Jaime went surfing a couple of days ago and someone stole his flip flops while he was in the water. So he’s walking around flip-flop-less. He was mounting his bike to ride home the other day and I said, pobrecito Jaime, you don’t have any shoes! And he just goes… aah it’s cool! No worries! And goes off on his merry way. I’m realizing that this is such a Nicaraguan attitude. No worries, dude. Due to their tumultuous history, this attitude is certainly a survival mechanism, but in any case, it’s a hearty folk here, undeterred by most obstacles. I am trying to cultivate this attitude myself.

Sigue lloviendo. It keeps raining. For my first several weeks, the rainstorms were certainly impressive, but they were occasional. Foolishly, I thought—the rainy season isn’t really all that rainy. Ha. September and October are apparently the real rainy season, when it rains for days and houses flood. The sheer magnitude of water falling from the sky is impressive. A storm wandered in from the pacific and decided to hang out for several days to surf and try some Nica beer, because it’s been quite drippy since Monday. So drippy that it has created rivers where there was emptiness, molded the landscape, changed the color of the ocean even. I awoke Thursday to see that the usually brilliant blue coastline was a pale brown-blue, an actually very nice pastel color. This pastel color met the clear blue of a normal ocean in a very distinct line, the line where the muddy shallow water met the clean, dark ocean. The rain acts as a giant enima for the land, flushing out mud and garbage and the ocean receives much of this waste. I’ve read people describe Nicaraguan rains as acting as a cleansing agent, purifying the world and offering a fresh, clean start. This they certainly do. But, alternatively, the rains also unearth the proverbial garbage swept under the rug. And they unearth quite literal garbage, garbage that was hidden politely now lies scattered over roads and on the beach. I ventured off Brio property this afternoon for the first time since the grand week o’ rain began for a run along Amarillo, the next beach over from Gigante. Within ten steps along the road to Gigante, I could sense the changes. It is a changed road, its divots and crevasses molded and knarled to a different tune than they were before (something you notice astutely when you’re running). The beach was stunningly changed. It was a different beach—its colors, shape, the waves and the sand. Compared to the pristine, calm sand and the rolling waves, this beach looked post-apocalyptic. Whereas the water looked calm and pastel from above, down on the windy beach, it was pale and chaotic, reflecting, it seemed, the cloudy grey skies above. I run through and around logs and branches scattered, mud washed ashore, shampoo bottles and potato chip bags. I passed a very odd and ugly group of black birds, picking through waste, their wings outstretched as the waddled around—vultures, I later learned from Adam.

I’m quite pleased with myself because, and this could be too sweeping of a statement too soon, that I’m quite over my fear of crabs. As I ran along the beach, an unusual amount of those critters were out darting all over the sand, around my feet, disturbed presumably by the stormy sea and wind. And I was actually interested in them (rather than fearful, as you may recall the tale about the crab that took up residence in my backpack). Bemused, I watched, bouncing along on my run, the way they move and burrow. They tip toe across the sand so fast and with agility and yet they do it sideways. I suppose this is not sideways from a crab’s point of view, but from mine they look like they are running around drunk or disoriented. And then they stop and their legs fit perfectly into their bodies like the wheels on airplanes do, and they burrow into the sand, leaving only a little hole above them. The beach crabs are the color of pale sand, for obvious reasons, but those that live above in the forests are psychedelic crabs. Neon purple, pink, and orange, these critters wander among green foliage and I wonder about the evolution of those jarring colors. Continuing my interest in rather than fear of critters, I went down to my room a bit ago and came out to see a very large skinny bug posing as a multi-directional branch, and my first reaction was ‘sweeeet’. Yesterday, Jaime pointed out a particularly large toad in my outdoor classroom, and I didn’t give it a second look. I’m evolving! Sadly (and I am really quite sad about this), I don’t believe I will soon evolve out my fear of scorpions or my hatred of mosquitoes. As to the later, I’m sick of being itchy. As to the former, Adam walked down to the room last night and returned to proudly inform us he killed a scorpion that was lying in wait under his pillow. And I’m reading a book by an American journalist that lived in Managua for several years, and he mentioned in passing today that a scorpion once incapacitated him for several days. Several DAYS?!

It’s very quiet here, except for when it’s incredibly loud due to rain pounding on zinc roofs. But, metaphorically it’s quiet. Since my arrival, Brio was occupied constantly, a sort of hub of activity, and quite suddenly, the circuit is turned to off and there are no guests. It’s a different pace of life, and alternatively quite nice or a little boring. Juan, Jackie, Adam, and I have watched movies a couple of nights this week, straining to hear as the rain pounded above. When I’m not teaching, I watch the rain, read, write, sleep, chat with the folks here, and eat lots and lots of fresh fish. Since rain is so rare in my normal life, it makes me want to revert into pj mode, although this is probably not a good thing here since rain is quite the norm. Jaime and I planned to try surfing again (I’ve given myself almost 2 weeks off and am thankful for that) but the ocean conditions prevent anyone from going in.

English classes this week were sparse, to say the least. An unfortunate side effect of constant torrential downpours is that students don’t come to class in said downpours. This is perfectly acceptable. I wouldn’t come to class either. But no students to teach make for a sort of pointless English teacher.

Additionally, the quiz I gave last Wednesday turned out to be a spectacularly dazzling mistake, and it’s effects kept giving and giving all week long. First of all, it scared off many a student. Monday and Tuesday I was dismayed at the attendance of my classes. Monday, those hearty students who did show up came anxious about their quiz results, and didn’t believe me when I said they all did well. (Perceptive little buggers. They were right. No one did well. But, I blame that on my inability to gauge their English strengths and weaknesses and write an appropriate quiz, not their abilities.) Something about that damn quiz killed a bit of their English-learning spirit, although I can’t quite put my finger on it. On Tuesday, four students came to a class usually full of nine or ten bright eyed Nicaraguans. I inquired about a couple students and was told that they weren’t coming anymore because they didn’t get it. Oh, dismay. I plaintively asked (begged?) the students who were actually there (preaching to the choir) to tell their friends that’d we’d figure out something for them if they would just come to class. Not my most teacherly and authoritative moment, but I’m trying to reel them back in. Thursday was a particularly rainy day, so I played go fish with the two girls who made it to each class. Friday was better, but still sparse compared to the epoch we shall call pre-quiz.

The night class has been the most disappointing thus far. I wonder if taking a long weekend to go to Ometepe is the culprit, as the attendance was notably down from pre-volcano to post-volcano. Let’s see. Monday, no one came. Tuesday, one person came. Wednesday two people came. Thursday no one came. Friday two people came, and Jackie joined in. Granted, five to six p.m. is generally when the great godly bucket of rain above dumps its contents down and air turns into water. But, actually, last night was quite clear and sans rain, as was Thursday. It makes it hard to plan classes when I don’t know how many people will show, and who, and at what level they will be. On my run, I saw several former students, or current students on hiatus, and yelled to them to ask if they were coming to class soon. They all said yes. Although, I’d say yes too if a giant sweaty muddy gringa was yelling at me, so we’ll see.

Leana, an eleven-year-old in my morning class, was one of two who showed up on Thursday after the flood-worthy rainstorm. Normally perky and chatty and excited about English, she looked particularly glum. I asked the girls how they had fared in the rain the night before. Leana just shook her head and said, malo. I don’t know exactly what she meant by malo (well, I do know that the word means bad, for those of you who may be inclined to whip out a dictionary or doubt my Spanish abilities). But, what does bad mean in this context? Her face and the circles under her eyes made me remember an observation I had during my first rainstorm here: how do the little Gigante homes fare during such violent storms? If even I was awake in my bunk on Wednesday night, listening to the thunder and pounding, violent rain, and I’m quite well sheltered, dry, and generally removed from the storm—what’s it like not to be?

Ioxlina is the new cook in the kitchen, and I quite like her. She seems a bit shy, or maybe I am, but she showed me how to make gallo pinto the Nica way, so we had a nice womanly bond over that. Here’s for a commute to work: she bikes every day about an hour to and from her house in Brito, south from here. So, on Wednesday, after two days solid of rain, Ixolina arrives late to work because the once-dry ditch on the Gigante road turned into a river five-feet deep. (I’ve actually run through this ditch before, and thought to myself, as I pranced over the small stream of water—this doesn’t seem very well engineered for rain.) So, in true hearty Nicaraguan style, she waited until the water went down to only four feet (her words) and then forged the river and changed in the dry pair of clothes she had so intelligently brought with her on the other side. She showed up with a bike, too, now that I think of it. Well done. These stories are to illuminate the Jaime flip-flop incident hardiness of Nicaraguans. I’m inspired by their ability to just deal, and move along.

On that note, I’m feeling quite lethargic amid all this rain and all these clouds. This is silly. Why, I truly don’t know. Rain and evening lightening shows are quite lovely, exciting, and singular events, quite distinct from the weather patterns in L.A. and Denver. (Oh you cities with all your sunshine.) You can watch the rain, listen to its patterings and beatings, feel it’s cooling power, the breeze it brings. In fact, that’s how I spent my afternoon yesterday. I suppose for an individual used to being incredibly busy, spending an afternoon watching rain is at once a luxury and also a foreign concept. A nice side effect of the rain is that it’s notably cooler here. One night after my cold shower, normally a nice way to lower my body temperature, I got dressed and thought to myself: why, I seem to be a bit chilly. It couldn’t be, I thought, so I went about my business. Thirty minutes later, I was still a bit cold, so I went downstairs and put on the one sweater I brought with me and was just tickled pink to be wearing long sleeves.

Apparently once the rain stops, though, it stops. The dry season is dry and the landscape looks completely different. I can’t quite imagine that now, as the once faraway clouds have enveloped us and I see the green world distorted—mushy yet sharply colorful—through rain and the sky is grey. 

It’s Saturday, so there are no classes. I’ll go for a run later, but for now I wander around and read and write. It’s an interesting existence, one I know I’ll miss when I have a demanding job and the pace of the United States catches up to me. For now, though, I’m on Nica time… 

Back to the bloggero! How I’ve missed you. Sorry for my absence.

I’ll preface my grand hike story with this news story from the Associated Press. Note the dateline.

Volcano erupts on island in Lake Nicaragua (November 25, 2007)

MANAGUA, Nicaragua: The Concepcion volcano in Nicaragua sent huge columns of ash into the sky in eruptions that prompted a ripple of small earthquakes, local seismologists said Sunday.

The volcano, one of two on an island in the region’s largest lake, erupted Saturday night [November 24] and related earthquakes continued to rattle the area on Sunday. The 1,610-meter (5,282-foot) volcano is located 100 kilometers (60 miles) southeast of the capital, Managua, on an island popular with adventure tourists in Lake Nicaragua, Central America’s largest lake.

Ash rained down on local communities on Sunday, as strong winds carried it to toward the capital, the institute said.

So, basically, last year while I was out celebrating my 21st birthday, a volcano in the middle of a giant lake in the middle of Nicaragua in the middle of Central America erupted. Obviously I heard nothing of it, nor would have cared much if I did. But on Friday, I hiked to the tip top of this very active, very tall, very tropical volcano. Yes, indeed—I conquered the Volcán Concepcion. 

 I climbed into a cab on Thursday morning with the Austin group and we made our way to San Jorge, a town just outside of Rivas and the only place to catch a ferry to the great Isla de Ometepe. For a mere three dollars, I spent an hour enjoying a lake breeze and a spectacular view of the island and its two volcanoes. Incidentally, Lake Nicaragua (or Lake Cocibolca, the name I prefer) not only is an incredibly polluted lake with water the color of fermented leaves, but also is the home to the world’s only fresh-water shark. So, no, I did not have a swim. As we approached the island, I did get to see the volcano emerge from the clouds and loom ominously over us. (I realize that was a very hokey sentence. But, seriously, the volcano did loom, and it loomed ominously. There’s just no way around it.) We dis-embarked in Matagaylpa and I had my first taste of Nicaraguan public transportation: an old American school bus converted into the best and brightest of the island’s bus-fleet. Remember riding in school buses when you’re 11, and how you fit into the seats? This bumpy, sweaty hour bus-ride was another hilarious chapter in the ‘Megan is too tall for Latin America’ book. I even got, lucky me, the window seat after a thirteen-year-old boy sat down next to me and spread out into the aisle. Left: a rare glimpse of the volcano sans cloud cover, looking decidedly more friendly after arrival at our hotel. 

And then we arrived to the grand Hotel Central. My traveling companions, accustomed to the comforts of home in the United States, were only mildly enthusiastic in their appraisal of our eight-dollar a night lodgings in the middle of quiet Altagracia, Nicaragua. I loved it. I got my own room, complete with a double bed and fan and my own, non-smelly bathroom. It even had a cute little patio, looking out onto a palm-fronded garden. Ah, lap of luxury.

Kimery arranged for a guide to come by after dinner that night to prep us for the coming day. He apparently did not know that we wanted to hike Concepcion, because he arrived and tried to sell us the complete ‘island package,’ which includes mud baths, a private air-conditioned taxi tour, and other expensive things. I could tell Kimery couldn’t understand what exactly he was trying to sell her, so I jumped in: ‘No. We want to hike Concepcion.’ Oh, the look on his face, as he surveyed a group of eight, age 21 to 61, all with beers in their hands, telling him they want to hike one of my most difficult volcanoes in Nicaragua, tomorrow. I will give guía Alan credit for not walking out the door then. Ultimately, we decided that we needed two guides, and that only five of us would attempt the ascent: myself, Kimery, the young couple, Kim and Matt, and Rusty, a man two weeks shy of the great fifty mark and determined to do all the living he could before that moment arrived. With a final look at our beers, Alan left around eight, saying, ‘remember 5 a.m. We start.’

Four the next morning found me up and dressed, carbo-loading on hot dog buns and drinking black coffee—the best accoutrements our hotel could offer at such a wee hour. The hike began and ended at the front door of our hotel and lasted just five minutes short of ten hours. Physically and mentally demanding like nothing I’ve ever done before. Up to the edge of town, right on a dirt road past banana plantations and what seemed like turkey farms, up until the dirt road thinned into wide trail, up until the trail thinned into a single track mud slide. Within an hour, my clothes were entirely sweat soaked. Within an hour, also, the trail disappeared. 

Apparently Nicaraguans do not believe in switchbacks. Or even marked and cleared trails. We hiked straight up that volcano. Straight up. This means that the terrain ranged from incredibly steep to downright vertical. Kimery grunted somewhere about halfway up that the trail was actually classified as an easy rock climb, rather than a hike. (I would have done it anyway, but don’t you think this is an interesting tidbit she could have mentioned, say, the night before?) 

 Several times, I’d be tooling along and find that the trail stopped at my feet and restarted at my head. Thirty minutes could pass clambering over a rock-river, and another thirty minutes slipping and sliding through foliage up a barely-marked mud path. There wasn’t a time in those ten hours that I didn’t use my hands to help make my ascent. Bent over, pulling myself up by rocks or plants, my arms quickly became just as tired as my legs. My least favorite section was what Kimery and I nicknamed ‘the bowels’ (right). We encountered the bowels when, somewhere above me, Alan turned off a path of mud and plants in favor of an old lava flow. Now solidified into rocks that are either solidly planted into the hillside, or as I found out many a time, very loose with a tendency to slip around. For the majority of the hike, I was in a cloud. Literally. The fog was so thick that Kim melted into it not even ten feet in front of me, that I looked like I had been swimming in my clothes, that droplets of water condensed on my eye-brows and arm hair. It was so steep that Kimery stood three feet back from me but five feet below. In addition to the physical demands, the mental ardor of hiking up and up without respite was, well, really hard. Time warped and I repeated phrases again and again in my head in a sort of marine-like drill (What phrases? I don’t know. For awhile it was the chorus of Hotel California. Why? I don’t know.) 

As we got higher and higher, the variety of foliage diminished until there only remained a species of beefy plant, thick leaves two feet in diameter. Although they were covered in spines, they were also the only things to hold onto up the exposed, steep face of the volcano. I paused for breath grasping these things and turned around to nothing but space and vertigo. It was clear we were close when all plant life disappeared and all there was to hold on to was loose volcanic rocks. And then, all of a sudden, the slope just stopped, dissolved into fog. The lip of the volcano. The rocks below us were hot and the air smelled of sulfur, but apart from that, there was nothing but fog. Great gusty, windy fog. The absence of anything except fog in this gaping mouth was a sharp contrast to all the green leafy life we had been fighting through the whole way up. That is, the presence of empty space was what finally signaled we had ‘made it’. I collapsed on the warm rock, hugging it against the gusts of wind, and decided I was just about ready to head back down. Alan, our guide, seemed like he had the same thought, as I looked over at him peering around nervously. He told me later, safely comatose in a hotel rocking chair, that the lip is not a safe place to be. At all. Quite apart from the incredibly strong winds and poor visibility, this is a very active volcano. It doesn’t explode and release energy at once (which is ultimately more destructive to surrounding communities) but rather, as he put it, burps quite frequently, letting pressure out gradually. The later makes is a fairly safe volcano to live in proximity of—but makes hikers at the top susceptible to the occasional burps, such as the one the AP covered on my birthday last year. 

victorious. tired. soaking. freezing. 

But how to get down? We had essentially climbed on hands and knees up the entire slope. I was to learn that we were going to do exactly the opposite the whole way down—hands and butt. Crab waddle. As a rather lanky individual, I had the most difficulty with this concept, so suffice to say, I did not enjoy the way down. I’ll leave it at that. By the time we arrived back at the banana plantations three thousand hours later, my quads were so far expired that I was walking like a bow-legged cow. And then, nine hours and fifty five minutes later, Hotel Central appeared on the horizon. Holy moooly.  

After a shower, we limped to dinner at the only restaurant in town. It was not exactly the glorious post-hike meal as I had been so dreaming about all day, but it was hot and it came with beer, so all was well. We toasted our success and after dinner, Kimery and I took off (bow-legged) in search of ice cream. Not only did we find ice cream, but I found a store that sells Snickers bars. I know, right? I splurged and for a total of 40 cordobas (two whole dollars for a darn candy bar), I soon had the bar safely tucked into my back pocket. Or so I thought. Dun dun dun. We sat down on a bench to enjoy our ice cream. I had just finished mine when the stray dog that had been hovering around us for awhile got especially bold and jumped up and took the Snickers out of my pocket. It then hesitated for a moment, surprised surely by the magnitude of its booty, and took off running. Now, let me tell you something. I did not travel to Nicaragua, climb a volcano for 10 hours, survive countless falls, burn thousands of calories, have a mediocre dinner, drink a liter and a half of beer, and buy a Snickers for two dollars only to have a stray dog steal my chocolate out from under me. So, I did what any sane person in my situation would do. I took off after the dog. It ran up the street half a block and into what I thought was an store, but what turned out to be, I noticed only after I was mid-grab for my candy bar, a nice, normal Nicaraguan family’s home. Picture this. You’ve just finished dinner and your family has retired to the comfort of the living room rocking chairs. Maybe you’re listening to the radio. You’re enjoying a breeze because your front wall is somehow missing (stick with me here). A stray dog runs in with a Snickers bar, sits down and is about to rip into it. And then a 6’1” gringa runs into your home. She says in Spanish: ‘uh. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Just one moment. I just need a moment. The dog has my candy?’. She then grabs the Snickers bar dangling from the mouth of the equally as shocked dog, and turns around and sprints out of your home. 

I arrived back to Kimery (who, having witnessed the whole debacle, was beside herself) with an amputated Snickers bar in my hand. The dog apparently had a very strong grip on the bar when I so lovingly ripped it out of its mouth, and had managed to secure itself a hearty bite. We consulted, and decided that I could have a small nibble of the un-touched end of the bar, and after such bite, I threw it away with a sad sigh. 

Defeated by the volcano and then the stray dog, I climbed in my nice double bed for the best nights sleep I’ve gotten since I arrived in Nica. The next morning was not to be as nice, however, as I woke up unable to walk without dire pain. Years of basketball camps and running a half-marathon—I’ve never been that sore. Ever. I hobbled around Altagracia the next morning, cringing at every stair I encountered. Although it is large compared to Gigante (most places are), it is still a pretty small town. Next to the main plaza was the city’s church, a most peculiar place. Accessed directly from the street, you first walk through the ruins of the city’s first church, a colonial, tiled building left in disrepair, crumbling down upon itself. I arrived then to a courtyard between two buildings. The courtyard contains primitive, ancient looking statues, which I later learned are old indeed—they are 3,000 year old petroglifs from the Chanadega tribe that once inhabited parts of Nicaragua. Carved into giant, porous rocks are holy shapes from nature and vague outlines of faces of this bygone tribe which was extricated by the arrival of the Spanish (and the Catholic church) to Central America. Three-thousand year old holy statues stood scattered randomly around the courtyard, and so did three-year old Goodyear tires, sinking into the mud and grass. Beyond this courtyard stood the town’s new Catholic church, bright white and yellow in the background. Decrepit church leads way to a plaza with ancient native statues and molding rubber tires, and finally, almost as an afterthought, a new church, casting its shadow over ruins. It was an odd visual. 

The group headed back to little Gigante and Brio on Saturday. Darn, is it a trek back here. It still amazes me how remote I am. I spent the rest of the day slumped in a sore pile over the table. Sunday, the adventures continued as part of the group climbed aboard a boat for San Juan del Sur, a touristy town an hour (via boat) down the coast. Boat travel is the way to go. I had been wanting to visit San Juan since I arrived, but the route via land requires a very expensive cab ride out of Gigante and several hours of travel. Not only does the water take you directly there, it offers a spectacular view of the South pacific coast of Nicaragua. It also offers the opportunity to snorkel en route, which we did. Although the snorkeling mostly consisted of swimming around looking at sand, it was still snorkeling. San Juan del Sur was very touristy indeed, but it was a nice, colorful town that offers many things that tourists generally want–things that I’ve been lacking since I arrived. (Examples? Pizza, chocolate, bug spray, flip flops, paved roads.) We then hopped back on the boat and fished on the way back. It’s super easy fishing, as the boat captain, Flavio, lets the line out to troll as you sit and wait comfortably, maybe even tan a bit. A fish tugs, and he hands the rod to you. I reeled in one of the three 20-pound mackerels that we ate later that night. Back in Gigante, after Flavio cut their heads and tails off and handed them to us a in a pink plastic bag, we carried them up to Brio where Jaime took over, wielding a very large knife quite skillfully to filet the fish. Adam cut us some sushi cuts and I tasted officially the freshest fish of my life. I was skeptical about eating raw fish in Nicaragua, but as Adam pointed out, it’s just too fresh for anything bad to happen to it. Seriously, not even two hours lagged between when this thing was flapping at the end of a rod and when we ate it. Dinner consisted of fresh fish filet, rice and beans. 

Quite the weekend, indeed. I have spent the past two days recovering. Life has returned to a very very slow pace, slower than ever, oozing slow. It’s very quiet, also, as there are no guests (nor do I believe are any coming soon). I shall leave those tales for later, as this post has reached epic proportions. Only this remains: the sun setting behind Concepcion.

Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to Ometepe I go.

Today I join this very interesting group from Austin and travel to la Isla de Ometepe, and then tomorrow we will climb 1,600 meters up an active volcano in the middle of the biggest lake in Nicaragua. My guidebook says it takes 10 to 12 hours. I’ve got my outdoor gear ready to go, huddled and waiting in my backpack.

I’m very ready for a vacation from teaching, and a vacation from Gigante (especially after I was given a taste of the big city on Tuesday). Yesterday my classes were especially frustrating. A week ago I told my students that this Wednesday was to be quiz day. The quiz went spectacularly bad in my first class, and only sort of bad in the second. After the first class, I was compelled to go curl up in a ball and lie in my bed to contemplate what a failure I am. There are a variety of factors at work here, many of which are completely out of my control. But, I completely mis-gauged how much these students were learning and gave them an overly ambitious quiz. I really don’t know what I was thinking, giving these students a written test when I already know many of them struggle with reading and writing in Spanish. They know phrases in English, but don’t know how to spell them or, as I found out, what these phrases actually mean. For example, fill in the blank: “I ____ from Gigante.” This was, after 2 weeks of learning introductions, a hard question for some. Many recognize the phrase orally, and know they must make a sound like “am” but have no idea how to spell it, nor place it a written context. Also, although they know this is the answer to “Where are you from?”, several didn’t know what either phrase meant. I also realized the disparity of levels within each class. Some students finished the quiz, some looked up at me in frustration, having not a clue what to do, and some simply gave up. I think this disparity has to do with the linguistic development of each student in Spanish, rather than the strength of their attempts at English. It was clear when I went over each quiz individually who knew how to write and who didn’t.  So, I suppose the quiz had some useful components, as I know as I now know to abandon any kind of teaching that requires reading or writing, and focus on the oral. This is particularly hard for me since I am such a visual learner (I need to see a word written before I can learn it) but I suppose that is one of the core challenges of teaching–abandoning your own needs and point of view to better help the students (sounds so obvious written here).

I am realizing (despite all my frustrations) some of the rewards of teaching. I’ve now learned all my student’s names and am beginning to grow fond of several of them. Little Roberto cracks me up; he struggles to learn words and bumbles along in rapid Spanish: ‘imagiiiiiináte’, he always says–and has ooh suuch a ‘tude when he gets words right. He is the eptiome of a little Latin man. I can see him throwing out piropos in years to come. The best students in my day classes are the girls, who come and pay attention and take notes and really seem to care. Every class has its punks, though, girls and boys, who are just too cool for school and nothing I do will persaude them otherwise.

As my lovely mother pointed out, I need to keep in mind that I’m new at teaching and this is a particularly difficult situation (for even the most seasoned of teachers). Although I feel like I’m accomplishing only a little, I sometimes can see the hazy reasons why I’m here. Gigante really is primed to blow up as a tourist spot, as there are housing, hotel, and spa developments all up and down the coast, with Gigante acting as a sort of focal point for the energies. Learning English is an attempt by the locals to have some control over this development, an attempt to participate in the economy rather than being blown over by the rich gringos coming in to charter the unchartered. It’s nice to be a part of this gesture, however little I may be contributing. In the next decade, Gigante is going to swell and change, and I like to hope my students will be out there asking gringos, in perfect English, “where are you from?” For now, however, it is still a very small village, with all the problems (poor education) and joys that this brings.

One of the joys: last night I ate a lovely dinner of fresh fish, fried plantains, rice, and salad (my very first salad here). Juan caught the fish not even five hours before we ate it. I saw him bring in a bucket of foot-long fish, and then haul in a four-foot dorado. I assume the dinner that is now swimming in my belly (ha) came from the first bucket. If nothing else, in Playa Gigante, you get to eat some darn good fresh fish. Top that, big city.

One of the perks of being a teacher (rather than a student, as per my last 20 years of life) is that I get to cancel class when it’s conducive to my schedule. (My schedule being that I want to go explore a really big island, muahaha.) So, I shall return on Saturday, after I conquer el Volcán Concepción. (Famous last words? I hope not.) 

Yesterday, I went to the big city of Rivas, Nicaragua. La ciudad grande. It really isn’t that big of a city, but bear in mind I currently live in the middle of a rainforest, in the smallest town I think I’ve ever visited. At the last moment, after my 11 o’clock class, I jumped in on the Austin crew’s trip to Rivas to stock up on cash and food, and boy am I glad I did. I hadn’t yet seen Rivas, despite it being the closest outpost of civilization as I know it. 

I loved the big city. I felt like a country bumkin, fresh out of the backcountry of Texas, walking the streets of New York City, staring at skyscrapers. We emerged from the cab after an hour-long, very bumpy ride, in the center plaza of Rivas. I spent about seven minutes being incredibly over-stimulated by the colors, loud noises, people, music, bustling life of a city. If there is a time to use to the word ‘gape’, it is here. I gaped at the: paved roads, more than 20 people in one place, loud music, crowds of school kids, colorful benches, streets stretching out in every direction. I only realized the extent of my isolation these past weeks when I arrived in Rivas, a city I was unnaturally enthusiastic about. Everything I had heard about Rivas was that it was a commerical hub and nothing else, a place to quickly collect errand-things before heading back to the ‘real’ Nicaragua. I must say, perhaps because I had such low expectations, I thoroughly enjoyed Rivas. For example, this is the statue in the main plaza: 

Downright bizarre. It looks like it belongs in a Disneyland plaza. Please note the four white birds stretching skyward under a canopy of leaf-less branches. 

My ethusisiam continued: seven minutes of relishing the feel of return to urban civilization, of over-stimulated contentment, and then an ice cream man walked by. The ice cream man walked by and I pounced on him. The bells on his little cart had nary stopped clanging before I had in my hand chocolate covered vanilla ice cream on a stick. He asked me for 20 córdobas for the ice cream, but I was prepared to offer him the contents of my wallet. Chocolate at last. Kim and Matt, the couple who I shared the ride with, were mildly amused at my pure happiness in this very moment. Eating chocolate ice cream in a city. Like electricity, I didn’t appreciate these things until they were gone. (And the electricity only went out for a day. My poor body had been without chocolate for nearly three weeks.) I could write a poem about that chocolate covered ice cream. I won’t (or at least I won’t print it here), but this demonstrates the profound level on which I enjoyed it. 

The rest of the group arrived, and we got cash and went to the grocery, to stock up on food for the big hike looming in two days. I, like everyone else, purchased a nice supply of healthy trail food, including nuts, raisins, and granola bars. Unlike everyone else, I stocked up on other wares to sustain me for several weeks in my tiny town isolation, including two jumbo boxes of chips ahoy, a bag of chocolate Nicaraguan cookies, and fried plantain chips. So, although I spent the rest of the afternoon carting around several pounds of chips ahoy, I now have stowed the boxes safely in my room so that I may never be deprived of sweets for such an extended period.

We walked around for about an hour; I ended up splitting off with Karyn, a mid-fifties woman from Texas. She bought a hammock while I continued to gape at all the colors and people. I had such a different experience in Rivas then I did in Granada, namely because I was not fresh off a plane from the United States, but rather fresh out of the jungle. I could therefore interact with and reflect upon the city in an entirely different way. My guidebook declares Rivas to be culturally lacking, but I beg to differ. I liked it because it was so very typical and so very typically Nicaraguan. Rivas is simply a Nicaraguan city, a commercial center, where Nicaraguans live and go about daily business, and where foreigners pass through to buy essentials, rather than tourist crap. The main plaza was not a trinket center (table after table of vendors selling five dollar jewelry) but rather, at least when I was there, a place where school kids ate lunch and listened to music. If that isn’t culture, I don’t know what it is; indeed, I’d actually rather see ‘normal’ Nicaragua than exceptional Nicaragua (such as beautiful Granada). And Rivas also had an exceptionally ugly statue gracing the center plaza, so well, no contest there. 

We had arranged to meet back at the ugly-statue plaza (above) at 2 to get a cab back. Karyn and I walked back, arrived early, and I decided—because, after all, a day in the big city only comes along every so often—to get a second round of ice cream. Go big or go home, I say. This time, I went into an actual ice cream shop and got myself a scoop of chocolate atop a scoop of coffee ice cream. I then proceeded to drip it all over myself in the bumpy ride back to Gigante. My enthusiasm and happiness were not to be diminished, however. The second round was equally as amazing as the first. 

I came out of my sugar coma about half way back to Gigante. And then we ran over a dog.

There are stray dogs all over Nicaragua, indeed all over Latin America, and they are generally skinny and sickly. They run out into the roads and drivers try to avoid them, although I’ve seen my share of close calls. I do believe our driver tried his very best, and I am glad that he chose to run over our canine friend rather than swerve into an oncoming semi-truck. Still, to actually run over a dog is a visceral experience not easily communicated. There is the blare of the car horn; the dog turns his head to look at the oncoming vehicle, and then the intial contact of car-front and dog-front. Thump, a plaintiff wail from the dog, and then two more thud thuds as the car actually runs over the thing. Another plaintiff wail. I did not see what happened to the dog, as I burrowed my head into the seat, but I do hope he is eating puppy chow in a better place now. The taxi driver gave the thing a shake of his head and that was that.  

We arrived back to Brio just in time for my 3 o’clock class, and I returned to life in the wilderness of Nicaragua. 

In continuation of last night’s prattling:

Ah, quiet. Monday night means Rob’s departure. This also means the departure of his two very cute sons who are also, incidentally, six and seven years old and inclined to do little boy things, such as make noise constantly and cry occasionally. So, it’s quieter here. The group of Austin-ers are compensating on the noise front, however, but bring a happy development to my life. I’ve been trying to plan a trip for myself out of this Brio/Gigante forest community, to see some more of the country and, let’s be honest, find a city large enough to have a store that sells chocolate. This group is going to the Isla de Ometepe on Thursday. And now—I’m going with them! Horray. Not only does it take away the hassle of having to plan a trip, but more so, the hassle of having to plan a trip alone (not to mention that the 100 dollar taxi out of super remote Gigante is cheaper when you get to split it 8 ways). On Friday, we shall attempt to climb the volcano Concepcion. ‘Hiking Concepcion’ entails a 10-hour hike up a 1,600 meter active volcano, so it shall be an adventure if nothing else. I’m quite excited to get out of this little village and tackle some more of the country. I plan to read my guidebook thoroughly before embarking, so I shall write more of this interesting isla later.   

I had a fairly busy weekend (keep in mind that busy is very relative term in this context). Saturday was the last night of a funny Frenchman who had been living here for a month, so the group threw him a little party. ‘Round midnight, I departed the party in exhaustion, grabbed my pj’s from atop my bed, and walked into the bathroom to change. I closed the bathroom door with my left hand, my right hand clutching the bundle of clothes to my chest. A scorpion walked out of the shirt and waddled across my collarbone. I shrieked like a girl and managed to throw the thing off of me, where it landed with a thud on the floor. It’d call it four inches, from head to twisty tail that just barely avoided my chest. Call me squirmy—fine, girly—but I can still feel it’s little feet pattering across my skin. Like, ew. Earlier that evening, while returning from a sunset run along the beach (I know, my life) I saw not one but two little snakes squirm across the road in front of me. It’s only a matter of time, I tell ya, until something gets me. Until then, I continue to live in alternative glee at the fact I can run along a deserted pacific beach at sunset and terror at the creatures that await me upon my return. This terror is misplaced at creatures who, I must remind myself again and again, are more scared of me than I of them; it is also a gross overreaction in this land of poverty, but there you have it. I will be the first to admit that I am a spoiled first-worlder attempting to find my bearings and my priorities in the third world. It ain’t easy. 

Sunday, I went with Rob, the kids, and the young couple to wander around Zacátan, Rob’s ecological reserve. The reserve is a dense chunk of the forest that is everywhere anyway, and a sign telling us so. There are limited paths through the tens of acres that Rob has designated as ‘reserve’; mostly we just hiked in the currently dry creek-bed. I like Rob’s plans for the place—to build an extensive series of trails throughout, to facilitate hikers and nature-folk that are interested in exploring a forest that in other places is fairly impenetrable. I consider myself a bit of both of these, so I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to peek into the dense forest world, to see the inside of what from a road-side view just looks like a wall of green. It was a varied experience: howler monkeys screeching overhead, tall roped trees unique to this region and this region only, colorful spiders in picture-perfect webs, big beefy leaves all around, fire ants swarming on the plants brushing up against me. (Yes, I got bit, and yes, one bite from an ant swells up to the size of a quarter on my arm. Why must my skin be so darn sensitive to the elements.) It was also pretty singular—this kind of flora and fauna is reproduced nowhere else in the world. I only realized after the fact how unique the reserve is: it is a live, bustling Central American rainforest, one that I wandered around without a second thought. Neato. I keep forgetting, don’t ask me how, that I am living in the middle of a rainforest, and it’s neat (or terrifying) to get small reminders among seemingly normal day-to-day business (the scorpion and snake being reminders of the scary kind). I went for a run today and saw about five or six more of the blue butterfly I saw for the first time with Rob in the reserve. They just frolicked on the side of the road, next to the smelly cows, and then fluttered off into the green yonder of the rainforest that lines the road.

Yes, you’ve got that right: I’ve now seen upwards of ten blue butterflies, know also as the Blue Morpho. I know what you’re thinking. ‘You couldn’t possibly have. Didn’t they make a movie about a little boy, terminally ill with cancer, who goes off in search of the elusive blue butterfly in the jungles of Costa Rica? And then finds the butterfly and is cured of his strand of incurable leukemia. This same blue butterfly? This very same one?’ Yes. Blue Morphos are a brilliant, flashing neon blue variety of butterfly, quite arresting to look at, and apparently the only blue butterfly in the world. They are also quite a mystified animal. The blue butterfly elicits such excitement from botanists and butterfly-science-people as, well, gold does to people who like money. My excitement with seeing this elusive species comes from a slightly less intelligent bent. En route to Miami on my first Latin adventure (Argentina), I saw a movie entitled nothing less than The Blue Butterfly. It remains one of the worst movies I have ever seen. Let me offer a quote from the produce of the movie:

“A few years ago, a friend and colleague was attending an Imax conference in Barcelona,” says producer Francine Allaire of Montreal-based Galafilm. “There he met a world-famous entomologist from Montreal who told him an incredible story. One day he was asked by a boy, who was terminally ill with brain cancer, to help him fulfill his last wish: to catch the most beautiful butterfly on earth, the Blue Morpho. This magnificent creature can only be found in the jungles of Central and South America. The entomologist decided to take him to the rainforest. And, after their journey, the kid came back walking. Today, he is 20 years old.”

Original source, which you should certainly read if you don’t believe me that such a movie as I have outlined exists, or if you seek a good scoff:

http://www.preview-online.com/may-jun02/feature_articles/bluebutterfly/index.html.

All sarcasm aside, all twitching thoughts in the back of my head that go something like this: ‘butterflies can’t cure cancer.’ This is a darn famous butterfly. The blue morpho, huh. And now I live among them. What ailment shall I pray they cure me of?

(Oh, wow. I never should have googled this movie. It gets 1.9 million responses. There are about three thousand non-profits named after the blue butterfly, committed to helping kids with cancer. There are bookstores and bed and breakfasts named after the butterfly. The movie even gets many a positive review. New York Times readers give it 3.5 stars out of 5. Wow. Sorry.)

After frolicking with the mystical butterflies, this same group hopped aboard a panga—little boat—and headed south for about 15 minutes along the coast. The snorkeling was okay but it was spectacular to be out and about on the water and to see the Nicaraguan coastline zooming past. A Costa Rican peninsula loomed from the south. The water, wonderful green and aqua, warm, rocking along with the boat. They say only in California can you swim and ski in the same day. Well, only in Nicaragua can you see a blue butterfly in a buzzing green rainforest and then swim among the fishies in warm, sandy green water, all in one day.

Today I did laundry for the first time since I’ve left home. Brio has a washing machine and a drier, and I jumped for joy when I saw them. I’m quite proud of myself that I lasted two and a half weeks sans laundry. I was also astonished when I dumped basically my entire wardrobe for this grand adventure into the washer and saw that it filled up half a load. The doing of laundry was a lovely afternoon activity. As per my last post, I enjoyed the fact that the power stayed on all day long, and thus could feed wonderful electricity to these wonder-machines. A washer and a drier are certainly luxury items in this distant land in which I now find myself. I also enjoyed the luxury of clean, fresh, folded clothes—the whole of what I brought with me, my backpack companions. 

Sunday evening rolls in again as I sit outside and watch another Nicaraguan sunset. The clouds wander in over the ocean. I listen to my iTunes on shuffle, and Ben E. King with ‘Stand by me’ comes on (If the sky that we look upon. Should tumble and fall. Or the mountains should crumble. To the sea. O I won’t….) My feet dance around in front of me, barefoot and propped up on their chair. They’re blistered and bitten, but right now, cool, tan and happy.

I awoke this morning around six with a start because it suddenly became silent. I must have been only dozing, but the sudden silence was so startling that I promptly woke up. No fan, no motor hum. No power. Around two this afternoon, I was sitting and staring at nothing when it became noisy again. The beer and soda fridge fired up with a humph and the fans started spinning again. Over seventy-two hours, we’ve had power for less than half. Thank you, Gigante, for reiterating this lesson twice. I really appreciate electricity. I take it for granted when it’s here, and I only notice how much I enjoy it when it leaves. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I will give thanks for electric fans and lights and computer chargers every time they work. Okay?

 I love iTunes shuffle. Garth Brooks is up. If you stand outside the fire. life is not tried is merely survived if you’re standing outside the fire. dooo doo dooo, standing outside the fire. I haven’t been listening to any of my music recently, only the bad reggeton they play over and over in the common room, so this is a nice change of pace. There’s a moment right after the sun goes down that it seems to get lighter again. The light turns gold and it seems like the sun’s going to pop right back up over the horizon again. Just kidding folks, no night today. If the sun just bounced up and down, above and below the horizon, in perpetual twilight or early morning. Then suddenly there’s a ten second chunk when bloop, ploop, its dark. It’s dark and the fireflies start. I remember this from sunsets in Ecuador. At the ecuador, where days last exactly six to six, twilights don’t exist, or at least don’t last very long; one moment it’s fading day, the next it’s night. You get distracted by a passerby asking for bug spray and you miss it. Somehow, though, the bugs always synchronized the very moment they all started up their buzzy song. Quiet one moment, deafening buzz the next, almost like they have a little conductor who taps twice on the podium before they all swell in music. The fireflies are like that here. Here, the days are nearly as equal as they are on the equator, six to six. It’s an oddly equilibrated way of life.

I discovered peanut butter in the fridge today. Smooth, American peanut butter. Although it runs a far second to chocolate, ‘twas delicious. Standing in the kitchen, I peeled a fresh plantain and heaved scoops of peanut butter on it. Spoon of peanut butter in one hand, plantain in the other, I leaned up against the center tile island in the kitchen. The taste of the plantain provided an interesting tropical edge to my familar banana-based snack. I paused for a breath in the banana-peanut butter madness, looked up, and saw the ocean glimmering in the distance. It was the prettiest view I’ve ever seen while eating a plantain with some peanut butter on it. 

Yesterday a group of seven from Austin, Texas arrived at the hotel. It’s an interesting crew—an early-twenties couple, a late fifties couple, a man and two women. The woman whose leading the group runs some sort of adventure company, and this is the first attempt at a trip to Nicaragua. Although their loud arrival was a bit jarring, it’s nice to have a group around as it gives me an easy way to get out and do things. Kimmerly is around thirty, and she’s leading the trip. She took the younger couple down to the beach on Saturday morning, and I got to tag along and get an actual, legitimate surf lesson. It’s amazing how much difference a legitimate surf lesson does for morale and skill. Granted, I still cannot stand up yet, nor do I feel like I’m close, but I learned more in two hours out with Kimmerly than a week and a half with Jaime. She’s a girl, for one, which means that she can empathize with my difficulty in doing push-ups, instead of marvel at it like Jaime does (also, use your boobs to anchor you to the board, she says).

I had a lovely day today of snorkeling and walking through Rob’s reserve, Zacátan, but for now my bed beckons, and my stomach full of lobster, chicken, and pasta is ready to lie down. More tomorrow. 

Power—electric energy—came to Gigante in 2000, Juan said last night. How often does the power go out now, I asked. De vez en cuando. Once in awhile.

Updates in the midst of a blackout:

The power went out at 2 this afternoon, and I spent the hour of my afternoon class slightly irked because the fans didn’t work, thus rendering me a drippy mess. It’s gone out before but usually comes back on within half an hour. However, it is now dark and we are without power. I arrived back from my evening run to find that the power situation had not worked itself out. I took a dusk shower in a dark bathroom before several students from my 6 o’clock class came. We had an abridged class before I sent them home 20 minutes later because dusk was passing into night and well, it’s hard to have language class in the dark.

Apart from the obvious lack of lights that makes the night very dark, the real problem is that we are now sans fans. The ceiling fans in the main room and the fans in our bedroom serve two purposes: to cool and keep away mosquitoes. Without fans, the sweaty, sticky uncomfortable factor has increased times several million. Without lights, life slows down and night’s normally peacefully cool darkness looms in obscure thickness. In the dark, scorpions lurk around every corner. On electric nights, I open the door to a room, switch on the light, and enjoy a full and thorough eye-sweep around the room (creature check) before I enter. On this non-electric evening, corners are infested with spiders and scorpions that I can’t see. I turn on the sink in the bathroom to brush my teeth with trepidation, wondering what lies below the faucet.

If the pace of life here is slow anyway, life really slows down when there’s no power. In conventional language, I did nothing last night. Darkness falls and you light a few candles, but there’s nothing else to do. Somehow, though, time passes. 

Night without lights is part adventure, part boredom. After a very odd dinner of eating food that I couldn’t see, we retired outside where there was an occasional breeze and a force field of mosquitoes. Luckily, an almost full moon emerged from behind a tree, lighting up the grounds of little Hotel Brio nestled in the forest. I do believe I stared at the moon for close to four hours. I got a neck-crick from staring at the moon for so long. It emerged from behind a silhouetted tree to my left. It hovered above the tree for sometime. The clouds hovered around it. Clouds reflected the moon nicely but blocked what could have been an amazing star gazing night. I slapped at a mosquito. Watched the luciérnagas sparkle over the hill. With no other light to look at except the fireflies, it seemed like I had my eyes pressed closed and was seeing stars. I looked at the horizon, the ocean expanse somewhere out there in the darkness. For some reason, all of our chairs pointed at this ocean-bound horizon, although it looked no different than any other direction, any other dark horizon, in this moon-lit darkness.

I’m startled to see how far the moon has journeyed from the edge of the tree. Three inches, I estimate. (Three inches, my perspective from waaay down here on Earth says, while the earth rotates on it’s giant axis much more than three inches.) Mosquitoes swarm. Silence is punctuated every ten minutes or so when someone says, ‘ay zancudos’ and slaps at their skin. I sit. I think (about what? huh. who knows now). I get a liter of beer from the beer fridge, crack off the metal cap using a bottle opener and muscle memory rather than sight. It’s 8 p.m., hot, dark—if this occasion doesn’t call for a liter, I don’t know what does. I show Zach, Rob’s kid, a magic card trick. He doesn’t get it, or doesn’t like it. Every breeze is cause for a mini-celebration (wooo evaporation, I cheer inside my head). The moon is higher still. Its light breaks through the cloud cover. There is the bright sphere and then a circle of fading light around it. I stare at it long enough that it seems to bounce and bob in its little circle of light. (Although, the liter is now a half-liter, perhaps this is why.) I catch a mosquito trying to bite my arm. It already has. The moon keeps moving, slowly slowly. (The earth keeps moving, slowly slowly.)

I realized something several days ago. My dad bought me a new headlamp the night before I left, as I had lost mine in the shuffle of moving and unpacking. Thrilled, I ripped open the package and put it into my already packed backpack. A headlamp is a good thing to have here, walking back and forth from my room through debris-strewn darkness, down a steep hill into my room, and living in a town that is accustomed to rolling blackouts. I, incidentally, have a headlamp. It doesn’t turn on, you see, because I forgot to bring batteries. In my haste to pack it, I did not actually notice that the reason it weighed so little was because it’s empty. My flashlight-less existence hasn’t been a problem so far. Last night, though, I was less than pleased with myself, especially in the aforementioned bathroom scene, as I groped around convinced that every move would cause me a great deal of pain and face paralysis. Face paralysis is a new fear, as Rob chose last night to tell the story about when he got stung by a scorpion. He said it felt like a bee sting and went away after about an hour. Not bad, huh? He continued. His friend got stung later, and his face became paralyzed for the better part of an hour. Knowing my body and its propensity to swell to unusual sizes after even a bee sting, the later shall be me.

It’s morning now. We’re 20 hours into life without power. I was mildly worried about all the groceries in the freezer and fridge, and mentioned this to Rob just a moment ago. He doesn’t seem too worried, and also, there’s not a thing we can do about it. The kitchen has a gas stove, so we can still use that to cook, and Jackie somehow managed to make coffee this morning. (Coffee is so much better when you wake up thinking in dismay that no power equals no coffee. Those crafty Nicaraguans!) But even with coffee, life is greatly reduced in its amenities. Namely the fans.

I miss those good ol’ fans. This is tropical living, to be sure. The air is stagnant, humid. I had been slowly adjusting to heat and humidity but it’s a whole different situation when the hot and humid air doesn’t move, when it sits on you like a ton of bricks. I feel sweat-soggy, and just soggy in general. What an odd attachment to electricity I have. I’m not lacking for anything. We have food, water, beds, a view of the ocean, even coffee. Fans, internet, the ability to charge my computer—this is the only thing I could use. Nothing essential. The word ‘blackout’ is sort of silly during the day, as the ocean shimmers just as it always does in the distance, and the bright sun beats down upon us as it always does. It’s not black out at all. Without fans, the breeze takes on unusual significance. I plan my day, my English classes, around the breeze. I stop everything when it comes, enjoy its dry cooling power, and dismay when it slows down. I stop for the breeze and watch four or five, no definitely five, ants tackle a leaf, move it across blue tile. They’ve got a long way to go. They stop. Management problems, disgruntled ant workers. Maybe a strike. They start up again; they swerve, as they try to figure out where they’re supposed to be going. One ant leaves the leaf and darts out in front, to see what lies ahead, and then returns back to the group, perhaps to tell them all that he has seen. What lies ahead? A sea of blue tile. My feet.

It’s two in the afternoon and we’ve arrived at twenty-four hours without power. I went for a walk around town and a swim in the ocean in an attempt to cool off. I feel like an overheated car. My ears surely must be shooting out steam. I wondered, though, as I walked throughout Gigante, how many of the houses have electricity under the best of circumstances. It hasn’t even been a decade since power arrived. Most cook over a fire or in a wood-burning stove. Many get their water from a central well in the middle of town. How interesting to live so that a power outage doesn’t affect you. Modern society shuts down during blackouts, but little Gigante limps along as usual—nothing looked remotely out of place on my stroll around town. Ladies hang laundry to dry; children run around; the little pigs wander in my path. The men go out to fish as they do everyday.

Brio is quieter than usual, today is a lull before it fills up tomorrow with more guests. Only two volunteers left, me and Adam. I suppose this is a preview of how September will be, as it is officially the off-season then, and I will become the sole volunteer living among the bunk beds.

A breeze shifts outside. I go grab it.

2:37 p.m.: 

Power!

Internet!

Fans!