Nicaragua es mi cuerpo…Masaya mi corazón

About a week ago our group of five volunteers was forced into a retreat weekend on the Pacific Ocean about an hour Southwest of Masaya, to a place called Masachapa. I realize “forced” may be a strong word to describe a free weekend on the beach. But as a guy who is not really a beach lover, and whose idea for a weekend in the mountains was unanimously vetoed, I really had no other way to view my participation.

The point of this retreat was to “get away” for a weekend: To forget about the highs and the lows, the frustrations, and the slow pace of life; to reflect upon our experiences and share them with others; to simply have fun. It was also a requirement for our involvement in the program, and a rather effective one. That’s if you pick the right place, of course.

I was told I should arrive a day early because we had a five-person “suite” that overlooks the ocean. I caved in immediately, failing to consider what a “suite” in Nicaragua would entail, and failing to align my expectations for a slow beach weekend in a very slow country.

Our “suite” was, in fact, only one room – a modest space with three beds (two doubles and one single), lined up in a row. We had a 20 inch TV hanging from the ceiling, a fan we never figured out how to turn on, an A/C unit that never got colder than 80 grados, and a sink that failed to provide running water. Add in the scorching temperatures, lack of purified water, and essentially one dining option (our hotel restaurant) which my recently bacteria-filled friend classified as “medium-risk,” and there you have it – a beach weekend in Nicaragua.

I’d be lying if I told you the weekend was a total loss. Just like every day in the life, there were highs and lows. It was nice spending four hours on Saturday night shooting the breeze on our balcony overlooking the Pacific, while intensely arguing over the true location of the Big Dipper. It was nice to learn that if you accidentally swallow a mosquito and your throat starts swelling that there is no need to panic because you can still breathe through your nose. And, for a real change, it was nice to miss the comfort of my bed, the well-cooked meals, and the livelihood of my hometown, Masaya.

Masaya, the city of flowers, and the place I have so eloquently described for better or worse in previous posts. It never appeared so beautiful before. And it never occurred to me how much I liked it until I “got away.” This is good news though, because I’ve begun to embrace my evolving affinity for the community. Surely, it helps that my Sunday students and teachers stop me in the street or the local bar to practice their broken English. And that the villagers have started greeting me with a distant wave as I roam by their houses for another meeting. And, on the personal side, that I’ve fully integrated into the beat on Sunday afternoons, when my host family operates a lunch business out of our home as friends, family, and community members flock to the scene to enjoy some tasty food, Spanish tunes, and a few brews.

When I first arrived I found it a little odd that all over this city the community walls profess: Nicaragua is my body…Masaya my heart. Even though this slogan is still a bit of a stretch for me, it rings a little more true with every passing day.