The Return

After 3+ weeks of recuperation at home in Miami, I finally received medical clearance and returned to Nicaragua. Unsurprisingly, everything was pretty much the way I had left it three weeks prior. But for some reason I felt a little different.

As I exited the plane and made my way through customs, I felt very at ease. I recalled my first time off that plane in late January, joined by my now-departed peer, and waiting anxiously for about an hour until we reached the yellow line. I remembered all of the question marks, the uncertainty, and the excitement. This time, as I stood in line for about 5 minutes with my $5.00 visa fee handy, the anxiety never surfaced. I was as comfortable as could be.

I grabbed my backpack and headed for the airport exit, expecting to hop into a taxi and head to Masaya. Only there was one small problem: almost all of Nicaragua was/is on a transportation strike. Gas prices are too high, and the people want the Government to step in and regulate. Apparently, the Government sees it differently, so Ladies and Gentlemen, we officially have a standoff.

Fortunately, I am wiser than I appear, and checked with my friends before heading back down about the feasibility of convincing a taxi to haul me to Masaya. It will probably just cost you double the normal rate, my friends told me. As I approached taxi after taxi, however, the rejection started to magnify. We are on strike…it’s too dangerous…we are on strike. Well, isn’t there any way I can get to Masaya?

Apparently, my wisdom had worn out its welcome. And the anxiety that was absent 5 minutes before started getting the better of me. The taxi rejecters obviously sensed my growing concern, as one of them kindly directed me to a group of Americans waiting for a shuttle. To my great fortune, or dumb luck, there was a family of three on my flight who always calls a shuttle to pick them up at the airport and drive them to their home in Granada. For 15 bucks, the driver was nice enough to pass through Masaya and drop me at my doorstep. Even in the face of a strike.

During the drive from Managua to Masaya there really was no cause for alarm. The “riots” I had heard about were nonexistent. The police I had heard about were not to be seen. Even the roads had a healthy number of cars on them. Perhaps the most uncharacteristic aspect of this drive was my comfort level, my familiarity with the place. You see, the family consisted of two parents and one son. The parents, who visit Nicaragua three times a year to do volunteer work and vacation, engaged me in conversation and seemingly had no urge to observe their surroundings. I, too, found myself drawn to our conversation more than the burning trash, dirt roads, and wooden houses that surrounded our path to Masaya. The son, on the other hand, was making his first visit to Nicaragua. He had little to no part of our conversation, for his eyes fixated on the side windows, carefully taking in the world that probably pales in comparison to his college grounds.

I glanced at him sporadically during my conversation with his folks, and realized I knew exactly how he felt. During my first week, I remember our Micro bus driving through the dirt roads of local villages in extreme poverty. There were the kids that walked around topless with dirt smeared all over their bodies, the wooden and aluminum scrapped walls that appeared as fragile as to topple from a gust of wind. Above all, there was that gut wrenching feeling – that disbelief that these images paint the picture of one-third of our world.

As I stepped out of the shuttle, extended my graciousness to the transportation saviors, and strolled to my front door, I couldn’t help but analyze the distinction between me and the first-timer. Have I stopped looking around? Since when did I stop looking around? Then I entered my home, greeted my family, wandered to my room, and shut my door – a routine similar to the one I practice in Miami. I haven’t stopped looking around, I decided. I just happen to be living instead of looking.