capacity (ok, maybe any college football games), kayaking down the hooch in springtime and early fall, being on top of tall (but stable) things, sitting on the back porch, anything involving being on the boat, beach bonfires, summertime cookouts, outdoor concerts, non nicaraguan hikes, and Braves Baseball games.

If I were to modify that last one to make it even more perfect, I'd say Braves Baseball Games in Fulton County Stadium during the early 90s, but as an adult. An impossible task, I know. I can't capture the dilapidated charm of FCS coupled with the excitement of a world series title at age 28... or can I?

The Chinandega Tigres proved to me that my dreams can not, in fact, be squelched as last night we sat front row at Tijarino Stadium, game 4 of the World Series. "Dilapidated charm" doesn't even begin to describe the stadium. The only word I can think of that describes it as aptly as I want is "shitty", and I mean that in the most wonderful, shittiest way possible.

We paid $10 for seats that usually go for about $4, and those are the rich people seats. Luckily, the beer is still under a dollar and if you wink at the guy to your right, he'll pour a little Gran Reserva in your cup if you let your elbows touch on the armrest. The vendors have no rhyme or reason to what or where they sell, nor do they care if they are imposing on your personal space in any way, shape, or form. The best sellers in our section were (1)the women pawning off something that came in a pizza box, but looked like it was fisher price pizza reheated (2) The tip top guy, who was selling 2 pieces of chicken and a roll for 60 cords and making the best profit of his life. (3) (This one is my personal favorite just because it is so outrageous) the endangered turtle eggs + salsa vendor. I would make a joke here, but it stands absurd enough on its own. Endangered sea turtle eggs. Topped with salsa. All sold for 50 cords. Don't tell PETA.

As Nicaragua usually goes, the game was crowded because they sold more tickets than they have seats, so we spend most of the game sitting on the stairs, narrowly avoiding collisions with sea turtle man or the kid selling the bags of mangos that look sketchier every time. We were surrounded by raging Tigre fans, who brought a giant stuffed tiger that they would launch into the air to crowd surf anytime something good happened. Our boys were taking good advantage of both the tiger and the $1 beers, which proved to be a success round about the 3rd inning.

During innings the loud speakers was alternating between "Don't stop believin'" and "Enter Sandman", but things switched up halfway through the game and from somewhere back in 1997, the Macarena starting blaring. Josh, Joey, David, and Jackson were on their feet in an instant, on their chairs/stairs, turned towards the crowd, doing the Macarena. For about 3 full minutes. That's right. They held off the game to finish the song and allow every nicaraguan with a camera to have a successful youtube video career after posting the 4 of them dancing in perfect sync. When the song was over, Josh took off his hat and receivied a standing ovation. And it was on national television.

There's a gringo on the team, Shawn Bowman, from Canada. I am still not sure he's attractive, but its on my bucket list to date a professional baseball player* (*we'll forget that he's a canadian chinandegan baseball player- but at least he made it to the world series. and all these years of lusting after tom glavine have gotten me nowhere). So I took matters into my own hands, and I wrote #29 an encouraging note, on a pizza box, which was delivered by the ball boy after the 4th inning. I had to make it witty, because he's canadian and they are usually self depricating and hilarious (to make up for being from canada). However, in retrospect, I am pretty sure he thinks I am going to have sex with him. I invited him to join us for Hochi Dochi (the new corn dog place) and I don't think I made it clear enough that that wasn't a euphemism. I'll keep you updated if he calls. He did score 2 back to back homeruns after the note, so something good has to come of it, I say.

Chinandega won the game, and the gringos won the stadium. Post game, the boys rushed the field. I looked up to see David running around the bases, full speed, with a crowd of triumphant nicaraguans behind him. Joey was throwing a pitch to josh from the pitcher's mound, and Jackson was holding up the tiger to bleachers full of drunk, singing fans.

So if I can't have Fulton County Stadium and 1995 back, I will embrace 2012 and the tigres.