I love translation’s mishaps and misnomers. Not only are they funny, but they illuminate things that we take for granted in our own language, demonstrate with clarity the black holes within and between languages that make translation such a tricky task.

A sign in San Juan del Sur tells tourists that a restaurant offers natural juices and beatens. What was to be beaten, the sign ominously left out. Rest assured, the menu arrived offering us beaten bananas, beaten oranges, beaten mangos, and, mother of all beatings, a beaten combination of the three. I had the last (go big or go home) and it was lovely. (Should we have told them that beaten does not mean smoothie after taking the picture and before departing? And deprive others of a mixed fruit beating? Never.)

 ”Pizza hot”: two signs in the grande ciudad of Rivas to tell us that their pizza is caliente. Before I arrive at the obvious, why, pray tell, did they need two signs to tell us this? And, more so, two signs so close to each other? The second sign could’ve rounded the corner at least, to cover the other side of their storefront which remains sadly empty. Walking by the latter, an empty window, one could conceivably presume that their pizza was served cold, lukewarm, or even–not at all. In English, we put our adjectives before our nouns; in Spanish, we put them after. Why? I don’t know. I’m curious. Which is better? To let me know first that you have pizza, and then that it’s hot, or to let me know first that you have something hot, and then let me know that the hot thing is pizza? ”No class, we don’t say ocean blue. We say blue ocean.” 

The more I teach English, the more I love Spanish. Spanish sounds like it looks. English doesn’t. The difference between chicken and kitchen is lost on my students and quite frankly, on me. And, profe, why does kitchen mean cocina but cook mean cocinero? Those words don’t even sound alike. No, no they don’t. I don’t know why. I’m sorry. Also, please repeat after me: beet. bean. beef. Hear the difference? No? 

On the ferry to Ometepe, we will find a “Highly Gualified Staff.” It takes a pretty refined ear to hear the difference between qu and g, I think, so I fully understand this one. I actually long ago gave up insisting that my students spell words properly. As long as they say girl with a hard g instead of hirl, they can spell it with an x for all I care. Many don’t spell Spanish right. Why would they English, a language with infinitely harder spelling? “Hir” is not how you spell “ir” in Spanish, but that’s how the word sounds. Nor is “ablar” correct (hablar)–or “Gualified”. 

But, I am beginning to wonder, what demands correct spelling? Function doesn’t, but quality does. Meaning doesn’t, if even a non-native speaker could read the jarbled written Spanish I got my from students quite fluently. Perhaps it is the difference between means and end: the means being the case for the correct handling of a language, the ends being the case for getting your point across. Beauty of language versus point of language. This is similar with those learning Spanish. A guest is here who speaks minimal Spanish but gets what she wants anytime she tries. It’s actually quite painful to listen to her string un-conjugated verbs and incorrect nouns together, but Juan zips right off to call the boat captain for her, having understood perfectly what she wants. This is an interesting lesson as an English teacher. I’m teaching correct English; I make sure that students know to add ‘s’ to the end of a verb in third person singular. But, how important is that? So what if my students say “She run” or for that matter, “Where are the beach”? The meaning is understood. I understood that if I ordered a beaten, I would not literally be beaten. But still… it ain’t speaking English good. 

Speaking of bad English…translational mishaps can be dangerous too. Last December, in Ecuador, we went out to dinner in Quito to a colorful, happy restaurant. The menus arrived and I, in my infinite Spanish wisdom, spotted and advised my travel companions of a translational mishap. La ensalada Moby Dick: una ensalada de lechuga, atún, y tomate, read my Spanish menu. Nothing noticeable there, except the oddity of naming a tuna salad after a giant whale. Flip four pages back to the English menu and find “Moby’s Dick salad” for us English patrons to enjoy. They misunderstood the placement of the possessive in English and created a very different meaning indeed. (Actually, Moby Dick’s salad doesn’t sound that great either. Nor, the salad of Moby Dick. On the whole, a poor choice of name.) Obviously, I ordered Moby’s Dick salad, and had a great time of doing so. (In my defense, Moby Dick is one of my favorite books of all time, part of my salad-ordering-decision.) 

And then I got food poisoning from Moby’s Dick. I do not have a photo of said menu, salad, or incident, but several of my dear friends have the sound of me, ahem, vomiting in the bathroom burned into their memories as evidence that this indeed happened. These friends will also testify to the fact that due to my amusement and then great dismay with Moby’s Dick, I was given an M.D. and was christened Dr. Dick for the remainder of the trip. I now confine my amusement with translation to photos and blog-writing. 

Rather than leave that story in your mind, I shall conclude with one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite folks:

“We do not consider English and Spanish as compound sets of easily interchangeable synonyms; they are two quite different ways of looking at the world, each with a nature of its own.” -Jorge Luis Borges

And that’s why I like language.

It’s been sunny for a whole four days now. It did pour noisily this morning and actually, a lot of the night, but I was sleeping so it no count. 

On Sunday, I took advantage of the cloud-less sky to take a hike to Colorado, the beach one over from Gigante, and go for a swim. Rather than walk along the beach and clamber over rocks, I opted for the over-land route, which took me up and over the hill separating the two coves. There’s a road that traverses the hill, one I walked before, so I didn’t think it would be all that difficult. The road was like a Chia pet, suddenly hairy and full of life when a month ago it was bald. So much so that I lost the road for a bit and bushwhacked through the brush with a giant stick. (I actually only realized I had lost the road when I found it again, muddy and clear as opposed to my path). At one point, I came to a valley and looked up to find myself in a cactus grove, eerie and quite as cacti loomed overhead by twenty feet. They grow naturally all around the area, something I still find so jarring in this tropical landscape. It was so quiet that the rainbow crabs scuttling in the underbrush were loud, so loud I stopped, believing that some other animal was stalking me. I stumbled out of the dense forest onto the brightness of the beach, startled by the contrast, loving it. After a lovely swim, I read my book and soaked up some happy sun.

Adam se fue on Monday, so I am officially the sole volunteer in a room that seems too big for me now. There are four guests here and, oddly enough, I’ve become the person who knows things around here. They ask me questions about Gigante, about restaurants in town, about where to find water or tea, and—I know the answers. It’s bizarre. I also am the only bilingual one here, so I’ve been translating, which I actually quite enjoy as it flexes my brain muscles. 

Due to all the sunny sun sun, I’ve had lots of students this week. Maybe it’s the change in weather, but literally from Friday to Monday, something shifted in the teenager psyche of Gigante. Whatever the cause, I am witnessing for the first time as an outsider how weird teenagers really are. I am thrilled that I am no longer a teenager myself. Teenage angst is perhaps the same across cultural/linguistic barriers, but there’s also something funny about witnessing it in Spanish in a small town.

It seems as though the night class is now the ‘cool’ class. Two students from my afternoon class showed up last night, acting very old but in the very act of acting old, seeming young and super awkward (funny how I see that now. Oh, poor 16-year-old Megan, if only you knew. This paragraph is making me feel old. Bleh.) Over the course of a weekend, it seems they became too old and wise for the afternoon class. My best afternoon student has a new boyfriend, who hasn’t actually ever been to the night class, but came last night, and so now she wants to come at night.

Rosemary, an afternoon individual (one who I view as a girl) came to class last night and sat next to another individual (one who I view as a man) and held hands. I realize this is not an appropriate reaction as a teacher, but ICK! Stop it. Stop it now. You’re fourteen, missy. I don’t know how old he is, but he’s older. This is symptomatic of Latin culture, I think, especially small town Latin culture—large age differences between couples are really not taboo. (I say couples as if it could work the other way, but really I mean a younger girl and older male.) Now, I know Latinos are a touchy, affectionate people, a quality I normally quite enjoy coming from the personal-space-mania of the U.S.; but please remove your hand from his leg, look me in the eye, and tell me how to say ‘I am hungry’! I gave her a big eyebrow raise and she toned it down a notch, although she did not pay attention to class at all. She also didn’t know what “How old are you” means at 6:00 p.m., sitting next to lover-boy, but oddly enough, knew this phrase three weeks ago at 3:00 p.m., without such distractions. Girl, don’t play dumb.

Over the course of this very same weekend, little Selena decided she is too old for the morning class and whispered to me while the others were packing up that she’d like to come in the afternoon. Seriously, is there a too-cool-for-school aging potion in the Gigante water or something?

I’m bemused by the perception that the later a class is, the more advanced it must be. Actually, the class that has improved the most is my morning class—and the English-acquisition goes downhill as the sun descends. I must be honest. I had never particularly enjoyed teaching little kids. I mean they’re fine for short periods, and always cute, but they’re loud and just. don’t. listen. But, in terms of language acquisition, eleven-year-olds are just fantastic. Their little minds are like sponges; they’re thrilled to sing a song called ‘little green frog’ and read a story about a little red fish; and get super excited when they remember even a word. I tell ya, I appreciate excitement more than ever now. The difference between the older teens/adults and the little kids is the difference between MVP and Most Improved Player. Certainly the older ones know more, but their English just doesn’t budge, unlike that of the wee ones. I knew this on an academic level, but like so many academic things, I didn’t really know it until I saw an 11-year-old sing “Mm AH went the little green frog one day!” and a twenty year old ask how to say three. 

Throughout all these changes, I went along with the shifting tide without protest or public observation, but I am a bit confused by it all. I believe much of it has to do with small-town life. Changing, growing lives are illuminated clearly here, in the Gigante bubble. In a big city, one person changes, makes a decision, and it is lost in the tide of lots of lives sweeping by in noisy succession. In a little town in the rainforest, these trivial, probably unconscious decisions are made distinct, influence others, and suddenly things are different. Not very different, but there you have it.  

I was fording a river leading to the ocean on my run this morning. As is now standard operating procedure, in the rainy season, I encountered this river, took off my shoes and socks, and wadded in. To my shock and pain, down in the murkey water below, a crab’s claw clamped onto my big toe. Hard and it hurt. I screamed (like a girl, the second time this week, I say in chagrin) and ran, arms flailing, out of the water. It drew blood but mostly the icky factor of feeling an unseen claw from an unseen crab clamp down on my toe was what elicited said girl-scream and flailing-arm run. It looks like I’ll survive, though, as the crab didn’t even manage to leave a cut warranting a band-aid. Ha. My big toe showed him. 

I spent the afternoon sketching clouds, trees, and hammocks with my colored pencils meant for second-graders and I must say, I quite enjoyed myself. I wrote a bit about a puddle, during a rainstorm, in my notebook. And that was my day. 

Oh yes. I also had lobster for dinner. For the second time this week. Ooo my life. Barriga llena, corazón contento, say the Nicas. Full belly, happy heart. Indeedo.

Monday:

I awoke this morning after a restless night’s sleep spent dreaming that contra armies were raiding Gigante. I really mustn’t read my book—Blood of Brothers, about the civil war in the 80’s—before I go to bed. It’s actually 2008 and the civil war is long over. Although, oddly enough, the president of Nicaragua is the very same man who was president during the war. 

Tuesday:

I awoke this morning and was thrilled to see daylight. As of last night, I now know what absolute and total blackness looks like. I found out during and after a very scary, very loud and very wet thunderstorm. Eyes closed. Eyes open. It didn’t matter. The same blackness, enveloping everywhere. Until, a rip of lightening lit up the sky and burned, I mean burned, my pupils with its brightness. When you’re above a small town, on a beach in Nicaragua, and the power goes out, no moon—it’s dark, cabrón.

It had been pouring all evening long, but nothing out of the ordinary. Juan, Adam and I put on Hay algo sobre María. The power kept flickering on and off, forcing us to restart the movie each time, and the rain kept getting louder, so finally we just turned it off and stared into space watching the rain. Louder it pounded, and Juan and Manuel went outside and dug a trench to divert the water from coming into flood the backroom. And I watched. Frightened, excited, a little wearied, I watched the rain. Watching the rain is one of my favorite pastimes here, and this storm did not disappoint, although with all the rain we’ve been having, it was a little draining. More rain. More water. More pounding water roaring overhead, pushing, pushing, down.  

Adam, Juan, and I walked downstairs to cower under the zinc roof on the flooded ground-level (my classroom) and to watch the storm and ascertain the damages it might wreak. Amid our stupor of shock and awe, the same thought occurred to Adam and I at the same time—we were standing in three inches of water, barefoot, watching a lightening storm. In the only metal structure on a giant hill. I quickly turned to go back upstairs. Not a moment later, lightening struck. Actually, it struck at the Gigante beach, about half a mile away. I learned the next day it struck Gigante three times, twice on the beach and once on a tall tree next to one of my student’s houses, all within these 10 seconds of noise and fear and light. Lightening and thunder were simultaneous and the thunder screeched upon us, towered in its sounds, on top of us, in me shaking my stomach. It may have scared the crap out of me and I may or may not have screamed like a girl (drowned out by the louder-screaming thunder) and hid behind Juan (unseen in the blinding white light followed by complete blackness). And then the power went out.

Thank goodness that I found batteries for my headlamp and that it is now in functioning order. It was even sitting by my side in the common room, a rarity in itself. I grabbed my flashlight, holding onto it like a security blanket, and sat down to compose myself. We arranged our chairs and stared out at howling blackness, punctuated by pupil-burning whiteness. I had a beer to calm myself down. And then went to bed in absolute blackness.

Wednesday:

I awoke exhausted from the night’s excitement, not expecting power and not finding any. Nor coffee, to my dismay. The morning and afternoon bled together in an exhausted rainy funk. Although I did finish my book, the 500-pounder, I mean pager, about Nicaraguan life and war. In an amazing stroke of Nicaraguan serendipity, the power came back on just as it was about to get dark.

I am irrationally attached to electricity. A young-ish guy came by on Monday to use the internet, and told me of how he was living with his friend, a Nicaraguan, 20 minutes inland, and that the house didn’t have electricity. So you go to bed… I asked. Yeah, at like eight, and I get up at 5:30, he said. It really doesn’t sound that bad, said I, and he agreed. Brio’s electricity went out for 24 hours not even the next day and I decided my affinity for electricity, and corresponding frustration when it disappears magically, has to do with expectations. It’s really the not knowing that gets to me, rather than life without it. Apparently, I am a planner, and I like to know what my day will look like—which is really just stupid as stupid can be in Nicaragua. Yet, still I think…I shouldn’t use my computer just in case it’s out for days and the batteries already dead, it could be out for days, I need to do laundry this weekend, are the drinks in the fridge still cold, what are we going to do tonight, when it’s dark…I swirl in my mind. And then in a split second, the fans start twirling, the lights switch on, the electricity mysteriously arrives and everything is for sure again, everything is known. The internet pops to, and I eagerly sign on to find that nothing is new and that I didn’t need it after all. 

In many ways, Nicaragua has forced me to confront (or at least acknowledge) my discomfort with the unknown, specifically waiting through the unknown, through power outages that are generally short and unimposing but always last time-unknown. The rain, for one, makes every class period a question mark. Monday through Friday, at 10:00, 3:00, and 6:00, I peer over the roof, down the hill to the road where students arrive, and wonder… who might show up today? Will anyone show up? Composing a lesson plan in my mind for the various options that could ensure, one arrives or nine arrive, I wait. Selena, a reliable 11-year-old, appears on the horizon, her head bopping up and down as she struggles up the hill on her bike, and I remember why I’m here. 6:00 is still the problem class… no one showed yesterday, as I stood at my post watching the darkness roll in without any students accompanying it. 

Thursday:

I awoke today to hot coffee which I so appreciated in all its glory. My original plan of an early morning run was dashed when I realized it had rained all night long, and still was, and would until the afternoon. However, my spirits were much improved from the day before. Juan and I had a lovely chat over breakfast about Nicaraguan politics, which I actually consider myself at least decently well versed in after reading a 500-page book about this very subject. I’m feeling a bit like a politics junkie whose source has dried up, especially since all this convention excitement is going on back home and I’m so far away. Talking Nica politics was a nice second, a good fix.

Three of my students in the morning class braved the rain—shocking—so we played food bingo for a mind numbing two hours. The good news is that I think they’re learning, and I’ve actually picked up a few Nicaraguan food terms along the way myself.

The rain broke after lunch for a bit. Neither Adam and I had left the hotel in three days and were both a bit stir crazy (I can’t run, he can’t surf) so we went for a walk to check out the surrounding roads and the rivers we heard had risen to new heights. Indeed, they had. There is actually a word for the little valleys in the road that turn into full rivers after rains—quebradas. We arrived at the first one (the quebrada mentioned in an earlier story with Ioxlina) and forged it. (I tried to forge the river but my oxen died…Oregon Trail, Nica style.) But actually, by forged it, I really just mean I rolled up my shorts and walked 12 feet across a muddy river. We continued through the shallow-flooded roads until we reached Rob’s reserve, Zacatan, and decided to walk through it to check out the once-dry waterfall we had seen only weeks before. If I wasn’t convinced before that my Chacos were worth all that damn money I paid for them, then consider me convinced, as our path mostly found us walking upstream in a fast-flowing, rocky creek. We wandered through trails, jumping in and out of the creek when we could, and made our way through the forest. The arrival at the waterfall was a bit anticlimactic after all this trekking, but it was much more about the journey than the destination. Where two weeks before, the ledge and the corresponding creek had been completely dry, now it was a flowing fall—about four feet, the pool below it, bubbling over with cold water. And then we walked down the creek, out the reserve, forged the river once again, and returned to Brio, content with our little adventure.

Friday:

I awoke this morning, rolled over in a haze, and noticed the little red light on the surge protector was off. You know what that means…se fue la electricidad. No internet again, and I’m… again not knowing, wondering. Breakfast of scrambled eggs, gallo pinto, and tortillas, coffee, like normal, always delicious. One student shows up for my morning class. It’s clear as can be, so I’m not so happy with the wee-ones. 

How can it possibly be Friday? I’m not sure I did anything this week. Actually, I am working on a few freelance articles to try to submit to travel magazines. One is titled, ‘why stray dogs suck in Latin America’ and recounts the now infamous Snickers bar story. I’m kidding. Actually, sort of. 

And, four hours later, I walk into my room and find the fan merrily twirling along, acting as if it never stopped. 

I must be going loopy from all the rain, which is by the way, thundering overhead noisily. Three girls came to my night class and then were stuck here for an hour after class due to the duration of the torential downpour.

Today we started our food unit. I spent last evening making food bingo cards for my students using blank printer paper, colored pencils and my lovely imagination. I must say, I’m quite proud of my renderings of such food stuffs as pineapple, beets, and salad. I think my favorite was milk, as I had to adapt the traditional cartoon symbol of a milk carton since I have yet to see a carton here. Instead, on six different bingo boards, in six little different squares, I drew milk being poured into a coffee cup from…a bag of milk! They weren’t actually all that great. I suppose after making six homemade bingo boards over the course of two hours, I got a little attached to them. And I may have over-reacted when my morning class of 11-year-olds began crumpling them and writing on them, without regard for the clear works of art that they are. Next time I should probably leave the arts and crafts for the students…

Anyway, back to rain-induced loopy-Megan. On my third food-unit class today, I for some reason recalled a scene from one of my favorite bad movies, The Pink Panther with Steve Martin and laughed ironically to myself. Silently of course, as I was busy saying ‘I am hungry.’ I took the liberty of YouTubing this video and you may find it below if you feel so inclined to spend the one minute, 52 seconds watching it. Now, I do not mean to insult the intelligence of my students in any way, shape, or form, nor suggest they are like Detective Clusou. But you see how teaching a second language can be a bit ridiculous at times. And that in order to survive, also you simply must be able to find the hilarity in saying: pepper. pe-per. peeeeh-purrrrr. pep. pep. pep. pur. pur pur. PEP.pur. pep.PURH. pepper! 

Oh English. You’re silly.

I’m drinking piña con arroz. Pineapple juice with rice, over ice. Strangely it is pink and tastes like brown sugar. It is delicious. On further inspection, it seems as though this strange concoction is literally blended rice and pineapple. Blended rice has an interesting consistency.

Okay. I went in for round two and asked Ixolina. This is how she tells me you make this drink. Disclaimer: just in case you are tempted to make this drink yourself, I could be horribly mistaken because she talks very fast.

You boil rice. To this rice stew, you add a full pineapple. A whole one, skin, fronds, and all? Yes. Then, when it’s cooked, you take said pineapple out. How to tell when a boiled pineapple is ‘done,’ I haven’t the foggiest idea. Then you somehow sacar (take out) the juice of the boiled pineapple. Or maybe you add the whole fruit. I don’t know, sacar was used very vaguely here. What you have sacared, you add to the boiling rice-stew. Then you add sugar and red food coloring. Why red food coloring? So it’s nice and pink. I guess pink beverages are better than beige ones. Somewhere along the way, you have added the skin of the pineapple, which you are now blending along with everything else in a blender. There was also cinnamon sitting on the counter, so I believe that it plays a role somewhere. Finally, you cool said boiled rice-pineapple-sugar-red food colored concoction in a pitcher in the fridge, and serve it up over ice. These instructions are confusing but are so in a consistently Nicaraguan way, so they seem to fit the drink. 

It’s really quite wonderful and refreshing, albeit a bit strange in concept.

Today is September 1. Holy moly shitoly. I am having my own personal celebration, toasting myself with my pink rice juice, that I have officially been on Nicaraguan soil one month. I’m a third of the way through my tourist visa; I’m one lunar cycle removed from life as I knew it. Like most months for most people, it has flown by and also I feel as though it was a very long month. How has my life changed? Throughout this month, I haven’t once worn makeup. My hair hasn’t seen itself outside of a ponytail holder and my skin hasn’t felt itself without bug spray. I peered into an active volcano once and said my ABC’s two thousand times. I counted to twenty an equal number of times, and said the days of the week slightly less many. I live 15 minutes away from a deserted mile-long forest-green, sandy-beige, brilliant-blue beach that I may run on anytime I feel so inclined.

Indeed, I woke up early this morning to run, unaware that it had rained quite a lot last night, turning the little creek I normally hop over into a river. There I stood, contemplating this development, while the family in the house above the creek watched me. Two local boys arrived, rolled up their pants and just walked across, so, following suit, I took off my shoes and socks, and wadded through the shin deep water to the other side where my deserted beach awaited me. It’s not quite as rainy as it was last week, so I soaked up some sun on my run and am feeling much perkier. 

I discovered, while flipping through my Moon Nicaragua guidebook, that hamequear is a real verb used in Nicaragua. This is an astute insight into Nicaraguan culture, I believe.

Hamequeaba todo el tarde ayer. I hammocked all afternoon yesterday. I’m nearing the end of my book about Nicaragua (entitled ‘Blood of Brothers: Life and War in Nicaragua’) and am still marveling at this country and it’s people. More on that later…

Ah, the first of September. It doesn’t seem at all different here, August to September, yet in my former life, the arrival of September was the shift and click that re-set my mind into fall, school and the soon arrival of shorter evenings and crisp mornings. On Nica time, though, the days and nights hang in the same equilibrium, sunsets are always long and there exists the verb, to hammock.

And, I wonder, what shall the coming month bring?