small thing #1: hairbrush

I am finding it difficult to write entries lately. Not for lack of topics to write about, but because I feel so inadequate explaining the complexity of my life down here--even things that may seem simple, like my daily routine, or my trip to Granada this weekend. I feel a burden of explanation and honesty. But the honesty I would like to portray is difficult to access from my limited perspective and without better language skills. The story is always much longer than any of us want to endure.

I am going to try to write about small things, and perhaps with a collection of tiny windows into this life, you will all be able to piece together something more true that any summary I could compile.

small thing #1: Hairbrush

I have been meaning to buy a hairbrush for weeks. The handle snapped off a while ago, and now I have only the bristle-barrel head to straighten my tresses. Each time I try to use it, my fingers get in the way, knuckling my scalp without brushing much at all.

Brushes are not very expensive. I can afford a brush. I saw one in the supermarket for about 80 cords (4 dollars), but I didn't buy it. In fact, I stared at it for a good 5 minutes before I decided that it was a bad deal, that no Nicaraguan would buy this brush, so why should I. And I left. Without the brush. That was probably 2 weeks ago.

I keep telling myself that I will go to the mercado and buy a brush, that I will save a tremendous amount--possibly 60 cords! I imagine myself hopping off the bus and strutting into the market, determined to locate and purchase my brush. All of the merchants ask me what I am looking for, and I say, in perfect Spanish, "I would like to buy a hairbrush, can you tell me where I ought to go?" I don't mend my tense to simplify the sentence or stumble over conjugation. My prepositions are precise and accurate. All of the merchants widen their eyes in disbelief at my perfect Nicaraguan accent. They wonder if am, in fact, Nicaraguan.

Then, when I find my brush, I shrewdly talk the price down from 40 cords to 30, possibly even 25. When the moment is right, I pay in exact change and exit the market. I know how to leave without looking lost. I pass the hissing men, the young girls carrying daughters of their own, the women who reach out to caress my arm and entice me with pot holders and tupperware. And when they ask me, "What are you looking for?" I will say, "nothing. I have found what I need."

I wonder if my dream of the perfect market trip keeps me from actually going. Every day I pass the market twice on the bus. I look out the window at the huddling maze of zinc roofs and imagine, with even more precision, the scenario. Sometimes I even stand up as though I am about to get off. The possibility of exiting the bus without my prefect Spanish, of running into the market and stumbling through the interaction, of emerging with a brush other than that which I have so thoroughly imagined is terrifying and liberating at once.

The people on the bus go up and down

I take the bus to and from Spanish class every day. The trip takes about 30 mins in each direction. That's a full hour of intense, presonal Nucaraguense, a kind of daily informal orientation to Managuan life. And so, I bring you the Managuan bus system as I know and love it:

The bus lines are run by private entities, usually co-operatives, that own and maintain the buses. The fares are regulated by the government, but that's about it. Buses are generally old US school buses, and some are old European or Russian buses.

The companies paint the buses in their own color themes, so it sort of feels like you're joining a team by riding it (maybe that's just me). The red and white buses are lines 113 and 114. I don't know if this is a rule, or just a coincidence. I take the 114 almost every time I go to class. I imagine myself on the red and white team. Maybe our mascot could be the candy cane or a barber poll. More likely, however, it is Jesus in a red and white jeresy. That's right, Jesus. Pictures of Jesus can be found on any given wall of any given bus. If you didn't know who or what Jesus was, you might think that "Jesus" meant "bus" based solely on how many times it appears on Managua's public transportation system. Outside of Jesus's picture and name, the interior bus walls are usually covered in sayings and graffiti. Mostly, they address love, god, pain, fear, and otherwise abstract or intangible concepts. They are stenciled to the wall in the team colors. I imagine them as my mantras, words with meaning beyond meaning, words that will carry me through the intense populous that pours in and out of the mechanical doors.

Riding the bus feels more like a daily carnival than a commute. Often, as I walk up to the bus stop the 114 is waiting for me with an announcer outside the door yelling something like "114, 114! There's room for everyone! Come on! Ride the 114!" When I walk up, he usually says some variation of "Gringita, come ride my bus." This is one of the more polite phrases that Nicaraguan men yell at me, luckily I don't usually understand them.

Then I hop on and pay my 2.50 (~15 cents) and find a seat. Often there are no seats, in which case I hold onto one of the bars that has been welded to the ceiling and coated with colorful plastic tape. The Managuan bus system's answer to nylon upholstery is plastic tape. When the bus takes off it weaves in and out of traffic honking its horn wildly at passers bye. If another bus of the same color (team) passes it, the drivers cheer at one another and honk their horns with fury. At each stop the bodies shuffle around one another to squeeze on or off. Usually, a vendor will hop on selling chicklets, bags of water, carmel peanut bars, or some other sweet snack for a cord or two. He will push his way down the isle, stepping on feet, pressing his candies against the backs and heads and arms of people. He will ask me three or four times if I want a candy. Just in case, he tries again in broken English. I am pleased by his persistence, his generosity of time and manner. I feel a little bad that I will not be buying candy.

The bus offers me a little journey into the pulse of a populous I can't communicate with (yet). It presses me against strangers, jostles my belongings, makes me a little worried about whether I will ever get off. It lets me touch and smell and hear the normalcies of Managuan life. Each day I feel a little more like I might become one of those normalcies--the little gringa with a plastic bag who rides from Las Piedrecitas to the FNI and back again . I imagine myself as part of other people's commutes, less of a spectacle.

Hello from the House with the Gray Door

As my plane descended into Managua, I could see them beaming into the night sky, pulsating out from an otherwise sparsely-lit metropolitan area: McDonald's golden arches. Gringos had branded the flight path into Nicaragua with that emblematic nod to mass-produced coronary failure. I began to wonder if McDonald's had actually paid the airport to align the runway so that incoming passengers would pass conveniently overhead. But I digress...

I've marked each paragraph's main topic in bold, so you can read selectively, if you like.

I arrived in Managua on Monday night. Rick picked me up from the airport with all 5 of my bags. (For those of you who are wondering, the computer tower made it safely, but the rolling duffel has some battle wounds.) We got a cab from the airport to our house in Las Piedrecitas (The small stones), a neighborhood in southwest Managua. The cab ride (30 mins) was 6 dollars, roughly 120 cordobas. The cab drove right by the new American embassy complex, which is just down the road from us. Compared to the rest of the city, the embassy looks like a fortress. Its definitely not an exercise in modesty, but that's about what I would expect from a country with our track record.

Our house is wonderful. There are 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, a kitchen, living room, laundry room, and some awesome porch space. We also have a great garden and some fruit trees out back. Just in case this sounds like total paradise, we don't have any hot water, which makes showering a little more brisk than usual. Also, the water tends to "go out" around 5PM and stay off until dawn. This adds a little challenge to dinner prep, but we are usually able to figure out something. We are especially lucky because we live across from a hospital, which means that we almost always have electricity, while most of Managua loses electricity after sunset.

Our roomates rock. Kevin and Rachel have lived here for roughly 5 months. Rachel works for Witness for Peace with Rick. Kevin does graphic design and pretty much operates as house handyman. He planted the garden and is currently building a little pin for the chickens we will be getting! Our other roomate, Patty, also works with Rachel and Rick. She is from Oregon and has some extended family here in Nicaragua. We had our first house meeting Wednesday night, where we decided we will consider getting 2 dogs for security (and for fun). The dogs are puppies that currently live at a neighbor's house. Everyone knows puppies are adorable, but these little guys drive it home.

On Wednesday we took a bus to a market down the road. It was pouring rain for most of the morning, so the market was operating at about 2/3 capacity. It is a total maze of cosmetics, household items, hardware stores, and food stands. Everyone is very friendly, and I was surprised to find that vendors didn't heckle us nearly as much as I expected. I think most people are just surprised to see white people. At one point a little girl who walked by yelled, "Adios Gringoita!" which pretty much means, "See ya later whitey!"

We wont need to go to the market too often because most of the things we need we can get right here in our neighborhood. In fact, there are vendors that walk around all the time selling ice cream, milk, doughnuts, and more. They know that gringos live in this house, so they will usually walk right up to our gate and yell inside. The ice cream man stands in the street out front ringing his bell for, literally, 20 mins every day. Our Nicaraguan friends, Martha and Loius, insist that we get ripped off at all the local vendors because we're Gringo. It's probably true, but the real truth is that we can afford to pay much more, so I suppose this is the barillo's own special communism--from each according to his/her ability, to each according to his/her need. The "rip off" prices are still much, much cheaper than we would pay in the states (2$ for a full lunch or dinner plate). I'm sure as we build relationships in the neighborhood the prices will start to drop a little, too.

On Thursday Kevin and I went to Price Smart. It is both an amazing and disturbing store. It is just like Costco in the States--you have to be a member and buy in bulk (we used Rick's boss's card). In fact, I'm pretty sure that Costco owns Price Smart b/c they have most of the same stuff, the same layout, and they only accept American Express. I was overwhelmed by the place, myself, and obly bought a few items. The prices are pretty high by Nica standards, and the tax is murder (15%!). Kevin, who has been here for longer, went on a total splurge, getting everything from Kraft mac and cheese to frozen burritos. I can see myself at that point in a few months.

Overall, I think of Managua as Los Angeles' shabby doppelganger--it has no functioning metropolitan center, sprawls outward into loosely connected neighborhoods, and is lined with strip malls. Also, the bus system is abysmal, and, oh yes, the air carries that distinct flavor of diesel. That being said, Managua, like LA, has an undeniable draw to it. There is so much to discover that I don't even know about yet. At first I wasn't sure that I wanted to be in Managua, because I had heard a lot of negative reviews. However, I'm very excited to be here. The resources that Managua offers will let Rick and I really make the most of our time in Nicaragua. Also, the ex-pat community here is vast and young--which makes for some great friends. We've hosted 3 parties at our house already, and will be having another one tomorrow night!

I'm going to try to update this blog regularly, and I would love comments and email from any of you. I miss you all very much, and look forward to sharing my adventures with you.

I'd better go make dinner now. Hopefully the water hasn't gone out yet...