Nicaragua: saying goodbye to old man 2015

We were expecting a lot more noise on New Year's Eve. But on our strip of Nicaraguan beach, it was our own party who had the most tonnage of fireworks. We had stocked up on an unregulated armory of explosives from the holiday vendors lining the north road out of the colonial town of León. We had roman candles firing 100 little fireballs, chunky mortars that exploded just a couple stories above our heads, and an assortment of rockets held together by twine and newspaper (I am exaggerating slightly). But in the end, it was probably the pretty, deadwood bonfire that best expressed the mellow vibe of our week along Las Peñitas beach.

Momotombo, on the shores of Xolotlán Lake.

Forget bottle rockets, Nicaragua's terrain has its own natural fireworks; during the our landing at Managua's airport, we saw several volcanos dotting the landscape like pyramids, wisps of smoke drifting from their points. Driving around the giant lake, or through the dry savannah of the province, the volcanoes were never far from view. Of course, coming from Jamaica, we expected things to be different, plus we were pleased to be traveling in an hispanic land again. What we did NOT expect, as we left Managua in our rental car, was to be flagged down at a policía checkpoint. We had made the mistake of giving them the excuse to stop us (crossing a solid white line in an effort to change lanes for the checkpoint), but Jennifer sweet-talked them and let slip our government credentials and teased and by the end, the comandante was laughing, shaking my hand and trying out his English on us. To be fair: it seems an orderly country, this traffic stop was less sketchy than experiences with police in Peru or the Dominican Republic or, even, Orange County.

The lady in León

The wide main roads are lined by modern reflectors and people drive safely. Which is not to say that there aren't 3rd world road hazards, I'm thinking of the 6yr olds darting across the lanes, the ubiquitous horse-drawn wagons, and the colorfully belching buses. But one of those horse wagons actually had a headlight, a metaphor for this country in transition. After a couple hours of hours outside of Managua, the highway disappeared into León, a confusing criss-cross of cobblestone streets. We would come to León several times over the week; it's a town that goes back to the days of the conquistadores, with several propped-up churches, low pastel buildings, and a mix of vendors, beggars, bank guards with shot guns, and middle-class folk going about their business. Being the week between Christmas and New Year, holiday sugar sculptures were sold by the main church, and we saw many life-size papier-mache sculptures of old men positioned around town, representing the year gone by. Several times we stumbled upon a traditional costume in which the figure of a gowned woman would be carried on the shoulders, making her appear double-tall while her dress hid the human below. The main plaza even had a 2-story high female figure that represented, I was told, the early Spaniards. In addition to all this colonial history, the town has a university and is considered a birthplace of the Sandinista revolution. Indeed, blue-white Nicaragua flags are joined with Sandinista flags, there are revolutionary murals, and highway posts are painted telltale black and red.

Anyway, we eventually rediscovered the route out of León (thanks Google maps!), and 20 minutes later we were welcomed by family at the beach house in Las Peñitas. This was to be a vacation with my Jennifer's brother and his family, the younger of his two daughters running around covered with nothing more than pampers, a necklace, and sand on her butt. With his wife, her true-California parents, and her naturalist brother, we all slipped easily into beach mode, la vida en la playa. 

Las Peñitas is a strip of beach houses and hostels along a couple kilometers of sand that terminates at a mangrove estuary and fishing village. It's not an undiscovered place, there are at least as many low-budget travelers as locals working the shrimp farm or fishing, but it's still a tourist spot in its infancy and feels relatively real. The housekeeper prepared handmade tortillas, tostones (fried plantain), and whatever seafood we had. Several mornings, I went back onto the rough dirt roads to get fresh shrimp or mackerel or mystery fish from sellers whose total overhead seemed to consist of two Igloo coolers, a scale, and some ice. After learning what shrimp juice in the upholstery smells like, I would hang my purchases out the car window for the short drive back to the house. We were lucky to catch the once-per-week produce truck at our door and, once, a lady on a bike offered to sell us turtle eggs (legal this time of year). There were warm waves to bodysurf, a nice little pool and hammocks on the patio. We drank cold Toña beer or watermelon daiquiris and I sipped good Flor de Caña rum, playing cards or boardgames, pulling our chairs out to the water's edge every sunset. 

Egrets and herons in the mangroves, with Andy,
brother-in-law of my brother-in-law.

One morning we hired a boat to take us into the mangrove swamp that's protected from the ocean by a long, sandy island. My boat went far enough that our guide had to hack our way through by machete, eventually bringing us out into a wide, open estuary alive with herons, egrets and ibis. The area is a nature preserve, but also supports about 30 families. We pulled over and went out to the oceanside sand, free of footprints, and took a look at a turtle nursery, with about 20 nests simple bagged up in burlap, and some hatchlings in a bucket, waiting to be set free at nightfall. 

Turtle eggs and ceviche.

We also found our way to Chinandega, the next major town, for a Nicaraguan baseball league game between the Tigres de Chinandega and the Orientales. Most fans walked to the low, concrete stadium, so when before the fence to the dusty parking lot was even opened for us, several enterprising boys were vying for our business, running in front to show us the way, promising to watch our car. Inside, as the seats filled up, the noise level grew and grew. The kids in our group grinned, for once given license to be as loud as possible, and there seemed to be at least two brass bands among the spectators. The beer vender threw ice-cold cans over our heads to the rows behind, and vendors roamed with shrimp ceviche or turtle eggs for sale. As in any baseball park, love of the game was palpable, and emotions ran high on the field. After an amazing diving catch and a possible early tag-up from 3rd base, we all jeered and booed when an opposing player almost came to blows with the umps. With young kids, we left in the 6th inning, but not before stopping for some savory BBQ from the ladies cooking meat just outside the stadium. By now there was a much larger group of boys, looking for silver but also just hanging around our strange group of gringos. We were able to recognize our muchacho by his Sponge-Bob shorts, and he ran ahead, showing us the exit we already knew.

Uncle Adam, Carter and Cousin Lark

Getting around in a pickup, local style.

Selling candied apples.

Fresh tortilla with queso fresco, shrimp cocktail

Westmoreland

Recently, the tourist town of Negril held its Reggae Marathon. So after Carter and I dropped off some Peace Corps racers in town, he and I backtracked to meet up with Jennifer (who had been out on site visits). We're meeting at a place in the hills, a funky retreat known for its open-kitchen dinner demonstration featuring farm-to-table organics grown there on the property. This is all courtesy of an anniversary gift-certificate from my dad and his wife. I've passed through Little London before, but this time instead of turning towards the sea, or proceeding on to the tourist town of Negril, we turned north into the cane. As you can imagine, sugarcane has an ugly history of enslavement, but it is also Jamaica's biggest export, and it takes up much of the flat, arable land. It is an ongoing topic here, valued for the income it brings, but sugar has also squeezed small farmers up the hillsides and, ultimately, Jamaica is forced to import much food that its own earth could produce. So we drive through the corridor of cane until we turn up a rough lane, exchanging greetings with machete men on the road, "alright," "blessings," and "yes, boss." It feels like country. Rough-hewn fences, a donkey, boys at the creek in their underwear, a shack that serves as the local bar.

Early morning start to the marathon.

To get to Westmoreland parish from Kingston, you follow the sun towards the west until you run out of island. We were there because Jennifer was doing the half-marathon in Negril but, because we had opted to stay farther inland, we all had to be up at 3:30 am to be sure Jen was in Negril for the 5:15am starting gun. After dropping her off, Carter and I started walking along the dark course. There were not a lot of spectators along the way, in fact there were probably as many people still walking on the road after a night of partying. Carter took a cat nap on a store's porch, but eventually the runners came, padding in the dark, and we found a steel-drum band. Several Peace Corps volunteers were running too, so Carter and I had plenty of people to cheer for in the 10k, the half and the full marathon. At the finish line, with the sun now up and a reggae band playing, runners took their medals and happily plunged into the sea. One Peace Corps guy took 7th place in the marathon and the Peace Corps women took 2nd as a team in the 10K. Perhaps most impressive was not a winner at all, an overweight volunteer who determinedly finished the marathon just 10 minutes before they closed the course, at 11:50am...almost 7 hours of running, much of it in full tropical heat.

"It's like a treehouse!" -- hanging around on the balcony

The volunteers all went off to enjoy themselves, while our family headed back to our retreat in the hills. The place is a handful of simple huts on a hillside, owned by a white dude with dreads and his Jamaican wife. "It feels like a treehouse," said Carter. Upon our return, we discovered a group of 7th Day Adventist ladies and children at the gate, all dressed to the nines despite the dust, wanting very much to pray with us. Jen and I availed ourselves of massages, though Jennifer's was rather comically marred by a marital spat between the owners in which the wife called him out for trying to act too Jamaican. The neighborhood is small, a community of small one-room homes tucked in foliage, and everyone seems to have their role to play. A man named G.G. showed Carter and I the way to the local swimming hole, where the water is crisp and the mud is squishy, and along the way he called out to folk invisible to me and pointed out hallmarks of the place: Mama Pinky's bodega, the ackee tree, the benches by the painted bridge where the people come together on Sunday evenings.

Dinner at the kitchen.

Evening brought a farm tour and then dinner in which the chefs prepare everything in front of you and talk about the local ingredients. The "sushi roll" appetizer, for instance, substituted shredded, fresh coconut for rice and plantain instead of fish. All washed down with fresh sorrel punch...made from ginger and sorrel (a dark, red hibiscus brought over by West Africans during the slave trade).


I snuck away Sunday morning and drove myself down to a rustic bay well off the beaten path. Snorkeling around the little reef was satisfying, though I did not see all that much, and I was back in time for breakfast at the retreat. And then it wasn't long until Carter and I were back on the road, driving the 4 hours back to Kingston. We stopped for patties, turnovers of flaky crust and savory filling, Jamaica's fast-food...and thus satiated, a fun weekend came to a close.

A Night in a Kingston ER

I think that when I got groggily out of bed at 1am, my thought was that I was up just to go pee. But 30 minutes later the pain was so blinding that the drive to the hospital is only a blurred memory. Which is not to say I neglected to offer Jennifer my idea of the most efficient route (I think I could be crossing the river Jordan with the specter of death and still be cocky about the best route).  Anyway, looking at the little kidney stone now, it's hard to believe the bastard capable of inflicting such pain. But upon arrival, the doctor's blasé demeanor was so profound that I realized I was probably not going to die. I was, however, destined to sit there in a chair for the next 13 hours.

First-world eyes are apt to recoil from what healthcare in developing nations looks like. Dingy tiles and rusty railings, with jerry-rigged wiring and bare bulbs. Yet I was in so much pain, that the nurse who put a shot of painkiller in my ass seemed like the pristine angel of Florence Nightingale. Yes, I was seen to relatively quickly: examined, blood drawn, pain-killer administered, and finally shunted over to sit in one of 7 chairs for those of us not deserving of a gurney. Later I would come to appreciate my luck in getting one of the 3 slightly padded chairs, for it was my new home for every excruciating micrometer of my stone's passage from kidney to bladder.

Through it all, I could not fault the staff; they did what was necessary for me while juggling the considerably more serious emergencies that emerge out of the Kingston night. Of those on the gurneys was a gunshot (stabbing?) victim who screamed in pain when treated and had periodic visits by different wailing women. There was a loco tied to the bed who sat glaring for a couple hours, then began to holler obscenities and pleas while his mother tried to get him to shut up. Constables brought one in and fastened him to the gurney with handcuffs. Over in the non-critical, seated section, there was me, groaning and spasming while some people snored, until the stone passed and they gave me some morphine and I joined the snorers as the sun came up.

Daylight brought a shift change and my family of compadres on the chairs seemed to be suddenly gone. New folk came, but it wasn't the same...I was strangely comforted by the loco who continued to yell, for it meant my night had not been a dream. There I stayed, in my chair, for many more hours while I was given several bags of intravenous hydration, waiting for lab results that would not come until 2:30pm. Jennifer brought me food and chocolates that I shared with my new friends on the chairs. The embassy nurse and doctor stopped by, and I couldn't help be embarrassed by their attention, their efficiency, the fact that two well-dressed white women were swooping in make sure the one white guy in the ER was OK. Don't get me wrong, if I ever really thought I was in danger, I would have gotten over my embarrassment pretty quick.

Then I was shunted off to the non-emergency room next door for a couple hours. It was just me with mostly old folk. At one point, a lady was wheeled in a chair next to me, and she was groaning and spasming and crying in pain. I waited a long time, but finally could only imagine she too was passing a kidney stone (she wasn't) and asked if she wanted to hold my hand. It was a relief when they took her away to get a dose of morphine and by the time she returned, dozing, they were finally ready to let me go home. That was yesterday at 3pm. This morning I went pee and heard "tink" as the little bastard ultimately found his way out of my body and into the porcelain bowl.