A Colt and It's Mother

My runs serve a dual purpose.  On the one hand, they allow me to blow off steam, building endorphins as I glide past families congregated on their porches and kids playing in the streets after school and work.  On the other hand, it allows me to become better acquainted with my city.  On the road to San Jorge, a small town bordering Rivas’ east side, I find ways to confront or ignore piropos, meet neighborhood kids who are all too willing to run right beside me, catch the sunset over my city, and meet unlikely animals.

At this point, it’s become more familiar to see wandering barn animals like chickens, cows and horses roaming the streets.  For the most part, though, they’re close to their homes or owners.  You can imagine my surprise, then, when on my way back to my house during one of these runs, I found myself face to face with a grey spotted colt and its mother without anyone near who could have claimed ownership.

As soon as my iPod chimed that I had 400 meters remaining on my run, I was ready to finish strong.  I was unprepared, however for the unaccompanied obstacles in my way.  As I continued running in their direction, the colt hid behind its mother as she stopped dead in her tracks.  Without instruction, she must have assumed I was herding them, as she turned to run from me.  Seconds later, right on her heels, I began to fear the massive blow of her kick.  Something I’d never experienced but had often been told of by my mother, a once fearless rider.

In the rainy season, the shoulder of the road can resemble a small river, with the sidewalk serving as its creek bed.  I jete'd across and was now running parallel, feeling as though we were racing one another.  I believe she knew I meant her no harm as when she realized we were neck and neck.  She stopped, signaling her colt to do the same.  Soon after, I leaped back over the river to presume my spot on the trail.  

This experience is not something to endure but rather something to enjoy.  A journey.

The Rainy Season

I can’t quite hear the end of our conversation.  Though the headphones are all but plastered to my face, it just seems to get louder and louder.  I ask if she can hear it.  Just as she informs me she can’t, it changes cadence and the sound of pitter patter on the roof has turned into a roar. 

She tells me about how the lake water in Austin has gone down significantly.  Where the docks once hosted fishermen and women, is now all but barren.  As I leave the cyber to walk outside, I take it in.  The site of the rain drenched streets and the calm brought about as families and children relocate themselves from the streets into their homes. 

It’s almost as foreign as snow.  Though, with snow, my reaction is one of a crack addict who’s recently discovered a stash they’d thought long gone.  My mind is reeling and soon I’m screaming in delight and waking up anyone who may have been asleep at 6 a.m.  Obviously, you could never go sledding or make snow angels in the rain.  If you tried to go swimming in the road, you’d probably get tetanus.    

It’s calming, the rain, refreshing.  The sound it makes, the way it shuts the world away, the smell it brings.  At times, it’s so strong it sounds as though it might break through the roof.  It’s not all romantic.  At this point, I go through an entire bottle of repellent every few weeks.

 

In Texas, as in most places, there exist a set of unspoken rules, norms, if you will.  Chief among them, your jeans stay tucked away in your closet until summer’s end.  Summer generally lasting an extra season beyond what it’s been allotted.  This particular rule would never stand in Nicaragua.  In my jeans and T-shirt, though I’m sweating buckets, I couldn’t imagine, trading my jeans for booty shorts.  Between the piropos or cat calls that follow me everywhere I go (regardless of what I don) and the mosquitos that swarm every inch of uncovered skin, it doesn’t seem to be an option.

Since rainy season hit, the entire country has been in a state of emergency surrounding the dengue pandemic.  This of course, has done nothing to assuage the hypochondriac within me.  Everywhere I go, I hear “dengue,” whether it’s in the health center talking about the dengue prevention campaign or passing by and hearing the news of a new case into the streets by family televisions.    

Though the mosquitos may flourish in the rain, the people stop and congregate in the shelter of jutting roofs.  In my attempt to stick out as much as possible, I keep walking in my bright baby blue rain jacket.  When the mood strikes, skipping and singing in the rain, what a glorious feelin,’ I’m happy again.  Meanwhile Nicas don umbrellas which are used both as a shield from the oppressive force of the sun and the pelting rain.

Though you might think the rain would be cause for some of the serious rain boots you’d find in surplus at the local market, you’d be wrong.  My counterpart informs me that these boots are mostly for the campo, or rural areas.  In the city, you don’t have to worry about the increasingly profound mud.  However, the color blocked flats I’ve worn to work won’t hold up.  They seem moments away from floating off of my feet.  I trade them out for my black Chaco’s.

I’ve heard of weeks on end without the rain yielding.  Of volunteers unable to leave their homes or go to work for weeks at a time.  Given that I’m already bathing in both repellent and hydrocortisone cream, I find it difficult to imagine.  For now, it’s simply a tale.  

Central Park in full bloom.  It happened virtually overnight because of how strong the rain is.

My Journey

Every single moment of service is so vastly different.  On days when the brilliant blue sky is free of clouds, I have a perfect view of Volcano Concepcion (the largest volcano on the island of Omotepe) on my 20 minute walk from the center of town to my home.  I am reminded that happiness is a journey.  I wake up and miss home so badly that I begin to visualize myself boarding the plane back.  Getting out of bed is low on my list of priorities.  I do anyway.  Nearly every day I take a look at what it is that I’m doing here.  Why I’m sacrificing.  It’s simple really.  I’m here to help.  I repeat the words.  I’m here to help.

The journey is where I find it.  In the spirit of the kindergartners I give a hand washing charla to, in the way my counterpart is consistently on my side, in creating new ideas, making things, in the familiar faces that greet me around every corner, in the new family I love, in the best avocado and fried fish I’ve ever had, and in a run that enables me to explore uncharted territory and catch a glimpse of the sunset that contrasts the deep full leaves of trees against the bold orange and pink sunset that seem to blur together, one of many beautiful sights that makes me grateful to call it home. 

Volcan Concepcion on my way home.

    

Updatezzzzz

After a long hiatus since my last post, I’ve found my muse in a swift kick in the ass from a dear friend, Ms. Samantha Aguilar.  “Update your blog, woman!”

It’s been a hell of a couple of months.  I haven’t written much because not only did it not seem like much had happened but it was also incredibly difficult getting adjusted to life in site.  It’s nothing like training where you’re surrounded, nay babysat, by loving training staff, host families, and fellow volunteers.  Once you leave training, you’re on your own.  It’s up to you to make this experience everything you want it to be. 

So, that’s what I’ve been doing.  I left my first host family and have since found shelter with my lovely new family.  They have been quick to welcome me into their family.  I have shown my gratitude through very coveted care package loot used to make Reece’s and Butterfinger milkshakes.  

We had our first in service training a few weeks ago.  In it, our phenomenal volunteer support leader showed us a thing or two.  He surveyed the group of Peace Corps Volunteers that had just left.  He found that they rely most heavily upon host family and each other, which is to say other Peace Corps volunteers.  

In our last few moments of staging in Washington, our facilitator had us stand in a circle facing one another and told us that this would be our family for the next 27 months.  Good God was she right.  There are daily frustrations and celebrations that we share with one another.  In these past 3 months, my “family” has become invaluable. 

A good friend of mine in country and I have been checking in on one another and making sure we are tending to our respective self-care.  Whether that means taking a day off to visit your friends at Laguna de Apoyo (one of the most beautiful places in the country), taking your time to drink your coffee on an abuelita as you finish one of the many books you’ve picked up from the Peace Corps Library, or advocating for yourself in confronting a problem. 

That support and self-care have become invaluable has much to do with what you miss.   There are moments when you miss home so much that it physically hurts.  You can’t believe it’s been 6 months since you last saw your family and friends.  Since you last had a hamburger from Kincaid’s or Hopdoddy’s.   There are days when you don’t wanna get out of bed.  But, you do.  You put your feet on the ground and you start your day because you know that this experience is equal to the amount of effort you put into it. 

Dirty Roz (our training towns).  Cocktail 2013.

The self-care committee.  Cocktail 2013.

Health 61 at our 1st In Service Training.