I just re-read that last paragraph. And it makes the trip look simple. Please, consider, everywhere, we were accosted by taxi drivers who wanted to take us to our destination, ¨good price¨. Everywhere we went, we had to ask directions. We had to figure out if we had enough time to go pee before the next bus. We had to find food and potable drinking water. We had to make sure our things didn´t get stolen. The weather was sweltering. We had to wait for buses. Every time I had a question, I had to ask it in Spanish. Every time Laura had a question, she had to ask me and then I had to ask it in Spanish. Travel is exhausting.
When we got to Penas Blancas it was raining. A young boy handed us an entry form and we went into a building to get our passports stamped. All this was among a barage of people trying to get us to change our money with them and take their taxis to tourist places we didn't want to go. When we left the little building, the boy tried to make us pay for the paper he had given us. No way. And we also don´t want your taxi. Thanks. We crossed the border on foot and had our bags searched in such a way that if we had been seriously trying to smuggle anything it would never have been found. Then we filled out another paper which a boy insisted we pay for and then we walked around aimlessly while people shouted at us and pointed where to go next. The border does not have signs, or pathways, or lines. It is a 1km large complex of buildings, trucks, fences and people. Some of these things have to do with getting across the border. Some don´t. It´s like a game, you have to collect stamps, which you ¨pay for¨by filling out papers, in the correct order. You use your passport and your words, and your American dollars. Some people are friends. Some are enemies. Some are whistlers. Some are taxi pushers. Some are neutral.
When we got to Penas Blancas it was raining. A young boy handed us an entry form and we went into a building to get our passports stamped. All this was among a barage of people trying to get us to change our money with them and take their taxis to tourist places we didn't want to go. When we left the little building, the boy tried to make us pay for the paper he had given us. No way. And we also don´t want your taxi. Thanks. We crossed the border on foot and had our bags searched in such a way that if we had been seriously trying to smuggle anything it would never have been found. Then we filled out another paper which a boy insisted we pay for and then we walked around aimlessly while people shouted at us and pointed where to go next. The border does not have signs, or pathways, or lines. It is a 1km large complex of buildings, trucks, fences and people. Some of these things have to do with getting across the border. Some don´t. It´s like a game, you have to collect stamps, which you ¨pay for¨by filling out papers, in the correct order. You use your passport and your words, and your American dollars. Some people are friends. Some are enemies. Some are whistlers. Some are taxi pushers. Some are neutral.
We went through a plaza and came to another small office where we had to pay them and they were rude to us. Then we tried to find the bus to Rivas, but it was too late in the day and so we had to take a taxi. Again, this sounds simple. But. A. we did not factor a taxi ride into our budget. B. were they lying? Do the buses actually not run this late, or are they manipulating us because we have the money and they have the local knowledge? After about 40 minutes we got to our hostel. The building was very nice with antique decorations and an open-air courtyard in the center. We had to hang my lollipop from the ceiling fan with dental floss because it was being attacked by ants. I thought the ants would get it anyway, but they didn't! So I finished the lollipop for breakfast the next day.
It was around dinner time the first day that Laura´s and my differences began to surface and challenge us. For example, we had just gotten to Rivas in the dark and it was dinner time. We went out to go find food. Laura found a bar-restaurant that she wanted to go to. I don´t like bars. Bars are Laura´s favorite thing. We saw a little restaurant that I thought might be ok. Laura also thought it might be ok. But I wanted to see what else we could find, so I led the way down the dark, unfamiliar city street. Laura felt unsafe. I felt free and totally secure. She resented that I was endangering her by walking around a foreign city we had never been to before after dark. I resented that she was preoccupied with safety and I couldn´t explore when my gut instincts said it was safe. We compromised and had dinner for two dollars each at the little restaurant and I said I would try to be more sympathetic to the fact that while I feel at home in Latin America, she does not. While I have lots of information and linguistic power, she does not. I need to defer to her before making decisions for both of us.
The next morning we took a 2 hour bus to Grenada, Nicaragua's most beautiful colonial city. The buses here are all school buses with Christ's portrait painted on them. Each school bus has a name. While the bus was loading, vendors came on to sell jewelry, drinks in little plastic bags, chicken and rice in little plastic bags, coffee (in little Styrofoam cups), and candied peanuts in very little plastic bags. The men in this country are totally the worst. On the walk to the bus station, the police catcalled us and called us hotties and mares. THE POLICE.
When we got to Grenada we walked through a street market and checked into our hostel, then went looking for a panaderia to buy pastries. See, Laura is a fanatic for pastries. I have never met anyone who loved baked goods this much, especially such bad ones, who had such an eye for spotting them, and who would devote a great deal of time to seeking them out in a city where she can barely ask where to find them. But we didn´t find any acceptable ones. We checked out a few, but the pastries were unsatisfactory. When Laura asked where another panaderia was, people just glared at her and said, right here. Also we would say, where is there a panaderia, in Spanish, of course. People said, a what? A panaderia. A what? A panaderia! Oh, they would say, a panaderia! As if we had been mispronouncing the word the whole time. But it sounded exactly the same as when we said it. Impossible.
The next morning we took a 2 hour bus to Grenada, Nicaragua's most beautiful colonial city. The buses here are all school buses with Christ's portrait painted on them. Each school bus has a name. While the bus was loading, vendors came on to sell jewelry, drinks in little plastic bags, chicken and rice in little plastic bags, coffee (in little Styrofoam cups), and candied peanuts in very little plastic bags. The men in this country are totally the worst. On the walk to the bus station, the police catcalled us and called us hotties and mares. THE POLICE.
When we got to Grenada we walked through a street market and checked into our hostel, then went looking for a panaderia to buy pastries. See, Laura is a fanatic for pastries. I have never met anyone who loved baked goods this much, especially such bad ones, who had such an eye for spotting them, and who would devote a great deal of time to seeking them out in a city where she can barely ask where to find them. But we didn´t find any acceptable ones. We checked out a few, but the pastries were unsatisfactory. When Laura asked where another panaderia was, people just glared at her and said, right here. Also we would say, where is there a panaderia, in Spanish, of course. People said, a what? A panaderia. A what? A panaderia! Oh, they would say, a panaderia! As if we had been mispronouncing the word the whole time. But it sounded exactly the same as when we said it. Impossible.
Next we went to Masaya for a day trip. Masaya is a market town close to Granada that is know for its artisenal stuff. Our plan was to buy artisenal stuff. Actually, that was Laura´s plan because I have no room or money for stuff, but I like to watch. Laura wanted me to ask the guy at the desk in our hostel if the stuff they sold was good stuff. These are the kinds of questions I refuse to ask because I think it´s rude. These are the questions Laura needs to ask in order to make decisions. But Laura can´t ask herself because she doesn´t speak Spanish. But if I ask, it sounds like I want to know, and I would be embarrassed to ask such a question. This happened to us a lot.
We went anyway.
While waiting for the bus, seated on a wall overlooking a valley of trash, we were accosted by a crazy poor person. He was not well. He wanted us to give him money. We politely declined. He would not leave. He did not touch us but he was in our personal space. He would not leave. I had to deal with him because, of course, I speak Spanish. I was polite. After all, it hurt my feelings that this man was poor and starving and crazy and that my country has repeated politically raped his country. So I was polite. While I was speaking to this man, another man rode by on a motorcycle and made salacious tongue licking gestures at Laura. Two men also waiting for the bus watched the scene without reaction, without offering help to any of the characters.
Finally, the crazy guy left. The bus came.
Masaya had a lot of cheap tourist crap, much of which was factory produced. Also they had lovely urns that I would have bought, but can´t transport. Laura was disappointed, but we still shopped for hours. Our purchases:
Dulce de leche filled doughnuts (L)
Woven rainbow headbands (L & R)
Postcards (R)
Hand made artisenally crafted earrings (L)
Locally made chocolate (L & R)
A spoon (R)
A 6 lb papaya (R)
Cute shoes (R!)
Books in Spanish (Laura is beginning a library for herself to learn from) (L)
Also, my favorite thing about the market was this: apparently very popular were widely available paintings of various people taking a shit on the toilet. They were hysterically funny, with really original and laughable characters. I wanted to buy one for my mom. But again, transport was an issue.
We made it home, carrying the extremely ripe papaya in a plastic bag which was slowly leaking overripe papaya juice down my body as its softest spots got jostled. See, papayas, like most fruits, have a slim window of perfection. Often this occurs when their outsides have turned ugly and appear to be rotting. If you catch them right at the beginning of this turn, they are absolutely lovely. The next morning Laura and I discovered that my papaya was too far gone. Laura knew this all along, while my greed and hope had woven themselves into a mask of illusion at the time of purchase which induced me to believe I was buying a perfect fruit. It was a failure, and a loss, but also a learning experience. A learning experience that was erupting like the carcass of a dead whale all over the breakfast table. Meanwhile, Laura ate pastries.
Granada is a gorgeous city. The houses are painted in bright colors with bold colonial facades and carved wooden grates and paneling. The houses are enormous, sprawling events with open aired center gardens. It felt like another world, in another century.
Next we took a ferry from Granada to Ometepe, a volcanic island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. But that, as my parents used to say before bed, is a story for another time.
2 comments:
Oh my god, Rachel!!!!!! I would just DIE to have one of those paintings. As you know, I would proudly display it and I sense that it would fit right in with my bizarre interior decorating scheme. Thank you so much for thinking of me; it makes my heart sing.
I love you.
Mom
P.S. I totally get the shoe thing...no surprise there!
Oh, I forgot to mention: Ben was in a candy store right before Christmas and he said, "Mom! There are those totally cool giant colorful lollipops. I have never had one and I have always wanted to try one!" What a coincidence! Needless to say, it was one of his presents on Christmas morning. He, however, had no insect issues with his...only a bit of kitty hair. You and he must be on the same lollipop wavelength.
XOXO,
Mom
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