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Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Esteli, Boaco, Camoapa
I finally made it to Camoapa, my old assignment to see the friends, and of course Jessica and Emily.
On my way bus hopping to Camoapa, I found out that I was going to have to wait hours and hours in the sun at San Benito where every time that I have passed, not a word of a lie, I have seen men arrested by police officers, handcuffed and carried off in front of us. It makes for a great show, but I didn't think I wanted to see reruns; so I hopped a different bus and met the girls in Boaca, la ciudad de do pisos, the two-floored city.
Boaco was once a simple town on the mountainside. During the civil war, the guerilla fighting in the countryside forced the campesinos to flee to the relative safety of Boaco, and the city explanded rapidly and spilled into the valley below and up the side of the facing mountain. What remains today is a Dr Suess-esque, paradaisaical, idealistic, teetery-tottery-two-tiered town. Stepping into Boaco felt like stepping back in time 50 years into Latin-America's Mayberry.
From Boaco, Camoapa is a dusty, bumpy, bus-wheezing, hilly, low-gear-grinding 3 hour trek back. Half asleep on the way there, I deliriously rotated between two thoughts: (a) "Where the heck am I? I don't remember getting on this bus", and (b) "The last time I was here in service we watched as the bus simply quit, rendida, gasping and wheezing - please, please just make it up this hill!"
But, finally we made it back to good ol' cowtown Camoapa.
I never get tired of this uniform: pressed Jeans, shiny shoes or cowboy boots and sharp shirt - boys take note, anyone looks good in this.
Service in Camoapa:
After this travelling it was really nice to get home to Esteli; although things here have been action packed as well. The C.O. visit is this week:
Recently there was also some kind of day of the dead where everyone repaints, decorates and gives flowers and other gifts to the graves of their loved ones. Esteli was full of flower stalls.
Our congregation made an interesting arrangement: A service group went to the cemetery, jam-packed as it was with friends and family of the dead and flower and food vendors for some approach work. At home I would be intimidated to try something like that, but here it just works so well!
The ministry here is definitely different from at home; you spend 2 hours or more in the sun in the territory, talking to someone at every door - so for a little break, this could be what you would do:
What can I say? They love their baseball.
Love from Nicaragua
Meag
On my way bus hopping to Camoapa, I found out that I was going to have to wait hours and hours in the sun at San Benito where every time that I have passed, not a word of a lie, I have seen men arrested by police officers, handcuffed and carried off in front of us. It makes for a great show, but I didn't think I wanted to see reruns; so I hopped a different bus and met the girls in Boaca, la ciudad de do pisos, the two-floored city.
Boaco was once a simple town on the mountainside. During the civil war, the guerilla fighting in the countryside forced the campesinos to flee to the relative safety of Boaco, and the city explanded rapidly and spilled into the valley below and up the side of the facing mountain. What remains today is a Dr Suess-esque, paradaisaical, idealistic, teetery-tottery-two-tiered town. Stepping into Boaco felt like stepping back in time 50 years into Latin-America's Mayberry.
From Boaco, Camoapa is a dusty, bumpy, bus-wheezing, hilly, low-gear-grinding 3 hour trek back. Half asleep on the way there, I deliriously rotated between two thoughts: (a) "Where the heck am I? I don't remember getting on this bus", and (b) "The last time I was here in service we watched as the bus simply quit, rendida, gasping and wheezing - please, please just make it up this hill!"
But, finally we made it back to good ol' cowtown Camoapa.
I never get tired of this uniform: pressed Jeans, shiny shoes or cowboy boots and sharp shirt - boys take note, anyone looks good in this.
Service in Camoapa:
Esteli
After this travelling it was really nice to get home to Esteli; although things here have been action packed as well. The C.O. visit is this week:
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| Pioneer Meeting for Esteli Central |
Our congregation made an interesting arrangement: A service group went to the cemetery, jam-packed as it was with friends and family of the dead and flower and food vendors for some approach work. At home I would be intimidated to try something like that, but here it just works so well!
The ministry here is definitely different from at home; you spend 2 hours or more in the sun in the territory, talking to someone at every door - so for a little break, this could be what you would do:
What can I say? They love their baseball.
Love from Nicaragua
Meag
Sound Cars and the Circus
Of elephants and rain....
So, does anyone know how advertising in Nicaragua works? Lets put it this way - Do you remember reading about colporteurs and sound cars and sandwich board campaigns? I always used to wonder how that worked; in my mind it seemed a little undignified. Of course, now we don't use those methods because it would not work in our society. I am learning however, that in some areas it really would be an effective way of advertising. For example, a caravan of circus cars with elephants, zebras, camels, miniature ponies, clowns and a sound car cruise the cramped streets of Esteli blaring "QUE BARATO! QUE BARATO!" (HOW CHEAP! HOW CHEAP!) and, coincidentally, blaring the same address that our district convention will be held at the same week.
I would give A LOT to ride on that elephant. I have been thinking up various scenarios in which I could convince Tarzan to let me up there.
I have taken a lesson from Bridget and most of my scenarios involve letting down my hair a lil' bit... (the best way to get out of a corrupt police ticket/confiscation of your vehicle is to let down your hair, lip-gloss it up, and pretend that you only know enough spanish to express how your gratitude/sympathy/respect/crush on them because they stand in the hot sun all day long)
Not to worry, we all know I couldn't pull that off with a straight face. Darn eh?
We are approaching the end of the rainy season in Nicaragua, but what we do get makes up for the dry days. The second it starts we run to gather the drying laundry. This morning I woke up to take my laundry off the line and put it in the washing machine where it would be drier. Within moments of the rain starting, soapy torrid rivers swell and swirl through the streets (and our patio), looking like class five rapids around taxis, bikes, dogs, twisted cobble stones and telephone poles.
Sometimes rain means you can stop and watch the world go by:
You can chill in your patio, or someone else's:
So, does anyone know how advertising in Nicaragua works? Lets put it this way - Do you remember reading about colporteurs and sound cars and sandwich board campaigns? I always used to wonder how that worked; in my mind it seemed a little undignified. Of course, now we don't use those methods because it would not work in our society. I am learning however, that in some areas it really would be an effective way of advertising. For example, a caravan of circus cars with elephants, zebras, camels, miniature ponies, clowns and a sound car cruise the cramped streets of Esteli blaring "QUE BARATO! QUE BARATO!" (HOW CHEAP! HOW CHEAP!) and, coincidentally, blaring the same address that our district convention will be held at the same week.
I have taken a lesson from Bridget and most of my scenarios involve letting down my hair a lil' bit... (the best way to get out of a corrupt police ticket/confiscation of your vehicle is to let down your hair, lip-gloss it up, and pretend that you only know enough spanish to express how your gratitude/sympathy/respect/crush on them because they stand in the hot sun all day long)
Not to worry, we all know I couldn't pull that off with a straight face. Darn eh?
We are approaching the end of the rainy season in Nicaragua, but what we do get makes up for the dry days. The second it starts we run to gather the drying laundry. This morning I woke up to take my laundry off the line and put it in the washing machine where it would be drier. Within moments of the rain starting, soapy torrid rivers swell and swirl through the streets (and our patio), looking like class five rapids around taxis, bikes, dogs, twisted cobble stones and telephone poles.
Sometimes rain means you can stop and watch the world go by:
You can chill in your patio, or someone else's:
And others keep going - because the Mariachi music must always be played:
Or because we must get to the meeting, umbrellas, tacones, lip gloss and all:
Its not hard to guess how I feel on these days: I love rain, I love umbrellas, I love high heels, and I love how the world pauses a moment in the downpour - its a remnant of a simpler life and a reminder of why I love it here!
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