Monday, February 6, 2006

We had Chinese for lunch. (Is there anywhere in the world where you can not get Chinese food? Just wondering.) The lemonade was salty. A mistake, or just the Nica style? I liked it, Michael didn’t. When we had finished up, Michael struck up a conversation with our neighbors, a father and daughter. It turned out that the father was originally from Nicaragua but had moved to the U.S. when he was four, and was now moving back and bringing his daughter so she could learn Spanish. The family is renting a fabulous home for $250 USD a month.

As Michael and her father started to talk, the little girl, Nixy, glommed right on to me. “When you were my mother’s age, seven,” she asked me, “did you like the Power Puff Girls?”

“When I was seven, we didn’t have the Power Puff Girls.”

“Oh,” she said politely. “But did you like the Power Puff Girls?”

“Well I guess I would have liked them.”

She showed me her Power Puff Girls backpack and I asked her which was her favorite. She likes the pink one. Then she wanted to know which was my favorite, so I picked the green one.

She asked me if I had any sisters and when I told her no, she said, “When you grow up and then maybe you’ll have a baby and she can be your sister and you’ll tell her you like the green Power Puff Girl and you can be the blue one and then she’ll say, ‘No, I want to be the pink one!’”

And really, what do you say to that?

She showed me all her mosquito bites, so I showed her mine, and then she found some more on my forehead. Which were not really mosquito bites; my skin has been really oily lately, but ok, let’s go with the mosquito bite thing. She wanted to smell my breath and when I declined, she made me smell hers. She wiggled her loose tooth for me. She put copious amounts of my lip balm on me and then on herself. She told me about her cat named Fifi, her dog named Cookie, her turtle named Jenny and her bird whose name I forgot.

She said her daddy was going to get her a bunny rabbit and also a horse. I asked her where she was going to keep the horse and she said, “Outside. You can’t keep him inside because he might pee!” She said this very frantically, as though the horse was on the verge of peeing right at that moment.

In the meantime, Michael was having a grownup conversation with her father, who turned out to be from Bluefields, which is where we’re heading next, en route to the Corn Islands. He said the road is much better now, whereas two or three years ago it was horrible (which is how the LP describes it). He also said the bus they have now is really good, like Greyhound, no, better than Greyhound and the 45 mph boat ride from Rama to Bluefields is great and that we should take our hats off and get our cameras out. He said everyone in Bluefields speaks English.

Later that night, we met another kid, Nixon. Age twelve, he’s a shoeshine boy, a “lustrador” as he taught us. He came up to us with the usual spiel and when we declined a shine, he sat with us. His Spanish was a little hard to understand, but he told us he couldn’t go to school because he needed a backpack and notebook.

We’ve heard these things before, but there was something about him. And then as we were talking to him, some other kids came up. “One peso?” one of them asked Michael, but offhand and perfunctorily, like a kid checking a payphone for quarters as he walks by. Then he swatted at Nixon’s shinebox and gave him a rude look.

“Amigos?” Michael asked him.

“No.”

I think the obnoxious kids picking on him touched us as much as anything Nixon actually said about himself. We chatted with him a bit about general stuff, where we’re all from, etc. Then Nixon brought up being hungry. He said he hadn’t had breakfast.

So Michael said, “Let’s buy him some food,” and asked Nixon what he liked. Nixon lit up and specified a nearby cart. “Venden Maruchan!” he said excitedly. (“They sell Maruchan!”) I told him how much I like Maruchan and we all smiled. We walked very very quickly to the cart. I wonder if Nixon thought we’d change our minds.

At the cart, which was large, well lighted and semipermenantly placed, Michael asked him what flavor Maruchan he wanted (pollo) and then ordered. Then he wanted to know what Nixon wanted to drink, but we couldn’t understand him so he talked directly to the people. He had he choice of a glass or a bag, and he chose to have his drink in a glass (plastic). He drank it in about three seconds flat.

The cart lady hooked up Nixon’s Maruchan with ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, and Worstishire sauce, which is I guess how they do it here. Man, Central Americans love pre-adding the condiments for you. Nixon was delighted with his soup. I mean, he really looked happy. This cost us 20 cordobas, just over $1 USD.

I assumed I’d feel good afterwards, but I didn’t, I felt sad. It’s great that Nixon got lucky and had a little treat, but what about tomorrow night? It would have been nice to have really done something for him. Still, I’m glad Michael had the idea of buying him food. He is such a good guy.

At dinner we met some Americans from Oklahoma, and their Nicaraguan neighbor. It’s been long time since we’ve seen gringas in full-face makeup. They smelled good too. It was a daughter visiting her mother. The father is a pastor who felt called to come to Nicaragua and teach local pastors who have not been able to afford training. They came over with the maximum allowable stuff and now whenever a family member visits them, they bring a couple of giant duffle bags full of more of their things. They were super nice people.

We also saw the gringos from our bus. We were headed towards each other on the dark street. When we were about five feet away from them, the girl suddenly turned the guy away from us and they started walking back the way they came. We were walking faster than they were, so we had to walk around them. Michael said buenas noches, and that’s when they “noticed” us and returned the greeting. What’s their problem?

 

Post a comment:

Name:
Email:
URL:
A pig says:
Comment: (HTML is allowed)

Michael got Spoken To by a security guard with a giant gun after taking this photo of the side of a bank without asking the guard's permission.

The streets of Esteli.

Fancy graffiti is popular in Esteli.

We liked Esteli's Cathedral because it was so clean and smooth looking, like a glass of milk. Here it is at dusk.

Hotel Sacuanjoche, Esteli. We are always having to wait outside the locked door for someone to notice we're there.

Part of Central America's grand plan to make sure Michael and I come home with absolutely no unanswered questions about each other's intestinal processes. Yes, that is a clear shower door between toilet and bedroom.

Sunset over Esteli.