Category Archives: Nicaragua

The Comedy of Errors, Which is Our Life in Nicaragua*

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San Juan del Sur is a colorful town and I’m not talking about the buildings, though that is also true.  No, I am referring to the people: the colorful and often crazy-ass people.

On Sunday, after a lovely anniversary weekend with my darling husband, I rolled our car into a cement wall and broke the rear windshield.  It was certainly unintentional, but entirely my fault just the same.  Justin, meanwhile, was waiting for me at Bambu Beach Club with a specially prepared dinner, courtesy of our wonderful chef friend, German Eric.  Yes, we call him German Eric, not because there are other Eric’s in town, which there are, but simply because he’s German and thus deserving of the distinction…I guess.  There are plenty of other people in this town with similarly obvious and/or wonderful nicknames, including Irish John, Irish Peter, oh and Irish Paul.  There’s Yoga Larry, Bitchin’ Bill, the Chicken Lady, T-shirt Kathy, Hot Carl, the list could go on…

But that’s not who I’m talking about either…I am actually addressing the mentally distraught crazy people in this town.  Judge me for my lack of political correctness and empathy, but it’s true.  As my dear friend Sarah put it, “San Juan imports crazy people, remember.”

Today, not 24 hours after we got our car back from the mechanic with a glistening new rear windshield, someone threw a rock through it and broke it again.  Someone out for vengeance?  Nope.  Someone trying to break in and steal our radio…oh wait…that was stolen last year, so no.

I found out after Justin messaged me “guess who just smashed our rear windshield?”  Naturally, I assumed he was joking since we had just repaired the thing yesterday.  “Please tell me you are kidding,” I wrote back.”  “I am NOT kidding,” he says “Naked Guy.”

So, in typical Facebook-Dependant Style, I posted incredulously…”sooo…just repaired a broken rear windshield yesterday. Had the car for less than 24 hours and today, crazy guy in the street threw a rock at it and broke it.  Seriously? Really need to catch a break here…”  Those who live outside San Juan or Nicaragua replied quickly with “oh no’s” and “that sucks.”  One friend even suggested that I throw a rock back.  But those who live within the walls of this colorful little town inquired, “is the crazy stone-thrower back??” and “was it the semi-naked blond or the tall dark one??”  In a small town of just 18,000 people, we actually have such an array of certifiable residents that it wasn’t clear to anyone which crazy guy I was talking about.  “Always something interesting,” said George.

As Blue added, it “does make you wonder….I think those of us that live here have a line item in our budget ‘Nicadness’ which includes damages by crazy naked people, voodoo doctor requests etc.”

With little faith in a response or action, Justin made his way to the police station to report said crime.  In a surprising twist, they told Justin that they were aware of the problem, they’d received more complaints this week, and they were looking for the window smasher.  They even said they’d take him to a hospital in MGA to get some help.  Then the policeman added, “you should have just beat the shit out of him and thrown him in the estero (estuary).  At the very least, as Cesar put it, “These guys need to find a new hobby.”

[* kudos to Julie for the fitting title]

A brief follow up to our bad car karma – while the mechanic was working to repair the second broken windshield, he managed to smash our rearview mirror…

A Slice of Reality: Getting Pregnant and Giving Birth in a Foreign Country

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I sliced my finger on the lid of a spaghetti sauce can last night which sent me into a tailspin of panic.  Though painful and bloody, the cut was seemingly benign.  Nothing that a few stitches and a tetanus shot couldn’t take care of.   Yet my reaction was Oscar-worthy, rivaled only by the time I was dumped by my college sweetheart and slipped into a 2-month depression.

Since our move to Nicaragua, I’ve fallen down concrete hills, stepped on stingrays, and boarded down a volcano and survived, all of which resulted in memorable scars of our journey in Nicaragua.  So why was this latest notch on my bedpost of injuries invoking such anxiety?   The answer – I’m 5 months pregnant. 

Justin struggled to understand my hysteria.  As he fumbled thru the house in search of Band-aids and Bactine, I sobbed into the blood soaked towel wrapped around my finger and fretted about the possibility of a trip to the local Centro de Salud.  Having only been there once before for an anti-parasite prescription, I conjured up visions of rusty needles and disgruntled nurses.

My already pregnancy-laden hormonal thoughts had spiraled out of control into a place of utter fear that had very little to do with my finger and much more to do with this looming birth.  What if I went into labor early and couldn’t make it to Managua in time?  What if I had to give birth at the Centro de Salud.  What if I went to the Centro de Salud for this cut and they prescribed me something that could ultimately harm this developing baby inside me.  If Justin couldn’t find the Band-aids, how was he going to find the hospital in Managua, two and a half hours away?  What if, what if, what if?

As a self-proclaimed control freak/hypochondriac, pregnancy is bound to cause some level of anxiety in an expecting mom.  DSM-IV diagnoses aside, Pregnancy can cause moments of anxiety in any mom.  Mix it all together with a birth planned in Nicaragua, with Spanish speaking doctors, thousands of miles from family and you have the perfect recipe for an all out freak out, which is exactly what I did last night.  The finger will heal, with or without stitches, but what will happen to me and more importantly, to this baby that I have already been waiting 5 months to meet?

20 Weeks

Our original plan was to live in Nicaragua for a year, evaluate our experience, and then perhaps move back to the States, get desk jobs, set up home in an insanely expensive Boston suburb that we couldn’t afford and procreate.  Well, that was my plan.  But, as one year crept into two, both Justin and I began to discuss the possibility of having children abroad.  I wasn’t getting any younger and the economy in the States wasn’t getting any better.   After reviewing numerous birth scenarios (go home now, get jobs, get insurance, get pregnant; get pregnant here, get on a plane back to States for delivery; get over it and just do it), we decided to ignore the one piece of advice that my physician father tried to impart on us during regular visits, “just don’t get pregnant down there.”  Four months later, I was pregnant and we were overjoyed. 

By that time, we had met with one of the top OB-GYNs in the country at Vivian Pellas Metropolitano Hospital, discussed a prenatal plan, and witnessed some of our best friends, here in Nicaragua, get pregnant and give birth to happy, healthy babies.  Just as in the States, my OB here recommended the regular battery of pre-natal tests, exams, and vitamins. Moments after we watched the tell-tale pink line develop, we were on the phone to my OB discussing necessary appointments and ultrasounds.  Since that day, we have received top-notch care that rivals the assistance that my sister has received at state of the art Boston-area hospitals.

So, you know the old adage that “women have been giving birth to babies, alone in the middle of fields since the beginning of time”?  Well, it’s more or less true.  And more importantly, women have also been having babies in Nicaragua this whole time.   Giving birth is an incredibly natural life event.  You can prep all you want with doctors and specialists, but ultimately, this little creature is going to enter the world on her own terms at her own pace.  And that, she can do anywhere. 

Later that evening, after my finger was carefully washed and bandaged, Justin quietly offered to pack my “hospital bag” so that we are ready to hit the road when labor begins.  With more than 4 months to go until the arrival of Baby Fahey, I’m thinking that maybe Justin really will be able to find the hospital after all.    

The Meat We Eat

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Many people say that the best way to pay homage to an animal that you plan to consume is to understand and appreciate its life cycle (from birth to free grazing farm to supermarket).  There is a prevalent belief that those of us eating meat without a full understanding of where it originated is not only ignorant, but sacrilege.   Some even go so far as to assert that one must be a participant in the slaughtering of the animal to truly honor the life of the animal that they are about to eat.  I can’t say that I ever paid much attention to any of these concepts and probably made more of an effort to avoid having this knowledge for the majority of my life.  Now, living in Nicaragua, this concept is much more real.  More often than not, the meat we eat is no longer from Arkansas (Tyson), but is from our neighbor’s front yard…literally.

The other day, I came home from Managua on a sunny afternoon to find a slaughtered baby pig hanging from a tree in our driveway.  This was no religious sacrifice, but preparation for a party to be hosted by my landlord later in the week.  I had the train-wreck syndrome;  I was equally horrified and curious and couldn’t decide whether to stay and stare or run into the house.  I chose the latter only to be confronted by Wilbur at the party a few days later.   That evening, Justin feasted on the piglet, while I stuck to the homemade bread and marmalade.  Ironically, I also ate some bacon wrapped dates, but somehow, this felt less abusive than eating the pig direct from the carcass.  A 4 year old at the party grilled the host on why he had killed the pig.  To placate the poor girl, he described an elaborate story in which he came upon a suffering pig along the side of the road and after a failed attempt to revive the pig with CPR, it passed away peacefully – then he cooked it.  She walked away semi-content with the reponse.  The 32 year old inside me felt a little better, too.

More and more, I have struggled with the concept of dining on the chickens that I valiantly try to avoid hitting with my car as I drive home each evening.  I am mildly excited when someone on our sailing trip catches a fish, but the moment it is reeled in, I move to the other end of the boat.  I can’t handle being the metaphorical fish out of water.  Try watching the real thing.  It’s difficult having items from my grocery list as neighbors.

So, am I making the natural transition to vegetarianism?  Is this how it all begins?  Eating meat directly off the bone has always made me feel a bit cannibalistic.  But more recently, I have found myself hesitating with chicken breasts, fish filets, and hamburgers.  Perhaps it has something to do with the winding pastoral landscapes complete with grazing cows and lamb (chops).  The first trimester of my pregnancy didn’t help, as a slight discomfort with certain meat turned into an all out chicken aversion for three months.  For whatever hormonal reason, the very thought of eating chicken could make me gag.

I attempted vegetarianism once in my life.  After a summer away at sleepover camp, I came home to my parents and proudly proclaimed my new vegetarian status.  My parents smiled and commended my efforts and promptly turned their backs to share a questioning glance that asked, “how long will THIS phase last?”  Not long.  I struggled to justify my new-found vegetarianism to friends and neighbors and most importantly, to myself.  Had I really adopted this new diet for reasons beyond the fact that it’s what the cool kids were doing?  Two weeks later, I was sinking my teeth into juicy burgers at the neighborhood party.

As a “mature” adult, I’m still not so sure that I’m ready for the vegetarian commitment.  It’s an even more difficult feat to achieve here in Nicaragua.  Though the country is poor and the diet subsists primarily on rice and beans, Nicaragua is still a meat country at heart.  Just count the number of fritangas (chicken ladies) in the street every evening around supper time, cooking up chicken, pork, and beef on their outdoor grills for a few cordobas.

An Irishman, Justin has meat and potatoes in his genetic makeup.  He would never make the transition with me.  And, if we ever moved back to the States and I had a little distance between myself and the local farm, will the plight of Bessie and Nemo become but distant memories?

For now, with a baby on the way in need of a well-balanced diet (which I don’t have the knowledge to provide sans meat), I won’t make any drastic changes.  But rest assured, it’s only going to get harder.

New Digs

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Justin and I moved into a new place a little over two months ago.  We are still in the little neighborhood, tucked back in the hills of San Juan, but we have upgraded to a 2-bedroom, 2-bathroom, air conditioned apartment (!!!) with full kitchen and large patio with an incredible view of the bay…

Sunset from our balcony

 

View from our bedroom

 

View from balcony - dry season

 

Balcony, left side

 

Kitchen

 

French doors to balcony

 

Panoramic from balcony - dry season

Fiestas Patronales – San Juan del Sur

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Each town in Nicaragua has its own Patron Saint.  Nicaraguans of all ages honor the saint’s birthday annually with celebrations called fiestas patronales. 

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While the purpose is religious, the focus is on music, dance, games, rodeos, and more – including the occasional cervesa or Nica Libre.  Along with San Juan de Oriente and San Juan de Jinotega, the community of San Juan del Sur celebrated its patron saint, Saint John, with pride this past week.

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Saturday, June 20th, marked the beginning of San Juan’s 2009 fiesta patronal with a hípica (horse parade) and the coronation of Miss San Juan del Sur.  On Sunday, the church held a mass in celebration of all the “Johns.”  Monday-Wednesday played host to a series of neighborhood processions of the image of Saint John, as well as to three rodeos. 

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The festivities went into high gear with an all-night celebration on Tuesday evening, complete with a fireworks display, mariachis, marimbas, and a Gigantonas dance-off.

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San Juaneños officially honored the birthday of Saint John on Wednesday with folkloric dancers, a final procession of Saint John…

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….and my personal favorite – Juegos Bufos (silly games).  The games consisted of Palo Lucio (wherein men attempt to climb to the top of a very tall, greased pole), a bicycle race around town, and Chancho Lucio (a greased pig is unleashed in the streets of the pueblo and grown men and children attempt to capture it). 

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The week of festivities wrapped Wednesday night with a concert on the beach featuring the band Macolla.

By my estimation, Fiestas Patronales was one of the best celebrations in San Juan del Sur, not to be missed!  To find out when Fiestas Patronales take place in your town, visit http://www.hechoennicaragua.com/feriados.asp