A couple weeks ago I went to a volcano with my friend Lauren (girl I went to high school with who married a Costa Rican and now lives here) and her husband, Gerardo. The volcano is called Poas and it is about an hour and a half by car outside of San Jose. Visiting this volcano, and most others in Costa Rica, is like playing the lottery for two reasons. 1) Most volcanos in Costa Rica are active so there is a chance that when you visit the park might be closed because high activity level has been detected, or 2) You actually get in the park but the fog and smoke from the volcano has completely masked the summit to a point where you can barely see the person next to you much less thousands of feet to the bottom of a crater. Nevertheless, we took our chances and drove to the national park. The drive to the volcano was, for me, almost as impressive as the volcano itself. The windy road led past quaint dairy farms contrasted with oversized coffee fields consuming hills of countryside, views of the whole central valley quietly tucked in under sheets of fog and clouds, lit-up huts full of strawberry-selling street vendors, and three table restaurants called "sodas" complete with coffee-craving workers taking their early morning break.
When we arrived at the park entrance, Gerardo (we call him Gee because it's much less taxing on the English tongue) told us to sit quietly while he spoke to the park ranger; he was attempting to get us the local deal instead of the over-priced tourist one. He introduced himself, his wife, and the friend (me), using as many Costa Rican, or "Tico," colloquialisms as he knew. I looked out the other side of the window the whole time hoping the cashier wouldn't pay too much attention to my blue eyes or well-freckled white skin. We saved about $20.
The walk to the summit of the volcano is actually pretty short considering you drive up most of the volcano. When we got to the top, there was a lookout over the crater marked off by a wooden fence. On this particular day, the fog was heavy and we could barely see five feet in front of us, much less the bottom of the crater. At this point, I was simply looking into what seemed like a big boiling cauldron with no depth nor clarity. After about a half hour of waiting, we decided to take a walk to the lake nearby. The trail to the lake was lined with gnarled, contorted, twisted trees that looked as if they had been plucked right out of the forest in "The Wizard of Oz." The forest was lush and wet; well-watered from the many seasonal showers it had endured. The banks of the sidewalks were drenched in moss, soaking up the thick, moist air like a Brawny paper towel - extra heavy. The dark moisture of the air was almost tangible, like your legs had an invisible pressure to fight against every forward step they took. If it hadn't have been broad daylight, I would have seriously considered being creeped out.
When we returned, the fog that had so greedily inhabited the crater before had been pushed far enough aside that I could now see the bottom. I had to do a double-take before I could help my brain grasp the depth of this thing. I've never been to the grand canyon, so I don't have that to compare it to, but let's just say if you don't feel small standing in front of and on top of an active volcano, a piece of land, an earth, that is able to produce enough force to push fiery lava out of the depths of the earth to create a hole that big, you've got one heck of an ego. At the bottom I could see a small lake that was a strange mixture of green and yellow and blue. From this lake came a steady stream of fog and smoke, as its temperature is well over boiling hot. This smoke from the volcano carried with it the sulfur buried deep inside and if you had even a mediocre environmental earth teacher in high school, you know that sulfur smells horrible. Gusts of it kept wofting up from the crater, steadfastly embracing us with its horrendous odor. Rotten eggs. Rotten anything. Within minutes, the fog began to drape its thick, tortorously smelling coat back over the massive dent on the surface of the earth and we could no longer see the bottom; restoring peace to both vision and nostrils.
The smoke coming from that central point is the lake.
A few minutes later, a couple of university students hopped the fence and boldly passed the sign that clearly read, in two languages, "do not descend to the crater," and made their way to the bottom. After seeing how far they had to go, how deep the crater was, and how actively it was producing smoke, I laughed at how eager college students are world-wide and marveled at how little it takes to convince them to do a professor's dirty work.
On our way back down the mountain, we stopped a little "soda" right on the side of the road in a small town that I'm sure didn't have a name. Sodas here, as I explained earlier, are like really small restaurants that are typically owned by a family and many times run right out of their kitchen. They have a couple tables, a few plastic chairs, and fantastically cooked home meals. We ordered two "arepas" which are delicious fried bread tortilla things that you dip in a sort of cheese called "natilla." I also tried "agua dulce" for the first time which is literally translated as sweet water. And that's what it is. Delicious. We ended the trip back in Heredia where Gee and Lauren live. We stopped outside a gorgeous old cathedral, cracked open a couple of coconuts and drank the water inside on the sidewalk.
Lauren and Gee have been fantastic friends to me my whole time here. They have driven me around, shown me new places, cooked me dinner, introduced me to friends, and given me all the information I have ever asked for about bus schedules or good places to visit or recommended restaurants. They make being away from home a little easier and sometimes it is not easy.
I also took another trip a couple weeks ago, but this one on a much larger scale. I had to leave the country after 90 days of being here to renew my tourist visa for another 90 days. I had to be out of the country for three days straight, so Stephen Deal hooked me up with another volunteer in Nicaragua living in the capital of Managua. This other volunteer, Mike, was living with Nicaraguan family there and they offered to let me stay with them. Mike works at the Lutheran church in Managua. He is in charge of delegations that come to visit throughout the year. He has signed on to work there for two years. He started off as a volunteer in one of the delegations. He loved it so much he came back seven more times, a few with the church and a few on his own, and finally decided to commit two years to the job. He is from Maryland but he recently graduated from University of Florida with his bachelor's in something like international communications. Or something. So, I hopped a 10-hour bus ride from San Jose to Managua and set off on my way.
Day 1
My bus from San Jose left at 5am and it took about 8 hours to get to the Nicaraguan border. I knew the point of this trip was to leave the country and get my passport stamped so I could renew it for another 90 days, but it didn't change the fact that I hate going through customs. Always really serious people doing a really serious job in a really serious way. No one cracks a joke as the attendant checks your stamps, no one grins widely as they slide it back across the counter to you, no one says much of anything outside of what is completely mandatory. I also had packed a couple sandwiches for lunch and as I was filling out the entrance form to Nicaragua it wanted to know if I was bring any "fresh food" into the country. I wasn't 100% sure what they meant by fresh. Did processed meat count? Just one more reason I hate customs... I always get so skiddish and fickle around goverment documents. I want to answer as truthfully as possible in case they try to keep me out of the country. I'm that person who is always leaning over to their neighbor on the plane asking "When they say print your information do they mean in all caps or can we use lower case?" "When they ask the purpose of this trip, does mission work count as a business stay?" "If we're supposed to add up how much money we're bringing into the country, how much do you think my watch costs?" Obnoxious. To both myself and anyone around me. So, as usual, I was kind of nervous about crossing the border and doing everything right so that in 4 days I could come back INTO the country I was now trying to leave.
This border crossing in Penas Blancas, near the Pacific coast, is in the middle of nowhere. There is nothing around it but dirt fields and bushes. When we got off the bus to get our passports stamped, there was a mob of Nicaraguans and Ticos waiting for us with stacks of currency - Nicaraguan cordobas, Costa Rican colones, and American dollars. They were all yelling at us to exchange money with them before we entered the country. When we boarded back on the bus, we drove about 20 feet down the dirt road and stopped at customs. Here is where they checked our bags. Before we got off the bus, the driver collected all of our passports and left first. Let me tell you how unnerving it is to have your passport piled under about 50 others in the middle of the desert at a border patrol station in such bad condition I swear they built it in a day. We followed after, carrying our luggage. We didn't enter any building and there were no scanning machines set up to detect metal or other banned products. Instead, we were directed to put our bags up on a rickety wooden table in a line and wait. In about 30 minutes, a man came up (no uniform) and began to run his hand over the bags. He would randomly stop and unzip one, skip a few, pat a couple, and he was done. We were all cleared. We went back to the bus and had the driver read our passport names out loud like he was calling out attendance in a first grade classroom. We would then come forward and board the bus - me, clutching my passport to my heart like I'd found my lost child in the supermarket.
I met a few very nice women on the bus who were coming to visit their families in Nicaragua. Actually, most of the bus was made up of Nicaraguans living in Costa Rica coming back to visit their family. When I arrived in Managua at the bus station I realized I didn't have service there and had to use a bus worker's cell phone to call Mike who was coming to pick me up. I hugged all the women goodbye, some of them introduced me to their families who came to pick them up and others gave me their numbers in case the "gringo" who was supposed to pick me up didn't come. They told me I could stay with them. I thanked them and they left. While I waited for Mike I had a long conversation with an old man sitting in the waiting area of the bus terminal. He spent 30 minutes telling me about how dirty the country was and how he hoped the new president would fix it.
The day I arrived in Nicaragua was their election day for the next presidential term. It probably wasn't the best idea arriving on such a politically charged day, but Mike assured me that if anything was going to happen, it would be after the new president was announced, not before. Mike and his host sister picked me up at the terminal and we headed back to their house.
I met Mike's host family which consisted of his host mother, her four daughters, one son, one son-in-law, and one grandson - all living under the same roof. Including Mike, a total of 9 - 10, including me. It was fantastic. The children ranged from ages 23 to 40-something. Some with kids, some married, others not. Teachers, students, some worked for the church, the son for a veterinarian's office. The sisters would often joke him by asking him if he killed any dogs that day. One of his responsibilites is to put the animals down. Their father, the host mom's husband, died 6 years ago from cancer. Even though it had been years, it still seemed fresh on their minds and not a topic of light conversation. He seemed to be still very missed. He was an architect and set the family up very well financially. The grandson, Mathias, is about 2 years old and is paralyzed below the waist. His mother, Gloria, didn't know she was pregnant until months into the pregnancy. The doctors said these disabilities came from not taking the right vitamins during her first trimester. This doesn't slow Mathias down though. If he is left alone on a couch, he will scoot his way to the edge, drop himself on the floor with his arms, and army crawl across the floor, his legs trailing behind. He can move too. I have never seen a toddler move that fast - functional legs or not. The family surrounds him with love though. He is especially close with his mom. He sings and makes funny faces all the time. He is special.
The family welcomed me in that first day like I was one of them. I think they probably get used to taking on whoever comes in their housing living with 9 people under one roof. People are always coming in and out with new people. It's like a restaurant. They had set me up a room with my own bathroom. It was even nicer than what I have going in San Jose. I was surprised. Especially considering the number of people they had to house.
That night, and most nights after it, after dinner we would drag chairs, tables and other furniture out to the sidewalk to sit and talk. The streets were made of stones and reflected the streetlights well. Days in Nicaragua are unbearably hot, but the nights are sent from summer heaven - fresh breeze, warm air. What I liked most about Managua was the openness of it. There were always kids playing soccer in the streets, making goals out of doorways and dodging cars like they were the defense. Down the street you could see hundreds of people lining the streets sitting on their doorstep or propped up next to a tree on the sidewalk. Old men playing dominos, young men playing cards. Youth gathered around somebody's motorcyle, laughing and chasing each other in circles. It reminded me a lot of the Dominican Republic - a country financially poor and spiritually rich. Entertainment found in your neighbor, not in your Xbox.
Christina, Mike, and I spent the next few hours on the sidewalk, sharing soda and watching life unfold in the streets of Managua.
Day 2
The next day I woke up pretty late as most 10-hour bus rides at 5am can take a lot out of you. That afternoon I walked across the street and saw where Mike works. He introduced me to all his co-workers and explained to me what he does. He told me that he essentially organizes all the trips for delegations from the US to visit the Nicaraguan Lutheran church. This means he reserves hotel rooms, travels to the country with them, translates, etc.
That night Mike, his host mom, and I went out for dinner. They were dying to take me to try "papusas." Now, they explained, papusas are originally from El Salvador, but luckily a woman from there had moved to Managua and made the best papusas in town. As many "restaurants" in Central America, this woman ran her business from her home. Every day she takes out her plastic chairs and tables and sets them up in the sidewalk in front of the door of her house. She ties a tarp with rope to two trees for shade and BAM! - instant restaurant. She also cooks all her food outside using an electric stovetop and a frying pan.
Papusas are hard to explain because they sound so normal but taste so different; however, it is essentially bread/tortilla/empanada doughy material that is filled with a combination of things. You can order a pupusa with chicken, cheese, beans, mushrooms, beef, or all of the above. They are delicious. We sat outside at the tables and ate them, slowly. I was so stuffed by the end of that meal I could hardly breathe.
On the walk home Mike's host mom, a short, short woman, grabbed both of our arms and we escorted her down the street. The buildings and houses here are extremely run down. The paint is chipping, the wood is warped, and there is trash in most of the gutters; however, I felt very at home here. I'm not sure what percentage of that has to do with my travel experience and what percentage has to do with the security of his host mom's arm around my waist as we walked in-sync, step by step, down the road on only the second night I had known her. She, and so many others down here like the women from the bus or the families in El Jardin, remind me so much of my host mom in Chile. It wasn't three hours after we arrived that she was walking with us down the street, a hand on each of our backs, calling us her "hijas" or daughters.
Many Latin Americans have told me that they consider North Americans to be "cold." "What do you mean by cold?" I would always ask. "Well, they just don't like to be touched, and they always want their space, and they take forever to warm up to someone." I couldn't deny any of those accusations as I thought about my interactions with people I met for the first time. But when I think about the culture down here, I can't deny my anger when someone behind me is standing in line and keeps pushing up against my backpack - no apologies. Or when a woman sits down next to me on the bus and lays half of her grocery bags on my lap. No, I don't like to be touched. Yes, I like my space. But if I have to take the intrusions and smotherings of strangers to walk into someone's life one night here and be considered a part of the family the next, I'll do it. The gain of that easy, open, unassuming, non-judgemental, welcoming friendship means more than all of that. They are a passionate people looking for, above all else, one more person to share this life with.
So, I left that night full of papusas and appreciation for a culture so different from my own - the good and the uncomfortable.
Day 3
The next day passed much like the last - I visited Mike at his work, ate lunch with his host mom, took a walk around the block with Mathias. They had somehow acquired a wheelchair so we would often wheel Mathias around the neighborhood, trying to teach him how to use it as he will the rest of his life. As we passed the neighbors on the street, they would always wave to Mathias and tell him what a good job he was doing. Mothers braiding their daughters hair in their front yard would stop and applaud him. Others would yell words of support to the mother and tell her how great it was to get him started early and allow him to be self-sufficiently mobile. It takes a village and they were going to raise one heck of a boy. I was moved by the interest and concern all the neighbors took in this boy's life; in this family's struggles.
That night, after dinner, the son, Ronnie, invited to take me out on his motorcyle to see the city. I immediately agreed and we went downtown to sightsee. He first took me to the port on the coast of Nicaragua Lake. We walked around the dock and he showed me where the old dock used to be, under the water now as the water levels had risen so high. He told me that the president was planning on cleaning up the lake because it was too dirty to swim in now. He didn't seem to convinced it would happen though. We then went to Plaza Victoria downtown where there was a massive Christmas tree made up strictly of lights. The strings of lights were layered at different heights and their brilliant red, orange, yellow, green and blue colors gleamed off of the white poles that gave them their foundation. In this plaza there were also about 10 different amusement park rides that the president, running for re-election, had ordered to be put in there a couple weeks before elections. The rides were completely free and open to the public. He had also hired bus drivers to shuttle the people back to their home for free. Talk about bribing the voters, huh? After that we walked up to another plaza across the street that had the national palace and an old cathedral. It was beautiful at night lit up by the dull yellow lights. The cathedral was closed off to the public because, as Ronnie explained it, it could collapse at any minute. I asked him if they were going to restore it, but he looked at me funny and said "but then it wouldn't be old anymore." I guess he had a point. Every street corner in downtown was lit up by Christmas lights, both tacky and elegant.
We also visited a memorial for the Sandinista party, the party who had won the elections a few days before. Now, there is some explaining to do about the politics of Nicaragua... Nicaragua claims to be a democracy. They have an executive, legislative, and judicial branch just like us. Under the constitution of Nicaragua it states that a president´s term is one single non-renewable term of 5 years; however, the president who won the election on Sunday, the day I arrived, will be serving his third term. He served first from 1985 - 1990. Then from 2006 to 2011. He will now serve again from 2011 to 2016.
I don´t know how you just bypass a constitutional law and I can´t imagine how our country would react to such blatant disregard. The ironic thing about this is Ortega, the president, was part of the revolution in 1979 in Nicaragua to break free from a dictatorship and he is now about to serve 15 years as president.
It was hard to understand because Ortega won by 65% of the votes. People celebrated in the streets the entire week I was there - waving flags on the side of the road, parties into the middle of the night, wearing Ortega t-shirts every day. But then there were also riots and fights between supporters of each party, the other claiming that Ortega corrupted the election and won unfairly. Most people I met and saw seemed pleased with the results, but there was a part of me that wondered if they didn´t mind being blinded by the dazzle of free amusement parks and shuttle services. I wondered if they weren´t as invested in future of the country as the here and now. As an outsider, I only hope Ortega has more plans to improve that beautiful country of Nicaragua than carnival rides.
We got home safely that night, but not before Ronnie showed me how to drive his motorcycle on a vacant side road. I'm a quick learner, who wore a helmet the whole time, Mom and Dad.
Day 4
My last full day in Managua, Mike told me he was going to take me to a lagoon. It sounded so tropical and Hawaii-ish that I was up at the crack of dawn getting ready for the day. We got one of the drivers from the church to take us in an old pick-up truck. The lagoon was in a town called Masaya, about 45 minutes outside of Managua. We went to a private access location through a hostel called "The Monkey Hut." When we passed through the lobby, we walked out and this greeted us:
It was gorgeous. Mike told me that this used to be a volcano but since it became dormant years ago, the crater filled up with water and was now a lagoon, or Lake Masaya officially. We spent the entire day lying in hammocks, floating in intertubes, diving off docks, and soaking up the sun. It was relaxing to say the least.
We ate lunch and had a riveting conversation with the driver about whose "gallo pinto" was better - Costa Rica's or Nicaragua's. Remember, gallo pinto is the meal made up of rice and beans that EVERYONE eats for EVERY meal both in Costa Rica and Nicaragua. I hesitated to answer, and the driver, Jose, immediately reminded me where I was. I smiled and said "Nicaragua's for sure." He seemed pleased with my response, disregarding completely manipulative tactic he took to get that answer. Rivalry between Nicaragua and Costa Rica is an understatement.
As I've told you before, there are many Nicaraguans, both documented and undocumented, living in Costa Rica. Many move there for more job opportunities, better standard of living, etc. This, nevertheless, generates tension between the two nationalities and this rivalry is extremely evident in both countries. From my limited time in Nicaragua, I would say that they feel underestimated, judged, and unvalued by Costa Ricans. I think Costa Ricans feel taken advantage of, robbed, and entitled to a country, government, and resources that they feel are for their use only. I refuse to make any political statement about this situation, only to say that as an outsider, this is what the animosity was centered around to me.
The day was a peaceful day though and I returned sun burnt and tired.
That night Mike took me to the youth meeting at the church across the street. They opened it up with a bible study in which the leader, Mike's boss, talked to the youth about the Protestant Reformation and what that means for us as Lutherans today. This woman, the leader, was somewhat of a fireball. She treated bible study like an army drill and pelted the students with questions, refusing to move on to another student until she got an answer from the first. One time we literally waited for over 3 minutes for a girl to respond, and trust me, 3 minutes is a LONG time to wait in a class. I wish she would have said anything. The youth obviously respected the leader though and she demanded their attention. She had rules and she intended to enforce them. The students knew exactly what was expected of them and did their best to deliver. At the end of the service they sang some songs and then ate pizza. It was a nice way to end the trip.
Day 5
11-hour return to San Jose. Arrived exhausted. Caught a cold from everyone in the house. Worth it.
