tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58573069397693430602024-03-04T23:33:29.058-06:00Brie's Peace Corps JourneyThe contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps.Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-43141039293207927282010-05-09T12:48:00.003-05:002010-05-10T19:40:33.058-05:00WWCND? (What Would Chuck Norris Do?)A near bust, leads me to reconsider the actual benefits of protein powder and nunchucks…<br /><br />Now that I’m back stateside it seems like my life has slipped back into that oh too familiar monotony. This of course makes it difficult to blog because I feel that I lack the inspiration that was provided to me so freely in Nicaragua, where everything was new and interesting. However, just the other day a friend of mine supplied me with the ultimate story, which made me reconsider my previous statement about monotony. This story is true, sadly, and none of the facts have been changed or altered except for the name of my friend, which has been changed to protect them from further mockery. <br /><br />It began yesterday night, when my friend “Glen” decided to take a drive downtown. Glen was doing a good deed and dropping off a friend at their house after the friend had consumed a few too many. Somewhere along the way a police vehicle spotted Glen’s car, and noticed that one of the front lights was out. Therefore, the cop proceeded to pull them over for some quick questioning. The officer asked the standard “show me your license and vehicle registration” and then asked if there were any weapons in the vehicle. At this point, Glen was a little shaken from being pulled over and also surprised by the second question that the officer asked. “Who do they think I am, why would I have weapons?” thought Glen and quickly responded “no of course not.” <br /><br />Well, something must have looked suspicious, and the officer kindly requested that Glen pop open the trunk, which is where the trouble all began. <br /><br />The first thing the officer noticed and pulled out of the trunk were a pair of nunchucks. “No weapons you said, well then what are these?” the officer stated accusingly, clearly displaying the nunchucks in front of Glen. Well, last Halloween Glen went as a Ninja. So the nunchucks were left over from the costume and conveniently forgotten in the trunk of the car. Glen stated, “Sir they are nunchucks.” The officer responded, “Well, yes I can see these are nunchucks, but what are they doing in your car.” What Glen should have told the officer was:<br /><br />A)“I’m a black belt in Karate, and can chop through 5 bricks at a time” <br />B)“I was trying to emulate my hero Chuck Norris (Insert bad Chuck Norris joke here)” <br />C)“Look officer, I can’t fit them anywhere else”<br />D)“Watch out behind you…ninjas!!”<br /><br />Instead, Glen provided the officer with the boring truth, and told him that the nunchucks were left over from Halloween. <br /><br />Now, a few weeks ago, Glen suggested that we buy some protein powder together from GNC. Well, time went by and GNC finally had a big sale so we both purchased a 5 lb tub of whey protein powder. Of course, Glen decided to throw his GNC powder in his trunk to the left of the nunchucks. <br /><br />Now back to that trunk. The cop looked inside the trunk again and now noticed (and who wouldn’t) the 5 lb tub. However, the police officer had no idea that it was from GNC because Glen had ripped off the protein powder’s label by accident. So the officer opened up the tub to find 5 lbs of mystery white powder (that also happened to smell like cookies and cream). “Is this cocaine?” “Are you dealing cocaine” the officer sternly asked. “No, no, no it’s my whey powder.” “What?” “It’s from GNC it has protein, I am trying to get abs.” Well, the officer looks at my friend, looks and the powder, and then starts to drill my friend some more (obviously Glen didn’t appear to be buff enough to be consuming protein powder on a regular basis).<br /> <br />Let the questioning begin:<br />Officer: Well how many calories per serving does it contain?<br />Glen: I’m not sure maybe around 100<br />Officer: How do you not know, and why isn’t there a label on this?<br />Glen: It came off by accident I have the label at home, it’s protein powder<br />Officer: Well what brand is it?<br />Glen: It’s GNC brand<br />Officer: Well what brand is that?<br />Glen: I told you it’s GNC brand <br />Officer: Well tell me what brand!<br />Glen: I told you it’s the generic brand<br />Officer: Well it has to have a name…<br /><br />The questioning continued along those lines for another several minutes until the officer spotted yet another item in the trunk. What could that item be? Another set of nunchucks, not likely. Perhaps, a Chuck Norris doll? Nope, that was at home in a glass display case labeled, “My Hero.” Or maybe some more muscle building stuff, no way. It was just a lil’ole apple pie! <br /><br />The officer looked in the trunk again and proceeded to pull out an old McDonalds bag with an apple pie left inside of it. “Do you eat these,” he questioned Glen. “Because, you know, this is very counterproductive to muscle building.” Glen responded, “Well, yeah, but they’re 2 for a $1 and I like apple pie.” By this point Glen was clearly shaken, and afraid of being thrown in jail for life due to a 5 lb cookie and cream bust. Finally, the officer believed my friend, and the story ends rather un-climatically. He simply lets them off with this warning, “You should really stop eating those pies, if you want to stay healthy; those things are really bad for you.” As Glen shakily replied, “Ok I will.”Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-78753655635025488432010-03-14T13:24:00.006-05:002010-03-14T13:49:24.364-05:00“Gotta make the doughnuts” or does the saying go “gotta eat the doughnuts”??The phrase “gotta make the doughnuts,” was uttered to me some time ago, but it always seemed to stick in my head because its meaning always eluded me. Did it mean that I had a calling as a pastry chef? Should I consider getting a job at Krispy Kream? Or maybe I just need to consume more doughnuts to help the suffering doughnut industry. Well I finally figured out its true meaning, simply put it means gotta make some $$$ (get it? a doughnut is in the shape of a “0” and the more “0’s” you have added onto your paycheck the more money you have in your hand). Unfortunately, the meaning of this phrase dawned on me shortly after I had consumed an entire box of doughnuts. That leads me to my point, since I am back in the U.S.A. I have learned very quickly that I need to jump on the doughnut bandwagon because ¢25 gets you nowhere nowadays, and I reiterate nowhere. I remember when a stamp and a phone call used to cost ¢25. Apparently that time has come and gone. In Nicaragua, ¢25 would buy me any one of the following items: crackers, 5 waters, 5 tortillas, tons of beans, 3 eggs, various snack things etc. (the list goes on and on). In the U.S., I have yet to find anything that actually costs ¢25! So this clearly leads to one conclusion, it’s time to get another job (this time one that actually has a salary, since Peace Corps did not).<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Church "El Calvario" that<br />is located in Leon Nicaragua</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuxw1_DG9hEWP9eIJGaqJMxSDduMP7ULIOUBm5Ng40MlPtsrRBPhyphenhyphen-1Gfo6DDBGMTF_suu_g3EDv-wFn82mLfIkQ3qJJCdYMtVCA1I0bjUrlcvNZKRwPVcwK04as9C6jVGZXU-VmvSwicl/s1600-h/Sweet+15th+Birthday+Party%21+003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuxw1_DG9hEWP9eIJGaqJMxSDduMP7ULIOUBm5Ng40MlPtsrRBPhyphenhyphen-1Gfo6DDBGMTF_suu_g3EDv-wFn82mLfIkQ3qJJCdYMtVCA1I0bjUrlcvNZKRwPVcwK04as9C6jVGZXU-VmvSwicl/s320/Sweet+15th+Birthday+Party%21+003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448558212052314738" border="0" /></a>Before returning to the U.S.A., Peace Corps informs you that you might have a reverse culture shock. I must say I didn’t really experience too much of a shock, I mean, there are still bad drivers on the road, people use their cell phones inappropriately (while driving, while shopping, while in the gym), people can still be rude or pretty nice depending on the circumstance, timeliness is next to godliness, and In general people are in a rush to go (somewhere or perhaps nowhere). North Americans (and I include myself in this analysis), tend to be a little more suspicious of people in general. In Nicaragua I could approach anyone at anytime and start up a two hour long conversation. In the States people A) Think of you as a weirdo if you make eye contact with them let alone talk to them B) Don’t have time to chat C) Think you will eventually try to sell them something (be it a religion, magazines etc.) or D) Just don’t care. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A view inside of the church</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwg1Ly8-_Zm8hE_L_OeE7Vrycu9IefIixNQqDc19z-aTx_m8vsIu9zY6eZ5iJTcq_e-OZ3oLT6P1ug2YdNGXH_ibiwLRJ4NIOmba_WfU1LFuUvwpyvusyunKO5YeN8LDPnWtC8LbyDnbDS/s1600-h/Sweet+15th+Birthday+Party%21+005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwg1Ly8-_Zm8hE_L_OeE7Vrycu9IefIixNQqDc19z-aTx_m8vsIu9zY6eZ5iJTcq_e-OZ3oLT6P1ug2YdNGXH_ibiwLRJ4NIOmba_WfU1LFuUvwpyvusyunKO5YeN8LDPnWtC8LbyDnbDS/s320/Sweet+15th+Birthday+Party%21+005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448557862997756706" border="0" /></a><br />Of course there are a few things I am happy to have back one being STREET NAMES and ADDRESSES!!! Although, after 3 years I did finally get used to Nicaraguan directions (for example, next to the old church 3 blocks down 2 blocks north). I recently was given directions to my friend’s new house in the States and she failed to mention any landmarks near or around her house. While driving I found myself a bit lost, yeah there are street names but did she know that she could have simply told me “from the Restaurant I hop 2 blocks west and 3 blocks down.” Of course in the U.S.A. where there are chain restaurants on every other block this type of direction giving might lead to more confusion than it’s worth. I suppose another thing I do appreciate about the States is that if you stop and ask for directions a person will either help you or tell you flat out that they don’t know. In Nicaragua, you will never hear the words “No sé, no lo conozco” uttered from anyone’s lips. Quite the opposite, no matter where you go you will always be happily directed somewhere (even if that somewhere isn’t where you actually wanted to go). People will have a big smile on their faces and tell you very specific directions even though those directions are not correct (note to readers, it was never done in malice they just wanted to be helpful). That is why in Nicaragua I would ask numerous people to point me in the right direction. In the States this just isn’t needed thanks to mapquest and/or talking navigational boxes that will guide you on your way. However, I know I will miss actually communicating face to face with a fellow human being even if their directions are not so accurate.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jordan and I at a quinceañera party</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljPkMci_Lh1JNvivPt3RUMP6KP0msLtZhpQxDk2CD0RAF9r2DYMuqBTyxm68xWG7MqOLvqLqeHlLmgTPYdwHly3P0qGSibzcl1NOlct-TaHlbtUmoa2n_xn9idoewOiG9Zv3f-VAlNGg3/s1600-h/Sweet+15th+Birthday+Party%21+010+%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljPkMci_Lh1JNvivPt3RUMP6KP0msLtZhpQxDk2CD0RAF9r2DYMuqBTyxm68xWG7MqOLvqLqeHlLmgTPYdwHly3P0qGSibzcl1NOlct-TaHlbtUmoa2n_xn9idoewOiG9Zv3f-VAlNGg3/s320/Sweet+15th+Birthday+Party%21+010+%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448557361963872050" border="0" /></a>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-68057866643869666902010-02-18T13:04:00.012-06:002010-03-14T13:48:22.408-05:00Try and try again…<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">To the left is a beautiful</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> beach located in </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">San Juan del Sur. </span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQceVyc3ds3uq4rohfvHDZ0VWRTq7o2IdrwpJ-LcPt6ke1iHbYoTqfZbCRUwkeCAcD3nvGrRZxa80kiHRzacNIGGfFgFkUJzEp4yUrbAGvRGw_DOAsKxwgAbCZxxuNEuCPtNH_DhZlIS7/s1600-h/IMG_1072+%283%29+resized.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQceVyc3ds3uq4rohfvHDZ0VWRTq7o2IdrwpJ-LcPt6ke1iHbYoTqfZbCRUwkeCAcD3nvGrRZxa80kiHRzacNIGGfFgFkUJzEp4yUrbAGvRGw_DOAsKxwgAbCZxxuNEuCPtNH_DhZlIS7/s320/IMG_1072+%283%29+resized.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439666121380982834" border="0" /></a><span>Half the fun of Peace Corps is jumping into the unknown. It took me my first full year in Nicaragua to understand the daily workings of things. Then it took me another 20 months to start implementing projects and getting something done. I learned to be patient, talk to everyone, but mostly just to listen. Most opportunities that came to me during my service came through the contacts I made. At times I stretched myself too thin wanting to help everyone, and I wasn’t always successful in everything I did. But I always tried and I can honestly say I never gave up. In Nicaragua, I sometimes felt alone. Others times I felt surrounded by either people, noises, animals, smells, smoke and/or heat. However, most of the time I just felt at home. I learned that things never go quite as planned (I have fixed my fair share of flat bike tires), but to roll with the punches (walking works well when you get a flat), keep a positive outlook (it will probably rain while you’re walking but at least it won’t be hot), and you will find success in anything you try to accomplish.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> To the right are my students, counterpart<br /> and </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">myself posing for a picture after winning<br /></span></span></span><span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> the</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> national business competition.</span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil05aVYi_lC43JyfwQ3oU9eiHbyRphbD1n3hdm_e-XJI_lsnEBnAQGb8V9kHvDcxN83lqd4UilYG5EozFAbNQ8hQ9ST-R5Oad44RH-ndhaXKKqQcY0NPvf2qJJCVIFcXgkt3nY60Twrm3j/s1600-h/IMG_7590+%283%29+resized.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil05aVYi_lC43JyfwQ3oU9eiHbyRphbD1n3hdm_e-XJI_lsnEBnAQGb8V9kHvDcxN83lqd4UilYG5EozFAbNQ8hQ9ST-R5Oad44RH-ndhaXKKqQcY0NPvf2qJJCVIFcXgkt3nY60Twrm3j/s320/IMG_7590+%283%29+resized.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439664422053186306" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Peace Corps for me has been about a lot of rejection, and then how the re-group after you’ve been rejected! The answers are never right in front of you, and sometimes you have to be really creative to turn a bad experience into a “learning experience.”</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">For me, the biggest challenge I faced was something that I couldn’t change or alter. However, it didn’t matter because I learned how to get around that challenge and still be successful. It’s like building a road but there’s a giant mountain in your way. So I just learned to go around my mountain, granted it took longer and the path wasn’t quite as smooth, but when I finally made it over the feeling of achievement was that much greater. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">Now that it is officially time for me to leave Nicaragua I have realized that my biggest accomplishment isn’t the amount of projects I completed but in fact it is the amount of people I met along the way.</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Here's a pic of Goggins and I at the beach.<br />He can't swim so he just soaked up some<br />sun while I splashed in the waves.</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb6TaImzMve1x2Hd8iRzu2JDQOryNCn60EsmitdyzvzrZQb748WG7YmKt6tzKUMcWXdjwuUYxZcz0bhcJNt4iSyAURNYdwdvO0TVc2VvKtH6ULBCra3MCPgMaylhr0AmjG-wFZDwDrBPAS/s1600-h/IMG_1086+%283%29+resized.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb6TaImzMve1x2Hd8iRzu2JDQOryNCn60EsmitdyzvzrZQb748WG7YmKt6tzKUMcWXdjwuUYxZcz0bhcJNt4iSyAURNYdwdvO0TVc2VvKtH6ULBCra3MCPgMaylhr0AmjG-wFZDwDrBPAS/s320/IMG_1086+%283%29+resized.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439664981481702482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />My top ten memories of Nicaragua:</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span>1)Dancing: in buses, with small children, at fiestas or whenever/wherever the mood might strike.</span><br /><span>2)Eating hot soup at 12pm.</span><br /><span>3)Finding a rat den in my house complete with 10 rats.</span><br /><span>4)Riding the “Farris wheel of death” at my town carnival.</span><br /><span>5)Going to the circus where the rafters swayed from the weight of people (including myself) that sat on them.</span><br /><span>6)Falling off a bridge with my bike over my shoulder into a very deep muddy pit.</span><br /><span>7)Getting stuck in a river while I was on a bus.</span><br /><span>8)Getting hugs from all of the little kids that lived around my house.</span><br /><span>9)Saying “Adios” to everyone on the street.</span><br /><span>10)Watching my students graduate from high school and go onto college.</span><br /></div></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /> </span></span>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-80923370066236259592010-01-07T14:26:00.007-06:002010-01-07T14:44:33.957-06:00Pronunciation is key...don’t go around wishing people a happy new anusI would like to begin by wishing everyone a feliz año nuevo. For those who might be unfamiliar with the Spanish language, I will take just a moment to explain something simple, yet valid. Above the letter “n” in the word año you will notice a squiggly line, in fact, this is not know as a squiggle but as a tilde, which is placed on top of the “n” to change the pronunciation of the word. Without the squiggle the word takes on a different meaning. For example, año spelled: ano means anus. Therefore, unless you know someone who recently underwent a certain reconstructive surgery, it is best to wish people a happy new año!
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<br />My new year’s resolutions:</span>
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<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1)Stop lying.</span> All of the packages that get sent to me are addressed to Pastora Brie Johnson, which translates to either Pastor or goat herder…I am neither. Although, having the title goat herder/pastor has helped navigate packages quickly through many treacherous sticky fingers it has also forced me to assume two alternate identities. I am now fully capable of participating in a conversation solely about goats; as well, I have acquired the skills to bless tiny infants. Quite frankly, I feel like I have become caught up in a web of lies. Although, I have noticed some packages have not made it through, and I have reached the conclusion that postal workers must enjoy stealing things from goat herders.
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2)Smile less. </span> A smile indicates that you are a happy and pleasant person that would be willing to participate in a conversation. While this may not be looked upon as a bad quality (the quality of smiling too much) to those of us that do tend to smile too much (such as myself) it unknowingly draws in the crazies. In the last few years, I have found myself sucked into hour long conversations with: a toothless crazy, a divorced drunk crazy ex-pat looking for roast beef, a board-short Hawaiian t-shirt wearing crazy wanting to know how to get a ticket to China, an English slurring slang throwing crazy that used to live in New York…and this list goes on and on.
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3)Run less. </span>I forgot that a workout routine should not involve running for your life from a crazy dog (although that is a great way to build up a good sweat). During my brief return home to the USA I entered into a 24 hour fitness center, which I can honestly say took my breath away. Inside there were hundreds of machines at my disposal and 0 dogs, drunks or other unruly obstacles that normally make up my typical workout routine.
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4)Stop being so patient. </span> Whoever said that patience is a virtue was mistaken because you know what? It’s not. Stepping back into the US made me see what not having patience can bring you: a free non-fat no whip extra hot latte, an upgrade into first class on the airplane, you also get to drive faster than everyone else on the roadway and arrive at your destination a full 30 seconds before everyone else arrives.
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5)Update my blog.</span>
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<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">My students and I in the city of León after their Regional Business Competition</span>
<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDUdl5teJHoCrnovsg5abQ0jXuFNWMGPbYuxH_4GHY4njMSH7UiY4332KjhlpaSLd-ELOK_y406I5IBuciD9gH0q1RZxNy1N3W_qHBV7u12xbTw9foBK6rmKWpsUTOBh390FISwzFTBHC/s1600-h/Regional+Comp+2009+037+%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDUdl5teJHoCrnovsg5abQ0jXuFNWMGPbYuxH_4GHY4njMSH7UiY4332KjhlpaSLd-ELOK_y406I5IBuciD9gH0q1RZxNy1N3W_qHBV7u12xbTw9foBK6rmKWpsUTOBh390FISwzFTBHC/s320/Regional+Comp+2009+037+%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424098893070393154" border="0" /></a>
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<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Graduation celebration for my students (I am pictured with a fellow teacher/friend Eva)! </span>
<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyAld6OHWjdejm50li9vQUWWR10cbyAZATafItBWOlbErXgnRDEsFUJ1ll51MF26ndlM1vHNLlAeylHRLqE4BbBy9pFKgiFINFp3aXxgO17diBgaFWwKIj6upe6HgyZMPI7Rd6owoGnDT8/s1600-h/Graduacion!+022+%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyAld6OHWjdejm50li9vQUWWR10cbyAZATafItBWOlbErXgnRDEsFUJ1ll51MF26ndlM1vHNLlAeylHRLqE4BbBy9pFKgiFINFp3aXxgO17diBgaFWwKIj6upe6HgyZMPI7Rd6owoGnDT8/s320/Graduacion!+022+%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424098381930956386" border="0" /></a>
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<br />Finally, a 20 second update (with pictures to follow) of the past year. I went to Costa Rica, El Salvador, Honduras, and Guatemala and saw rainforests, rivers of crocodiles, monkeys, exotic birds, Mayan ruins, volcanoes, oceans, and a bull fight. Although, I technically should have finished my Peace Corps service in July 2009, I decided to stay a bit longer in order to witness some of the following events:
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<br />I went to a bunch of 15th birthday parties, 1 wedding and baby shower after baby shower. I had 4 of my student groups win their local business competition. I had 3 student groups participate in a regional business competition and I had 1 group continue on to the national level where they took 1st place and were featured in the newspaper. I finished the school year in November with all of my counterpart teachers and watched my kids graduate. I saw the business course, which I have taught through my entire Peace Corps service, get indoctrinated into the national Nicaraguan school curriculum…talk about sustainability! And most importantly, I have been able to share all of the highs (and some lows) with my great Nica friends, counterparts and neighbors!
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<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">
<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">My doggie, Alteza, all grown-up</span>
<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1I5Iqj5PXdda5vTBI4jlc7ve-Fgk4e6T40YXOBDPj29kQsMuM7HSPHyiGRpOkVovGPnx3oNFJhCDIkT_7g-0Q96LUlG9EGY_Ny9imObABGcCWPYBLOM8R9L7Vn0Hs6p_PzJaZVLT_JSj6/s1600-h/Birthday+parties+and+Alteza+019+%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1I5Iqj5PXdda5vTBI4jlc7ve-Fgk4e6T40YXOBDPj29kQsMuM7HSPHyiGRpOkVovGPnx3oNFJhCDIkT_7g-0Q96LUlG9EGY_Ny9imObABGcCWPYBLOM8R9L7Vn0Hs6p_PzJaZVLT_JSj6/s320/Birthday+parties+and+Alteza+019+%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424097796641523250" border="0" /></a>
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">
<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Standing at the base of a temple in Tikal </span>
<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0CGF1ccloCIMW91b7hk7v7s7IGJX2iZu0KhTkqsHkzyYasCjUWxFgXhqw9nLW5KP7EQ4A9i5wHa47ax5MSaJ1IkTVI6_X3yaHrSxKf2ajURMfX76H6_dSO4kw5EudDZaph6mPfE7LZBiN/s1600-h/Guatemala+005+%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0CGF1ccloCIMW91b7hk7v7s7IGJX2iZu0KhTkqsHkzyYasCjUWxFgXhqw9nLW5KP7EQ4A9i5wHa47ax5MSaJ1IkTVI6_X3yaHrSxKf2ajURMfX76H6_dSO4kw5EudDZaph6mPfE7LZBiN/s320/Guatemala+005+%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424097512932995874" border="0" /></a>
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mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">In 2010, I will be officially finishing my service, moving back to Colorado for a few months and then plan on seeing the rest of the world!</p>
<br />Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-47608217805122309532009-07-04T22:28:00.005-05:002009-07-05T08:10:53.745-05:00A rat ate my homework...<span style="font-weight:bold;">Kayak Jam Poetry: </span> When I signed up for a kayaking tour of the shark infested lake of Nicaragua, I didn’t expect to get a poet as a tour guide. My friend Whitney and I started off the tour with regular small talk and somehow ended up with a tour that involved ridiculously placed prose comparing a woman’s body to various trees, flowers, and rivers. For example, we saw a large old tree, which I would describe using such adjectives as: big, green, and lush. However, our tour guide said, “This ancient tree looks like a woman’s sensual body looking towards the heavenly sky.” The tour was almost 4 hours long, and our guide Mario never ran out of similes.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">One of the new 7 wonders of the world: The island of Ometepe</span><a href="http://www.new7wonders.com/c1/"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG6PB3i0wVVbgl4xIQvBxx0SyaW9hVfvfpEe54X5Jft2A7HHYvafi708jXztkSpHf3S0XHAUvVK5bBhBb6LAClqtZynTShJp9QBmyYQHKjyfZwtCP1b5cVXmPAdKgeK2Irz9Sor90Vi5Hs/s1600-h/IMG_5263.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG6PB3i0wVVbgl4xIQvBxx0SyaW9hVfvfpEe54X5Jft2A7HHYvafi708jXztkSpHf3S0XHAUvVK5bBhBb6LAClqtZynTShJp9QBmyYQHKjyfZwtCP1b5cVXmPAdKgeK2Irz9Sor90Vi5Hs/s320/IMG_5263.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354944968417879122" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Lord of the dance:</span> Whit and I also went out dancing one night. We were having fun sitting at our table people watching when Whit was approached by a short guy that had had a few too many drinks. He got very close to her right ear and said, “DANCING.” Then he repeated, “DANCING.” Now I am assuming he wanted to ask Whit to dance but instead of saying, “Would you like to dance?” He just kept yelling “DANCING.” <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Whitney and I are about to fly through the trees</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionDRaaP5ZsncGAW1T1ZVw1Axb8JiMq0GNYFnJSSZKOpYJqjsK3BNYq2AiRB-w9zX1LXPBuv4fB8OzcvHkz4dKiAXLjbCTFUtaLp73oEXpk1danoErdn_eNCanP30_JD4ZMUCGT7JkuKZJ/s1600-h/Whitney+Visit%21+009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionDRaaP5ZsncGAW1T1ZVw1Axb8JiMq0GNYFnJSSZKOpYJqjsK3BNYq2AiRB-w9zX1LXPBuv4fB8OzcvHkz4dKiAXLjbCTFUtaLp73oEXpk1danoErdn_eNCanP30_JD4ZMUCGT7JkuKZJ/s320/Whitney+Visit%21+009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354814806855288146" border="0"></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Climbing the 2nd most active volcano in the world (again):</span> Getting lost in the wild bush for a few hours is never anything to be too worried about, but I always carry an extra snack just in case we’re lost for an exceedingly long period of time. Plus, why ask for directions when you can go around in circles for hours? There is no excitement in arriving at a destination in a timely manner! It seems that every time I climb the Cerro Negro (the 2nd most active volcano en el mundo) we get lost somewhere along the way. It seems almost impossible to get lost since it is just one big massive black hole of sand, but we always manage somehow, someway. This time around 20 of us got into a low riding small pick-up truck (I somehow lucked out in the shotgun seat). The driver started the engine and the kids and I where off towards the cerro. This time around we were going to give an investigative survey (encuesta) concerning the natural wildlife reserve that surrounds the volcano. But after starting up the truck the driver failed to ask any of us for directions and chose his own made-up route. We didn’t realize that he didn’t know where he was going until 2 hours into the ride he stopped the truck and whispered to me, “Where are we?” Well, those are never the words you want to hear when you realize you are surrounded by thick trees and branches and the noon sun is slowly rising higher and higher in the sky. Not surprised by the fact that he was lost, I told him that the cerro was close and now we just had to figure out how to turn the truck around on a one-way narrow road. Since there were 20 kids in the back of the pick-up, they all jumped out to help physically lift the truck off of the ground and turn it around. After this mighty feat, we got back into the truck found the foot of the volcano and parked. However, since the cerro is made up of sand the truck got stuck, and the kids were forced to use their muscles again to heave to truck out. We walked an hour to the nature reserve, I had a poisonous snake placed around my neck, and then we hiked the volcano. What a day!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">This video makes me laugh each time I watch it! Pay close attention to the waiter and the random man in the clip, because they seem able to ignore all that is going on around them.</span><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dynkTfbDguv0G3I97OXn3H6RRKQhCjHmxXUySLEX7hhi8VlZ8qe9jtobgVVO7ZU9dJCf7iIrrj6Ta7gTOmTAQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">This celebration is called La Gigantona (who is the giant Spanish lady in costume that is seen at the very end of the clip). The short man dancing around is her "native" Nicaraguan husband. She fell in love with him and chose to stay in Nicaragua instead of returning to Spain.<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />RATS! RATS! RATS!: </span>It’s been a while since I have posted a blog, and I suppose it’s because I have felt a bit uninspired. The things that used to be so new have now become just ordinary occurrences. I have dealt with the fact that there are an abundance of bats, mice and insects in tropical climates, which are things that I don’t normally have to deal with in my home state of Colorado. None of these things have ever really bothered me and I hardy pay notice when they go scurrying across my line of vision. A few nights ago, I was unable to sleep due to a loud noise that seemed to be all around me. I awoke several times throughout the night, and felt like something had crept over my body, but by the time I opened my eyes that “something” was gone in the darkness. I slept restlessly tossing and turning until morning finally arrived. I got up only to hear more noise. Next, I put on a pot of coffee and started to pull out a large plastic bag that I keep all of my school supplies stored in. I dragged the heavy bag along the floor and noticed that I had left it unzipped. Then I saw that the papers inside (including some of my students homework papers that I had stored in the bag) were strewn all over the place with chunks of them missing. I was a bit puzzled because it looked like a large animal had chewed them. What large animal could get into my house? I recalled another volunteer who had had terminates eat his papers and thought maybe I had a termite problem (a big termite problem). A bit perplexed, I continued to drag the bag out into the openness of my house. I reached slowly into the bag with my hand (not thinking) and rummaged around for a particular paper. Then I noticed a funny smell coming from the bag. When a large rat the size of my foot (and I have big feet) hopped out of the bag hit my leg and ran for an exit. I stood up almost immediately shocked and shaken and started yelling. “Oh oh oh oh oh oh,” I uttered as I shook and jumped up and down. My neighbors came running into my house with a broom overhead thinking that I was being attacked. When they shoved open my door they found me hopping and yelling and pointing. They said “What Brie WHAT!!” and I couldn’t reply I just pointed towards the bag on the floor and then towards the door. They were super confused and I was still startled with my heart racing a mile a minute. I finally told them a rat jumped out of the bag, and my neighbor asked if it was still in the bag. “No, it ran out of my house,” I replied. She then proceeded to pick up the bag to bring it outside, but then dropped the it and screamed. It seemed that there were still more rats. Inside the bag, the same bag I had put my hand into just moments before were 15 rat babies. Now my neighbor was also in hysterics, I was still jumping around and another friend came into my house wondering what the heck was going on. When I mentioned the word “rat” she ran right out the door leaving my neighbor and myself alone with the bag full of rat babies. On the verge of tears, we both picked up the bag and brought it outside. She then set fire to the bag and I poured bleach all over my house. I washed EVERYTHING and BLEACHED everything. I was so disgusted! Shortly after the rat incident had occurred, a small gecko ran across my wall, which caused me to scream and jump. Later that night I saw a shadow creeping across my roof, I looked up again and to find the rat mother was back in my house looking for her family. I obviously figured out the reason I couldn’t sleep the previous nights, it was due to the fact that a RAT was running across my bed (with me in it)!Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-37111169861232958062009-04-30T19:03:00.006-05:002009-04-30T19:19:28.009-05:00The Infamous Tilanic<span style="font-weight:bold;">Antibiotics are just like candy…or are they?</span> Well, these days, I seem to be inflicted by one mysterious disease after another. And with the swine-flu going around I just hope I steer clear of that virus (so far it hasn’t hit Nicaragua). But lucky for me, I have numerous friends who own pharmacies. Yesterday, I went to hang-out with one of my Nica pharmacy friends. I told her I also wanted to buy some cough drops; instead, she provided me with antibiotics because she said “these work much better.” I accepted the medicine with a smile, but knew that I wasn’t going to take some mystery pills. For fun, I decided to look up the meds online and discovered that they are very effective in curing 2 infirmities: 1) Bronchitis and 2) Syphilis. Now while I am pretty sure that I suffer from neither of those, I wanted to know why she was under the impression that I had syphilis. I jest; she knew I didn’t have syphilis. The fact of the matter is that she had no idea what those antibiotics were actually suppose to cure (she’s not a doctor). I was a bit disturbed that my friend was diagnosing and providing antibiotics to the community. The week before this incident I was also provided with an offer to get a free antibiotic shot. Since when are antibiotics the cure all? However, I still find myself sick so maybe the syphilis killing antibiotic is the way to go…just kidding.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />1 of the 2 volcanoes on the Isla de Ometepe </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd_X9Peqi0d9-o6thIooeCGHXPSETRG0gPFng_QR04uNl4ejUEvkN3_Y54a4ikaxyWMwYN6IK4SwvB-slg7ia7Q4xuS0BpUTVHJNmI3e0rGlW-f82A_e9ZNDJ-X9dzQti1VKM6v4Pu931P/s1600-h/Ometepe+010+(2).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd_X9Peqi0d9-o6thIooeCGHXPSETRG0gPFng_QR04uNl4ejUEvkN3_Y54a4ikaxyWMwYN6IK4SwvB-slg7ia7Q4xuS0BpUTVHJNmI3e0rGlW-f82A_e9ZNDJ-X9dzQti1VKM6v4Pu931P/s320/Ometepe+010+(2).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330641077245022706" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Follow the quaker (and no I don’t mean Quaker…I mean “quack”…like the sound a duck makes): </span> Finding treasured natural beauty can be difficult in a country without trail markers and defined trails. It is always an adventure. First of all, I always hear through the grape vine of a beautiful sight to see, but the trick is getting to that sight. Thus began my trip to the waterfall. I went to find the natural wonder with a friend. We started off on a road, asked for directions to guide us to the huge waterfall (cascada), and we were told it was a 30 minute walk from where we stood. We were also told to seek out the “cow corral.” But, truly, what does a cow corral look like? I pictured it being a barn of sorts with cows in it. And it seemed that every corner we turned laid a house, with a barn, with cows in it. So how does one distinguish between a “cow corral” and just a “cow covering?” I am afraid that I am still not sure what the difference is and therefore cannot answer that question. We found ourselves asking a lot of people for directions to this infamous “cow corral.” Finally, when we found the “corral” it seemed that no one was home. Therefore, we continued down the path until we came to a small stream. We were met by one man on horseback and a second elderly man who was quaking like a duck. Great, I thought to myself, I have attracted yet another crazy person. The man on the horse told us that we had passed the waterfall already and needed to backtrack, but we would never be able to navigate it by ourselves (since there were no trails or signs denoting the location of the waterfall). So the man told us that the “quaker” would be our guide. Well, the quaking man started leading us into a forest, he had is machete out and was hacking away at the vegetation that blocked our path (I silently hoped to myself that was all he planned to whack at). We ascended a large hill and we were getting further and further away from the stream. I began to wonder where this quaker was leading us…if only I spoke duck! Turns out the man (while crazy) was quite articulate and did speak Spanish (although “duck” was clearly his first language). He told us we were headed toward the cascada, but I still doubted his claim. We drew further away and then reached a large cliff. He pointed to the bottom of the cliff, and told us that was where the waterfall was located. How were we going to descend the cliff (as I had left my rope climbing gear behind in the state of Colorado)? Turns out, a thin path wove down the side of the cliff and the man started down the side. If a 65 year old quaking man could descend the hill, well then so could I. I followed and after a short walk a large flowing waterfall emerged in front of me. It was a sight to behold; we thanked the quaker by saying, “Quack Quack” (but with a Spanish accent of course so that he could understand us). He left us and told us to just go straight up the hill again to find our way out. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Granada bell tower </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyg2nmpuQfD33NuZG6K-cMrwoWm_PDGM021RF9PokeiJgpMzF5puYpGniyWo4KDnKHBgdN51xSi2u24SqySe5e3uIzd9D9HhWbLI-wnHDLVlCG9VuBUC2axHAdMp3E4tYdUnS3PwIdVIWD/s1600-h/Ometepe+005+(2).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyg2nmpuQfD33NuZG6K-cMrwoWm_PDGM021RF9PokeiJgpMzF5puYpGniyWo4KDnKHBgdN51xSi2u24SqySe5e3uIzd9D9HhWbLI-wnHDLVlCG9VuBUC2axHAdMp3E4tYdUnS3PwIdVIWD/s320/Ometepe+005+(2).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330640315021734482" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sticky fingers leads to a “¡Qué barbaridad!” being uttered:</span> Semana Santa is a weeklong bacchanal that in my experience results in:<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />1.Bolos boarding local busses being either annoying or just passing out cold in a seat, and getting kicked off the bus due to lack of funds (Happy Easter…nobody rides for free). <br />2.Bad pick pockets trying to steal my Band-Aids <br />3.Hotels being booked and beaches loaded with people<br />4.Local transport running slowly and packed full<br />5.Giant Jesus statues being carried through the streets to the beat of a marching band<br />6.Firecrackers being shot off at all hours <br />7.Bells being tolled <br />8.And ZERO Easter eggs being hidden! </span><br /> <br />Now let me backtrack a bit. The weeks leading up to Semana Santa were spent planning a trip to the Rio San Juan, which is located in the southern part of Nicaragua bordering Costa Rica and it runs all the way to the Atlantic coast. Since I would have a week off, I decided it would be the perfect time to hop on the boat that heads down the river. In planning the trip, I did not make any reservations because the Rio is remote and it is difficult to contact places to stay. The plan was to hop on the boat, head down river, and see where the journey would go. We headed to Granada, where we would purchase our boat tickets and bought the tickets under the assumption that the boat was going to leave at 3pm that afternoon. This left us with a few hours to kill, and we headed into the city to eat breakfast. After eating we wandered around for a bit, and then thought it best to head back towards the dock. At the dock, we expected to see a lot of people; however, we didn’t see any people and instead I spotted a boat off in the distance, which led me to say, “I wonder where that boat is going.” Turns out, that boat was going to the Rio San Juan and we had missed it, because it left 1 hour early. After stomaching our disappointment, we decided to head to the Isla of Ometepe (an island with 2 volcanoes). We would still take a boat ride to get onto the island and we continued on with our new adventure. Of course, being Semana Santa, transportation and open hotels were hard to come by, but no matter, we continued on! When we got to the Ferry Dock we noticed the Ferries were numbered 1 and 3, which made me wonder, “Where was Ferry #2.” Well, it had sunk (but not very recently). We also spotted a ship called the “Tilanic,” which was supposed to be named the “Titanic;” however, due to a misspelling it was now known as the infamous Tilanic. Luckily, for the Tilanic the lake doesn’t have icecaps, but it is home to the only fresh water shark in the world (but I doubt a shark could sink a ship…unless it was a cousin of Jaws…and in that case, watch out!). We boarded our ferry and arrived at the isla, now where to go? We looked around for an open hotel, found a room and booked it! That night we stayed at the port, and the next morning we boarded an early bus to head to Charco Verde, we hiked around, saw some monkeys, ate some fish and continued to our next stop. The next place we went to on island was the isthmus, after putting our backpacks in our room we jumped into the lake to go for a swim. The following day we ventured to the “Ojo de Agua,” a natural spring (I think I got a parasite from this spring too…don’t drink the water when it is loaded with people). From the “Ojo” we walked back to our hotel took another dip in the lake and booked a taxi to take us back to the port city. The taxi was supposed to arrive at 5:30pm but as is custom, it arrived 1 hour later. We shared the taxi with another couple that were drinking Toña (local beer) like it was water. I just hoped that no one would throw up until the ride had ended. We made it back to the port, and slept soundly that night. The following day was Good Friday, and we knew that transportation would be tough to come by in the entire country. We lucked out and found a bus that took us into Managua; unfortunately, this bus contained thieves who unzipped my backpack in hopes of finding some “goods” only to be let down when they saw that I had no valuables or money in my backpack, only Band-Aids and tampons! I literally caught the thieves red handed and I gave them the evil eye and told them “¡Qué barbaridad!” The thieves awkwardly traded seats after being caught and remained silent for the rest of the ride. We got off in Managua, only to be lied to again, the taxi driver told us we could not get a micro to Leon but he could take us for $50. He wanted to get more taxi fare from us by taking us further. The taxi driver was shady and we got out as soon as possible, waited for about 10 minutes and got a bus to Leon. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">A view of the city of Granada</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_X3cS0IOH0bgWZ4wNO5Udl34-BgYuo3NNGW5bHXg7L6Li2eXnIj6y2qqmYauuKMriD-I_PVQaT4x4G2lSbtMzGlKsdMi0NDMBbQ44k_iO_7eRTC8Nm9sV0ds6ceADG1s1GLZC_JI13jK_/s1600-h/Ometepe+003+(2).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_X3cS0IOH0bgWZ4wNO5Udl34-BgYuo3NNGW5bHXg7L6Li2eXnIj6y2qqmYauuKMriD-I_PVQaT4x4G2lSbtMzGlKsdMi0NDMBbQ44k_iO_7eRTC8Nm9sV0ds6ceADG1s1GLZC_JI13jK_/s320/Ometepe+003+(2).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330639971188966466" /></a>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-66633290676963397162009-03-20T09:54:00.004-05:002009-03-20T10:30:14.825-05:00When in a desert is it even possible to pee (orinar) in private?<span style="font-weight:bold;">Locked into a small confined space, it’s lucky I’m not claustrophobic: </span> Lately, I have found myself spending a lot of time in the bathroom. I only wish it was because I had a bacterial infection. In fact, I find myself being unknowingly locked inside bathrooms. It has occurred twice, and luckily people have been nearby enough both times to hear my screams for help. Honestly, one time I didn’t need to scream because I was able to “phone a friend,” like a lifeline on the Millionaire show, to help pry open the door. I have lucked out my whole life and never been locked into a bathroom facility and now karma has come around to get paid in full. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Bzzzzzzz’ness, my bee wax candle kids forge forward: </span> I have some exciting news to report. My school kids from the previous year have decided to continue selling their products (candles). They are currently working on upping the quality of their product, and getting funding to help buy the material they need to mass produce. Therefore, I have been traveling into their town a little more frequently. Two weeks ago, I traveled in to find that my counterpart teacher, who is helping the group too, was suffering from high blood pressure. She had a headache. I told her to take a nap, but that advice wasn’t good enough. Instead she pulls out a long needle, and wants me to inject her with whatever medication was inside the unknown mystery needle. Anyone who knows me, knows that I can’t stand needles (it’s bad enough when I need to get a shot). My counterpart was getting ready for ME to inject her in her thigh; meanwhile, I was trying not to pass out from the sight of the needle. I told her there was no way I could inject her, even through her insistences I refused. She had assumed that because I am “gringa” I went to some kind of shot-injecting class in University. I assured her that was not the case, and that she would be better off taking Tylenol and resting until someone who was properly trained could give her the shot. Instead she opted to walk over to the neighbor’s house to see if they would inject her. I wish this event was an isolated one; however, I find that more often than not many of my Nica neighbors opt to be “injected” vs. having to just swallow a pill. I am the opposite; give me a pill not a shot!<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Cerro Negro volcano! </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_qPKjGT2Ts30iPjJYMc26tqoAsWYp13ZXYGeI5pW09KvS-9RUhY3xdGhGs1fPA-PMPSDARIDDu9m9uQ43hPmf1oiEaofYdU1TnrzupE4vv4D6s1LyzqqxoGr-Ia7y9uqIp04CoedKZFU/s1600-h/Cerro+Negro+032+(2).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_qPKjGT2Ts30iPjJYMc26tqoAsWYp13ZXYGeI5pW09KvS-9RUhY3xdGhGs1fPA-PMPSDARIDDu9m9uQ43hPmf1oiEaofYdU1TnrzupE4vv4D6s1LyzqqxoGr-Ia7y9uqIp04CoedKZFU/s320/Cerro+Negro+032+(2).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315286943616459890" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Jesus Cristo?... Is that you?: </span> I was in the middle of teaching a class, the kids were participating, and ideas were being generated, if fact all was going splendidly. Then I heard an annoying little knock on my classroom door that didn’t surprise me in the least. The knock means that the principal wants to make a “brief” announcement. I smiled and waved her in, because by now I have learned that it is better to just get the announcement over with ASAP. This time around was a little different. She didn’t have to announce anything, she waved to someone else who was standing outside of the classroom, conveniently just out of my view point, to enter into the room. Thus signaled, the Evangelicals entered into the classroom; their arms overflow’ith with bibles. What happened to separation of church and state? While I was trying to teach the kids the concept of “why creativity is essential to use in the highly competitive world of business,” my class was interrupted to preach the good word of Jesus Cristo. This Evangelical group had flown in from the states, however the minister was Nicaraguan, but the bibles were provided by the gringos. The kids (who love getting free stuff) were now talking amongst themselves about the “swag” they were receiving. The church group took up the rest of my class time, and then left. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />What’s red and blue and paisley covered all over; hint...It’s not a newspaper: </span> Getting integrated, involves eating local food, adapting local traditions and customs, and apparently buying a red or blue backpack? The backpack I trek to all of my schools was purchased in the states; it is covered in a paisley pattern, super durable and holds a lot of stuff. I have used the same backpack throughout my 2 years in Nicaragua, but one of my students recently brought it to my attention that because of the backpack I utilize, I am not yet “culturally integrated.” <br /> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Here’s the conversation we had:<br />Student:</span> “Prof. do you like Nicaragua?”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Me:</span> “Of course I like it; I wouldn’t be here still if I didn’t like it”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Student:</span> “Well if you like it so much why don’t you have a red or blue backpack?”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Me:</span> “What?”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Student:</span> “Your backpack is very different; all the other teachers have either a blue or red backpack”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Me:</span> “So why do I have to have a blue or red backpack?”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Student:</span> “It’s our culture”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Me:</span> “It’s your culture to have blue and red backpacks?”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Student: </span>“Yes”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Me:</span> “So I should spend money on a new backpack even though this backpack is still useful?”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Student:</span> “Yes”<br />In conclusion, I will not be buying a new backpack, and have come to terms with the fact that I will never fully be culturally integrated without a blue or red backpack. Such is life!<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />My student and I were a bit dirty after running down the side of the volcano.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfeMIuRYBlJoGrz8Z4LBu0EI_2SiXSFY1Q1hj_zB2l9VqrLwfOLpuhZEoyd3VFj997k0qIOOMdYLUzDmnsNpzHfWEqqzNOfnFWPfztiuad92zEZeJ_WQ6Dboztwgq0nzsePueBy9f_odR/s1600-h/Cerro+Negro+027+(2).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfeMIuRYBlJoGrz8Z4LBu0EI_2SiXSFY1Q1hj_zB2l9VqrLwfOLpuhZEoyd3VFj997k0qIOOMdYLUzDmnsNpzHfWEqqzNOfnFWPfztiuad92zEZeJ_WQ6Dboztwgq0nzsePueBy9f_odR/s320/Cerro+Negro+027+(2).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315286938692391186" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Knock, knock, knock: </span> That’s the sound I heard at my door one morning at around 7:30 a.m. I had been up for several hours doing laundry and prepping for my class, but was still surprised to hear someone yelling at my front door. What could they want? I opened my front door to find someone from the school’s delegation office. He wanted to inform me that there was a very important reunion that I had to attend. I said I could attend, but just need to know when and where this “reunion” was going to be held. It turns out the reunion was going to be held in the capital city of Leon, in 1 1/2 hours. I closed my door, as the realization sunk in that in order to make it to this reunion I had to leave my house in 1 minute to catch a bus into the capital. I grabbed my purse and ran out the front door. 1 hour and 10 minutes later, I found myself at the location of the reunion (20 minutes to spare, not too shabby). I didn’t know what the reunion was going to be about, all I knew was that all of the principals from my town were attending, and that they had invited me to attend. I opened the door to the conference room to find myself staring into the eyes of other confused volunteers. It turns out I wasn’t the only volunteer called in for the imperative reunion. Low and behold there had been a mix-up. The reunion was being put on by Peace Corps (not the local ministry of education, as I had been led to believe). As well, the reunion was not for volunteers it was just for the directors that were interested in working with Environmental projects. Apparently, my local principal had received an invitation to this reunion, saw the name Peace Corps, and thought it was for me to attend (while in fact it was just the opposite, the reunion was for them to attend). Since I had already rushed to get into Leon, I decided I could I could at least go and check my mail.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />It's really windy on the top of Cerro Negro, we were lucky we didn't get blown away.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1z9cOgWQLIzpdw8XFTcmrH77UVSsQJuBEu0QyNFbhdaOldphO0C1SgZc_gRBuYCmZ2z2NlEszo4Kit9pRLIiC7Z2ZQQChyphenhyphen6ej8TlaK3eJZgwn0PNmT3Wc2BWMxB3hX7_cA8tm9p62d72/s1600-h/Cerro+Negro+021+(2).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1z9cOgWQLIzpdw8XFTcmrH77UVSsQJuBEu0QyNFbhdaOldphO0C1SgZc_gRBuYCmZ2z2NlEszo4Kit9pRLIiC7Z2ZQQChyphenhyphen6ej8TlaK3eJZgwn0PNmT3Wc2BWMxB3hX7_cA8tm9p62d72/s320/Cerro+Negro+021+(2).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315286932180509170" /></a><br />El Cerro Negro, the most active volcano in Nicaragua: Behind my town is the infamous Cerro Negro, it is the most active volcano in Nicaragua and the second youngest volcano in the Americas behind Volcan Paricutin in Mexico. Whenever I talk to people about the cerro they inevitably bring up the infamous “gringo loco” that got the bright idea to ride his bike down the side of 730 meter volcano in order to break a world speed record. The fact that he rode his bike down the side of the volcano doesn’t faze anyone, because we surf and run down the side of the volcano without a blink of an eye. The shocking part of the story (at least as the locals tell it) is that he used a bike worth $5,000 American dollars to bike down, only to crash, break his bike and later succeed breaking the world speed record using a local bike worth, at the most, $50 American dollars. “Amazing,” I always reply. Who knows if the story has any validity to it, but they also always assume I know this gringo (that he must be a friend of mine), because they tend to think all gringos know all the other gringos in the world! We must have some kind of vast gringo network of sorts! Anyway, here’s the Youtube link to a video of the crazy biking gringo: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTfu0hjVtzE">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTfu0hjVtzE</a>. I have made the trip to the cerro before, but this time around we decided to head up to the volcano via a giant commercial truck. We all got into the bed of the truck that was raised about 6 feet off of the ground. The truck started up with a roar and departed the town as a whirlwind of dust encompassed the truck and swirled around our bodies and faces. Without warning, the group that was standing on the right side of the truck bed made a squatting move. “Are we exercising?” I wondered. Then I thought, “Maybe we are doing some morning squats to warm up for our hike?” Next, the people on the left side of the truck, including myself, found ourselves practically doing pushups. We ducked down low and quick, and not in an attempt to warm-up for a hike. It turns out, the truck bed was raised just a tad too far off of the ground, because the millions of tree branches that lined the dirt path we were taking to the cerro were crashing into the side of the truck and threatened to hit us all in the head, arms and body. To avoid being thrown off the truck by a branch we were forced to either do a “squat move” or a “push-up move” if the branches were extra low. Thus went our trip to the base of the volcano. It reminded me of Richard Simmons jazzercise video, up down pushup squat…we weren’t sweatin’ to the oldies but we were sweatin’! We reached a peanut field that marked the turnoff for our journey. The field was right along the base of the volcano and this road was covered with sand like volcanic ash. I thought, “Should the truck being turning down this road? Shouldn’t we just walk from this point forward to avoid being stuck?” But no, why walk when we have a truck…it makes no sense! About 1 minute after turning onto the volcanic ash path, our truck got stuck (I would say I told you so, but opted to keep my mouth shut!). The driver continued to rev the engine, spinning the wheels wildly, and digging us deeper and deeper into the sand (someone had obviously never driven in sand before). The group jumped out of the truck and started to gather branches to put under the wheels to help create some traction to get us out of the hole. After about 30 minutes, we dug out and continued on, only to get stuck twice more! Finally we reached the base of the volcano, as the group realized that they shouldn’t have drunk the bags full of “fresco” (fruit juice) before embarking on the hike. As we looked around, we saw a barren desert covered in black volcanic ash. There were a few sparse trees that can be described as twigs sustained by what little life they could suck out of the ash. I heard someone say, “What, no bathrooms?” The answer was an obvious, no. Well, with bladders threatening to explode people went in various directions to “orinar” (aka squat and tingle) in a very open desert like landscape. I had not partaken in the fruit juice for this very reason, and I didn’t have to squat in public! But when in a group of 30 and in a desert, there is no such thing as peeing in private! With bladders emptied we started to ascend the cerro, after a hike of 1 ½ hours, we found ourselves at the summit. We had a picnic and then proceeded to run down the side and back to the truck! We somehow managed to lose 2 people (the pastor and his wife), but they eventually turned up 2 hours later. Everyone boarded the truck again, we did out squat/push-up moves and made it back into town right in time to have lunch!Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-40074750542735070332009-02-16T11:19:00.000-06:002009-02-17T12:57:49.949-06:00Papagayo (Parrot) tastes just like chicken<span style="font-weight:bold;">Venture to Ticolandia (known to the layman as Costa Rica): </span> So I crossed over the border, just a hop skip and a 6 hour bus ride away from my home in Nicaragua, and went to the Northern part of Costa Rica! It is the land of milk and honey, land of crocodillos y perezosos (crocodiles and sloths), land of rest and relaxation,land of 1850 Nicaragua/Costa Rica border dispute? Brief history lesson: The land dispute centered on the possible location of a “canal” at the Rio San Juan that is located in Nicaragua, and ownership rights of what in now Guanacaste the Northern part of Costa Rica. The canal would link the Atlantic with the Pacific; of course, ultimately the canal was not located at this site (it is now known as the Panama Canal). However, throughout my vacation, whenever mention of Guanacaste was made (which was frequently) my nica friend reminded the ticos (Costa Ricans) that “era de Nicaragua,” translation “this land was Nicaraguan”…whatever happened in the past, I say, let bygones be bygones and let’s not dwell. I will now start at the beginning. The trip kicked off at about 3:30am because my friend and I were awoken my church bells that refused to cease and desist, they rang from 3:30am till 5:00am (the official hour of our bus departure). We loaded onto a giant “Grey Hound” like bus called the “Nica Expresso.” The bus was packed, but we had our own seats, after a 5 hour ride we came to the frontera (border) between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. It was packed full of backpackers, importers, exporters, and people from every walk of life. We remained on the border for around 2 hours, waiting for all of our passports to be cleared etc. Finally, we were able to get the trip going again and arrived at our final destination, Costa Rica, an hour after crossing the border. In Costa Rica, we took full advantage of the sights and sounds. We went to Palo Verde (which looked like a scene right out of Indian Jones because the river was filled full of giant crocodiles), crossed the continental divide to Volcan Tenorio, walked through a rainforest and saw a sloth, crossed bridges hanging 35 meters off the ground and connected to 300 year old trees, hopped into Santa Cruz to watch bull fights and dance some salsa, sighted U.S. movie stars in the area, relaxed poolside, biked to surrounding beaches, learned that everyone uses the phrase “Pura Vida Mae” (which should never be used in Nicaragua…we are all about the tuani here), zipped upside-down attached to a cable through a canopy that was filled with howler monkeys (note, howler monkeys like to throw objects), and finished off the trip on the beach watching the stars in a moonless sky. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Earthquake threatens to bring down my house: </span> My neighbors recently purchased a new sound system. The system apparently came with sub-woofers, and my neighbors have decided to turn down the treble and opt for more base. Therefore, my house trembles with the extreme base sound that is emitting from their speakers. An added bonus is the fact that they own the songs from the “Kill Bill Soundtrack” (songs that sound like this “RRRRoooooRRRROOOO, more or less a siren effect). As my house is shaking, dishes rattling, floor vibrating, the siren noise makes my heart race and I looked around anxiously waiting to be attacked by sword yielding master ninjas. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />What in the world is Papagayo? “a delicious salsa” or “ a parrot”:</span> Hopefully, you picked parrot, because it is most definitely not a salsa. It should not be eaten at all for that matter. However, my mother did not know what Papagayo meant in Spanish (the location we stayed in Costa Rica was called Papagayo), and therefore she proceeded to say that she would like a “salsa de papagayo.” For the record, papagayo tastes just like chicken (just kidding, no papagayos were harmed or eaten during our stay in Costa Rica…but it’s a warning to all to always use a dictionary before blurting out “salsa de…”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">One of the many crocodiles we saw in the river</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVpGXaPeHJGwetbCx1d9VmkxM4TpcYcesTKDqw4zKohHzVdFXnC4TJLoeQFwtrFj5bCWFkO_L4h4qMfMiHZrA0T2fSSkXuHlH5bQZqCgwOqhPCovVeAjEJh4rAzWR8OmNN8odokrlcYDvg/s1600-h/100_1306+(2).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVpGXaPeHJGwetbCx1d9VmkxM4TpcYcesTKDqw4zKohHzVdFXnC4TJLoeQFwtrFj5bCWFkO_L4h4qMfMiHZrA0T2fSSkXuHlH5bQZqCgwOqhPCovVeAjEJh4rAzWR8OmNN8odokrlcYDvg/s320/100_1306+(2).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303449259202839106" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Party in the back of the bus: </span> I took a trip to Estelí, the mountainous cooler part of Nicaragua to help a friend register for college classes. The trip should have been quick, but I have learned to always expect the unexpected. We arrived at the university in Estelí to learn that they were not registering students at the school but instead registration was occurring outside of the town 30 minutes down the road at another office. This meant we had to wait for another bus to come by to bring us to the correct location. After 1 hour or so we arrived at the correct registration location and my friend registered, only to find out that classes started at 7am, and the earliest bus out of our town arrives at 8:30am, in other words 1 hour and 30 minutes too late. Therefore, she will have to arrive a day early, spend the night and then go to school. After registering we had to wait for the next bus to leave to get back to town. We arrived at the bus station 30 minutes early to get seats. After being seated I heard some loud men attempting to sing in the back of the bus, and it turns out they were having a bus party. As the bus departed the station, the guys in back invited my friend and me to join in their party. We sang songs and had a fun time until we arrived at our stop. It’s always an adventure.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Get me on that stage, I’ll dance like a puppet if needed (another year another acto):</span> The school year officially kicked off on the 3rd of February, which meant that I had to go to yet another school assembly, get up on stage and face the hundreds of faces of curious students (at least this year they didn’t make me give a speech, nor did I have to dance on stage). Instead, I sat with a group of my communities leaders on stage as we listened to the director give an opening speech. Next, we heard from our mayor, who made a shout out to Cuba, Venezuela and Bolivia (can we say, awkward). After two hours on stage (and luckily not having to make a speech) we all left and the school year was officially put into swing.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">My friend Carla and I in the Rain forest about to cross a giant bridge</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88CBYj_rpRAj8RS2-bckDvQkGutRag7hH2uaIz6RhPUML2whNwKyeH2qCw8oy-7JA9a8_E3ZPgRKQ_JQwQz2ox3CGvdyqQdrzDeWyj2wOH3Fp4KBmEK5DpZu2mvQvKFaBlYMXyum-8ZS_/s1600-h/Costa+Rica+or+Bust+2009+011+(2).JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88CBYj_rpRAj8RS2-bckDvQkGutRag7hH2uaIz6RhPUML2whNwKyeH2qCw8oy-7JA9a8_E3ZPgRKQ_JQwQz2ox3CGvdyqQdrzDeWyj2wOH3Fp4KBmEK5DpZu2mvQvKFaBlYMXyum-8ZS_/s320/Costa+Rica+or+Bust+2009+011+(2).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303450495447916178" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Mandate me some meat: </span> One of my Nica friends, is concerned that I am not get my necessary daily protein intake and therefore sends me meat via the bus system. They butcher the animals in their town and grind the meat with all sorts of wonderful seasonings. Ever week, I am the lucky recipient of fresh meat…love it!<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Carbon Monoxide looms too close for comfort: </span> It was another typical trip to Chinandega to hang out with some friends, or so I thought. The trip started normally, at least. We ended up going to a baseball game, and spotting a player whose name was “C. Paz” or as we interpreted it “Cuerpo de Paz” (the translation of “peace corps” in Spanish). Whenever C. Paz came up to bat, we gave a roar from the crowd, did the “Ola” or “Wave.” Luckily, he was a pretty good player and brought in a few runs for his team, which I attribute to our overzealous cheering. After the baseball game, we headed to good ol’ “Top Tip” the Nicaraguan fast food equivalent of KFC. We ordered, ate and then left promptly. Our next stop was a dance club. Fast forward to the next day, and we decided to play it low key, and opted to stay in that night and watch a movie. The movie was playing and we were becoming a bit mesmerized as we stared into the glaring T.V.; meanwhile, outside of the apartment a fire truck pulled up to the gas station, and proceeded to make a lot of noise. They were running the engine and exhaust was piling out and filling up the air around the truck. We continued to watch the movie, as we became more and more relaxed and docile. Then one volunteer made an observation that saved our lives, the room we were occupying was filled full of carbon monoxide, due to the fire truck that was still revving it’s engine directly below us on the street. One volunteer got up to close the door, in an effort to prevent the fumes from entering the house. However, this action was moot due to the fact that right next to the door was a giant window that was open and thus omitting the gaseous fumes. Obviously, the volunteer was in a carbon monoxide induced stupor, and couldn’t reason correctly. The rest of us ran for the door to exit the apartment. From a safe, fresh air filled corner, we watched the fire men as they continued to rev the engine (little did they know they almost killed us…dare I say ironic). We waited for the truck to depart, and noticed that sparks were flying underneath (needless to say, this truck would not pass an emissions test if its life depended on it). After the sparks flew, the truck stalled and the fire men haled us from across the street to help push the truck…only to get it going again without any need of assistance. It drove away into the night and we returned to the apartment, fortunate that we had not gone to bed early that night, because we most surly would have been poisoned in our sleep.Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-61521824612923346522009-01-05T15:36:00.000-06:002009-01-05T20:43:46.125-06:00Going nuts: peanut addiction leads to rehab and community service<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Is there something in your eye, or are you giving me a “winkie eye”? </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> Trapped in the back of a bus with my friend I was spotted by a skinny 15 year old boy at the front of the bus. I had never met this boy before in my life, and out of nowhere he started winking at me. Seeing as how we were separated by about 50 people, he could not speak to me but proceeded to mouth words at me in Spanish. Then he gave the universal sign for “call me”. Keep in mind this KID was 15, but bold. He then started to blow kisses at me…this was getting to be too much. I tried to ignore it as long as possible but then I had to end the nonsense. I pretended to catch a “kiss” and then proceeded to throw it out the window…problem solved.</span>
<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Mail = Happy: </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> For those who feel the need to send mix CDs, burned DVDs or other random stuff, send them via U.S. regular mail (regular mail is the cheapest and fastest). The addition of “Pastora” to my name (translation shepherdess) is to help keep honest people honest. Why did I pick the title shepherdess? Because I clearly couldn’t be a monja (nun), which would require a costume and probably result in eternal damnation! Also, it doesn’t hurt to throw on some crosses next to the phrase “Dios te bendiga” (God bless you) anywhere on the package. My address is as follows:</span>
<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Pastora Brie Johnson</span><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >AP 216 </span><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >León Nicaragua</span><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Central America</span><span style="font-size:100%;">
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mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style="">I’ll give you a topic…“Cuidado con el ángel” is neither cuidando (careful) nor about an ángel (angel)…discuss!:</b><span style=""> </span>There is a telenovela (soap opera) that plays on TV called “Cuidado con el ángel” the main character is named Marichuy.<span style=""> </span>Now I would like to give a plot summary that should explain why I should never watch soap operas.<span style=""> </span>They have an affect similar to that of the siren’s call, I am both lured in and mystified, and when it’s too late to turn around I see them for what they truly are, an ugly mess. <span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Here’s the plot, and keep in mind that I am summing up 3 months of episodes: Marichuy likes a guy, guy has a wife, his wife goes crazy and turns into a “ho” (not the garden variety but the street version), guy falls in love with Marichuy and marries her because he thinks his wife has died, crazy wife returns, Marichuy finds out she is pregnant, Marichuy gives birth and doesn’t tell her husband, guy now has 2 wives one crazy wife and Marichuy who just gave birth to his child, Marichuy goes blind, a maid who has multiple personality disorder enters into the story and peruses the man who already has 2 wives, multiple personality maid ends up cured and only has 1 personality, old wife is still crazy but goes through electrical shock therapy…and who knows what next weeks episode has in store, I know I will be watching.</span></p> <span 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<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">My student and I at her 15th birthday party</span>
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mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">“Killer Clowns From Outer space</i><span style="font-weight: bold;">”: </span>I will venture to guess that not many people have seen this wonderful adaptation of clowns that come to earth on a mission to kill people. <span style=""> </span>It has been acclaimed as a “Horror film classic, one that must be watched not once but again and again, if this movie isn’t saved on your TiVO it should be.”<span style=""> </span>It is often shown on late night cable TV (around 3am) so for all the insomniacs, this film might be your only option.<span style=""> </span>Alas, I did see this film, it was an utter and complete ridiculous waste of my time, and if I had a “do over” I would chose not to watch the movie.<span style=""> </span>However, life doesn’t just handout “I saw a bad movie do overs” and therefore what was done is done.<span style=""> </span>It has been many years since I last saw this film; still, the clown images are forever engraved on my mind, which leads me to the déjà vu that occurred yesterday.<span style=""> </span>A real life clown came to my neighbor’s house, and he looked like he had just stepped off of the movie set of “Killer Clowns From Outerspace 2:<span style=""> </span>Birthday Surprise.”<span style=""> </span>I will set the scene:<span style=""> </span>The music playing was a never ending CD of translated Barney, the big purple dinosaur, and friends singing Spanish lyrics in squirrely high pitched voices accompanied by the ever so cheerful accordion and xylophone.<span style=""> </span>Here’s a sample of the lyrics I was subjected too:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i style=""><span style="" lang="ES-NI">Barney es un dinosaurio
<br />que vive en nuestra mente
<br />y cuando se hace grande
<br />es realmente sorprendente!!!
<br />
<br />El le brinda su amistad
<br />a grandes y pequeños
<br />después de la escuela
<br />juegan todos muy contentos!!!
<br />
<br />Barney nos enseña
<br />muchos juegos divertidos,
<br />el ABC y el 123
<br />también son tus amigos!!!
<br />
<br />Barney viene a jugar
<br />cuando lo necesitas,
<br />el también te ayudara
<br />si crees en fantasías!!!<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Basically, hearing this song made me grateful I was born in the 80’s, “pre-Barney,” and instead with Fraggle Rock.<span style=""> </span>Who knows what irreconcilable damage has been done to children born in the “Barney-era,” but I suggest a study be done to find out.<span style=""> </span>In the yard a piñata of Chica Fresa (strawberry shortcake) was hanging surrounded by 40 adults and small children sitting in plastic chairs.<span style=""> </span>Everyone was waiting in anticipation for the party to begin, the music had been playing for around 15 minutes and kids were getting ready to hit the piñata.<span style=""> </span>I was standing and taking pictures.<span style=""> </span>Out of the corner of my eye I spotted something colorfully scary…the payaso (the clown).<span style=""> </span>He came in dancing like a clown on crack and the cries of small children could be heard far and wide.<span style=""> </span>His brightly painted face revealed nothing of a diabolic side, but when he smiled something sinister lurked.<span style=""> </span>He hopped around clapping and singing to the Barney music.<span style=""> </span>Oh the horror.<span style=""> </span>At this point, I knew it was too late to escape the party and so I gritted my teeth and stayed.<span style=""> </span>The party started at 4pm and my clown nightmare did not end until after darkness had encroached around 6:30 pm.<span style=""> </span>Dinner had been severed, ice cream was handed out and dripping from the faces of children, prizes were given and the piñata had spilled candy all over the yard.<span style=""> </span>Overall, (aside for the clown) it was a successful party.<span style=""> </span>Next, my Nica friend and I spotted the birthday cake, we were both in shock and tongue tied but she was able to utter one word, “CHOOKEY.”<span style=""> </span>Who is Chookey?<span style=""> </span>Obviously, Chookey is Spanish for Chucky (remember that doll that comes to life and kills people). The cake was suppose to depict a smiley Chica Fresa, but instead chica fresa appeared a little worse for wear and looked more like the horror story killer doll Chucky.<span style=""> </span>I ate my slice of Chucky in peace, because the party clown had long since departed (or perhaps took a space ship back home?), and I went to sleep that night, making sure to keep one eye open just in case the clown should reappear in my nightmares.</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Two of my former students at the birthday party bash</span>
<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxML4JxdtXbHx6mr5z0x_gpPBYSvS7HuJF7ANKjSQrXNCTgUW8XunMo12gATPONlEBHle36cusQAEr9V3LAZgwt5B5eePvP3b6RWZSGPo-A2ZFLjd7l-5zvEZW_UxnJuWGRm2kkHQmXv3k/s1600-h/Frogs+and+Fiestas+009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxML4JxdtXbHx6mr5z0x_gpPBYSvS7HuJF7ANKjSQrXNCTgUW8XunMo12gATPONlEBHle36cusQAEr9V3LAZgwt5B5eePvP3b6RWZSGPo-A2ZFLjd7l-5zvEZW_UxnJuWGRm2kkHQmXv3k/s320/Frogs+and+Fiestas+009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287929685589295602" border="0" /></a>
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mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style="">Drop the beat</b>:<span style=""> </span>One of my former students just turned 15 yesterday and she celebrated in grand style with one heck of a birthday party.<span style=""> </span>The party was supposed to start at 4pm but in Nica time that means at least 6pm, and then I added an extra 30 minutes for good measure.<span style=""> </span>I arrived at 6:30, just in time to see the choreographed popping of the champagne cork ceremony.<span style=""> </span>Another one of my 15 year old students was trying to remove the cork, while over the loud speakers an adult was yelling, “Calmly, watch the eyes, calmly…watch your EYES…EYES…EYES.”<span style=""> </span>The problem was that they believed he was opening a bottle of champagne, but in fact it was just wine (I knew because I had gotten a glimpse of the bottle earlier and it clearly stated “Vino”).<span style=""> </span>Whoever was in charge of buying the champagne had dropped the ball and picked up a nice bottle of chardonnay by mistake.<span style=""> </span>The cork therefore never “popped” but instead was picked out of the bottle piece by piece.<span style=""> </span>The wine was served to about 30 adolescent boys (who were in for a surprise).<span style=""> </span>It was clear that none of them had tried wine before and they were all about to give a toast to the b-day girl and then take a sip.<span style=""> </span>On the count of 3 they raised their glasses and took a sip; thus, forcing their faces into awkward puckers and looks of disgust.<span style=""> </span>However, to their dismay their toast was far from over.<span style=""> </span>The b-day girl would now proceed to circle around all the boys and with each pass they had to take another sip of the wine they held in their hands.<span style=""> </span>Pass one, pucker faces, pass two, winced eyes with averted nose, pass three, they faked it.<span style=""> </span>Finally the toast was over and the party could get under way.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style=""><span style=""> </span>“I liking. ..I liking”: </b><span style=""> </span>That’s what I hear every other day when I pass by a pool hall that happens to sit on the corner directly across from one of my favorite “pulperias” (corner store).<span style=""> </span>Only men are inside the pool hall and they are all intoxicated.<span style=""> </span>For some reason they feel the need to yell at me in slurred English.<span style=""> </span>Normally, I ignore their jaunts, but the other day I was irritated and decided to respond back.<span style=""> </span>I spoke in Spanish/English and replied, “I liking…doesn’t mean ANYTHING in English and that they should stop yelling nonsensical English phrases and stick to Spanish!” <span style=""> </span>They all nodded and seemed to be in agreement.</span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"> <span style="font-size:100%;">A group of my students at the party table
<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZrhJ8y8BWk9MIqXOUkEhCV2T-k6YV6mqmpDZ59iccaEAZgrqCmIIOm8rQMOh2QASaBITubfmY5mnFmwfE6zgx4w-0Bt2sb0KEl1owOeybZ45ySwKBjDCfTCttSFjuZh97J7OsXYlfq5T/s1600-h/Frogs+and+Fiestas+005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZrhJ8y8BWk9MIqXOUkEhCV2T-k6YV6mqmpDZ59iccaEAZgrqCmIIOm8rQMOh2QASaBITubfmY5mnFmwfE6zgx4w-0Bt2sb0KEl1owOeybZ45ySwKBjDCfTCttSFjuZh97J7OsXYlfq5T/s320/Frogs+and+Fiestas+005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287927728009962930" border="0" /></a>
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mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style="">I came down with “gripe” (a mild cold) a few weeks back</b>:<span style=""> </span>Everyone told me that I had contracted gripe due to A) the change in climate, because December is the coolest month in Nicaragua which translates into a low 80 degrees Fahrenheit OR B) the dust that had been stirred up in the air due to the recent peanut harvest.<span style=""> </span>Anyway, I went to the market to load up on some food and I wanted to buy a piña (pineapple).<span style=""> </span>My voice was a bit hoarse due to my cold and therefore I was noticeably sick.<span style=""> </span>Well, my market friends asked me what I wanted a piña for, and I told them that of course I planned on eating it.<span style=""> </span>That answer just didn’t fly.<span style=""> </span>They responded, “Brik, no no no you can’t eat piña with a cold.”<span style=""> </span>I replied, “But I want to eat piña.”<span style=""> </span>They sold me the piña against their better judgment but not without numerous warnings as to how I was going to jeopardize my recovery.<span style=""> </span>Later that night my students came over to my house to chill, and they noticed I was drinking ice water.<span style=""> </span>I received that same solemn warning that I had at the market.<span style=""> </span>“Brigs, you are going to just make your gripe worse.”<span style=""> </span>Once again their warning went ignored.<span style=""> </span>To end my day, another one of my friends came over and he had brought with him a pint of chocolate ice cream (he didn’t know I had a cold).<span style=""> </span>The moment he heard me speak, he insisted that I not eat the ice cream and gave it to my neighbors instead.<span style=""> </span>I did recover from my gripe, but I am still irritated about the ice cream.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style="">Charlie Brown brings the peanuts:</b><span style=""> </span>It was a normal Monday night; I had just finished dinner and was getting ready to relax with a book.<span style=""> </span>Then the inevitable knock on my front door.<span style=""> </span>Four of my favorite chavalos (kiddos) stood at my door with their smiley faces; one kid was on horseback and the other three on bikes.<span style=""> </span>They said, “Bris do you want peanuts.”<span style=""> </span>“Peanuts?” I replied.<span style=""> </span>“Yes, we just harvested 3 sacos (sacs) of peanuts, do you want some.”<span style=""> </span>“Well, how much do they cost?” I wondered.<span style=""> </span>Turns out they only cost 1 cord/pound or the equivalent of 5 cents/pound.<span style=""> </span>So I told the kids I would buy 3 pounds, which sounded like quite a lot but I figured I could make peanut butter.<span style=""> </span>The kids took off for their house and returned 10 minutes later with 1 saco (or the equivalent of 30 pounds of peanuts).<span style=""> </span>“Wow, that’s a lot of peanuts,” I thought.<span style=""> </span>The kids then revealed that they had no way of measuring only 3 pounds of peanuts, and therefore my only option was to buy 30 pounds.<span style=""> </span>In my mind I went over all the things I could make with peanuts…peanut butter, peanut butter cookies, peanut sauce, more peanut sauce, some kind of peanut jelly, peanut bread, peanut stir fry, peanut soup, peanut juice…as the food options wore thin, I began to think I was better off not buying all 30 pounds.<span style=""> </span>Then again the economist in me said that $1.50 for 30 pounds was a pretty good deal.<span style=""> </span>I then imagined myself sitting in a room with a group of strangers having to admit that “Hi my name is Brie, and I’m addicted to peanuts.<span style=""> </span>My addiction is rather recent, and after consuming 30 pounds of peanuts, I went off my rocker, broke into a peanut field and was found by a farmer eating raw peanuts at 3am.<span style=""> </span>After, being sentenced to rehab and community service I find myself in group therapy having to admit that I am addicted to a protein enriched nut, I went nuts for nuts.”<span style=""> </span>While the economist said buy the peanuts, the realist in me said hold out until the kids find a measuring scale, because no one should consume 30 pounds of peanuts.<span style=""> </span>So I told the kids I still only wanted to buy 3 pounds, they were fine with that as they rode off back to the fields.</span></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" 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used to visit Disney World almost every summer when I was a kid, since my grandparents conveniently lived just two blocks from every theme park imaginable in Orlando, Florida. This trip to “Never Never Land” can be seen either as a kids ultimate dream, or perhaps nightmare (depending on whether you are frightened by the idea of adults dressing up as giant sized cartoon characters that always smile and never speak a word). For me, it was magical, at least until I hit the age of 12. Last week, I was once again transported into a “dream/nightmare,” because who did I spot in a local Nicaraguan park helping to celebrate Christmas, well it was none other than Mickey and Minnie. The two were standing in front of a winter wonderland backdrop that depicted a cabin surrounded by snow and pine trees, which is a far cry from the tropical heat of Nicaragua. Instead of feeling nostalgic after sighting those two classic characters, I realized that the years have not been very kind to Mickey and Minnie. Minnie looked a little…well…too “mini.” I suspect a 12 or 13 year old boy and girl were convinced to dress in the costumes. Therefore, it draped rather loosely and four stick skinny legs were all that could be seen. The costume itself was a bit frightening; both had giant plastic heads topped with a red Santa hat. I never thought I would be afraid of costumed cartoon characters, but I felt a flash of fear as I sat rocking on a local park bench. As Minnie caught me looking in her direction she gave me a 4 fingered wave. By this point I had had enough of the park and was fearful that the two giant bobble head characters might wander over in my direction. Suppressing the urge to scream and run, I calmly removed myself from the park bench and made an exaggerated circle of avoidance around the devilishly scary characters. I think it goes without saying that I won’t find myself in a theme park anytime soon. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Another party pic from the birthday party I went to:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCsLZQzaee_mc854cLhock9wdDZQuQ8FgkqmNTUmCOclkMNAl_o_ju3YxsscMlmXA1_62_2Vkum3oMz0UJVTPjWrTzpp-Kw3-bCqPyL38VegjF73Kf9FApDmo5dBAAgTmSDtUKoIEvPKU/s1600-h/100_0769.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCsLZQzaee_mc854cLhock9wdDZQuQ8FgkqmNTUmCOclkMNAl_o_ju3YxsscMlmXA1_62_2Vkum3oMz0UJVTPjWrTzpp-Kw3-bCqPyL38VegjF73Kf9FApDmo5dBAAgTmSDtUKoIEvPKU/s320/100_0769.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285778999736757074" /></a> <br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Running for peanuts: </span> Inspired to run again, I laced up my favorite sneakers and hit the trail. Of course, in a matter of minutes I was joined by 2 little running partners. Lucky for me, their parents own a local peanut field and I was promised peanuts, lots and lots of peanuts. Plus, I was invited to a birthday party! On my way back I picked up another runner, and she wants to join me everyday…I feel like Forest Gump (minus the mental impediment), when he picked up strangers as he ran his was across the continental US.<br />Soup Nazi strikes again, “no soup for you”: I made a big batch of soup a week ago, and decided I would freeze some of it to save it for when I didn’t feeling like cooking. Yesterday, I didn’t feel like cooking. In preparation, I had let the soup defrost a bit in the fridge, but there was still a fairly large ice chunk left in the soup. So I took out my big soup pot and poured in the soup/ice so that I could warm it up before eating it. About 1 minute into cooking my gas stove flame burnt out. Not wanting to blow up my house, I waited a few minutes before trying to light it up again (sometimes, the flame gets blown out). As I struck a match flames engulfed me and my stove. My eyebrows singed and the scent of burnt feathers wafted through the air. I ran out to my backyard and stuck my head in a barrel of water. My only concern was that now I was faced with the reality of having to draw in “pencil brows” to replace my old eyebrows. Just kidding, in reality, there were no flames at all (don’t worry I didn’t start a fire and my eyebrows didn’t singe). In truth, my gas tank had run out of gas. In the end, I ate soup with ice chunks, mmmm…mmmm…delicious. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Swarms of mosquitoes increase my chance of Dengue fever (“the bone breaker” disease):</span> I went to a river to hang with some friends. It was actually clean swimming water! We arrived and realized that none of us thought to bring mosquito repellant. We were staying at the river for 7 hours, and in the first hour of arrival I had been bitten at least 30 times, it was going to be a long day. Luckily, we found someone who had brought repellent, and I applied it rather liberally all over. We sat watching kids and adults alike, jump from a 5 foot high “cliff” into about 4 feet of water. I was worried that I would have to pull off a Baywatch rescue, but thank goodness we left before anyone drowned.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />My landlady (Alba Rosa) and I at our dinner table during the fiesta:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyE7_c6ZFrWFhVansFruEYGJ6f7qVa7KjOcRvVkTQdcv8eO5NroqPogbh89tFN2F-mkXC-GdRKvKoYjI8X6kSASvOiQqi63O2ybDGVAQT0plL9_B9YDdfjI410HhRXz3TZITkVflFin7Rq/s1600-h/IMG_0994.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyE7_c6ZFrWFhVansFruEYGJ6f7qVa7KjOcRvVkTQdcv8eO5NroqPogbh89tFN2F-mkXC-GdRKvKoYjI8X6kSASvOiQqi63O2ybDGVAQT0plL9_B9YDdfjI410HhRXz3TZITkVflFin7Rq/s320/IMG_0994.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285780361256539938" /></a><br /><br />Christmas season is always a time of joy. Plus, it’s the only time of the year when I get to hear the Mariah Carry Christmas song, which in my opinion should receive play time year-round. This year, I did not hear Mariah belting out her usual “ear piercingly high that only a dog can hear them” notes. No I was subjected to “feliz navidad,” but fortunately I also enjoy this classic tune. Here in Nicaragua, Christmas is celebrated by going out to a big Fiesta on the night of the 24th. However, since I was gathered with two other Peace Corps volunteers we decided to play down the party scene and instead opted to stay in. We bought some “Rompope” (eggnog), and turned on the TV to watch It’s a Wonderful Life while playing the classic game of “Monopolio.” I almost won the game, but I went a “little bit” bankrupt before I could seize all and conquer the game. The next day, since we were all deprived of going out on Christmas, we decided to head to the local park to grab a few drinks. “Tona” is the local beer brand here in Nicaragua. However, if you are a real loser you might order the competing beer brand “Victoria Frost,” which is in fact the exact same beer bottled in a fancier bottle. Of the three of us, there were only two “responsible ones,” while the third volunteer lived it up and was catapulted into a stage of flirtation that I have never before witnessed, it can only be explained as a “Victoria Frost” attack. Anyway, after our beers, two of us headed calmly to get dinner. We dragged along the third volunteer. We took our seats in a booth that overlooked the park. After ordering, our “flirtatious” friend sat glaring out the giant windows of the restaurant. He thought he spotted a fellow gringo/blonde walking through the park, and without warning jumped out of his seat to go investigate. The other volunteer and myself stood up, quickly discussed who should chase after Mr. Flirt, and I was selected to wrangle him back. I followed him through the park as he tailed his blonde. About 20 feet into the pursuit he had given up, I took advantage of the moment and convinced him to go back to the restaurant. He kindly obliged, going calmly back to our booth, and I’m sure that he was rather hungry too. Our food arrived quickly, and we ate. Out of nowhere, a bee appeared and stung the other volunteer on the hand. We were in an air conditioned local fast food chain…where did that bee come from? After we were done eating, paying, and recovering from bee stings we decided to walk home. Mr. Flirt still hadn’t recovered from his “Frost” attack. At this point, a person dressed as a giant baseball passed by the window. Mr. Flirt spotted the baseball (which he proceeded to call a volleyball) and once again jumped up out of his seat to chase after the poor guy in an inflatable baseball costume. However, seeing as how I have cat-like reflexes, I was able to stop him before his pursuit turned into a possible giant baseball assault case. We left, and walked back home, keeping a close eye on Mr. Flirt. Finally, we reached the front door of the volunteer’s house, and we were almost in the clear when two girls walked by us, and Mr. Flirt proceeded to call after one girl, “Te amo” (“I love you”). I shoved him through the front door of the house. Two of us ended the night by watching Disney’s Aladdin, while Mr. Flirt ended his night passed out on the floor. Curiously, he somehow ended up with permanent marker all over his arm, which I can neither explain nor deny, but I consider us even due to all the chasing I had to do!Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-63575848774749157722008-12-22T18:36:00.000-06:002008-12-29T19:30:10.644-06:00December, arguably the happiest month of the year<span style="font-weight:bold;">¿Qué Paso?</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />15th Birthday Party Madness: </span>I went to a huge birthday party in my town and have posted pictures below throughout my blog. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Doggie Power: </span> For my birthday, I received Alteza my new little white fluffy dog. Like me, she is quite sassy. She will bark at me whenever I am not providing her with 100% of my attention. I have started the training process. She can come and sit on command. Now I just wish I could teach her to be quiet and docile on command. She is, however, a puppy and therefore for the time being she is allowed to be hyper!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">My neighbors and I before the fiesta!!</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQBgk0aHSDjGfyXcOAd075U96thUwJN_bo-A2iGe07fc6VsZwlDEecp65jycFHuxYbfLQ8TFxcNnaptVeOAQek4otWsuaaFDO7RsFj7c_OCN1uweEZRkcv79C4GDtpgjX4-812iZD0a5Z9/s1600-h/IMG_0969.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQBgk0aHSDjGfyXcOAd075U96thUwJN_bo-A2iGe07fc6VsZwlDEecp65jycFHuxYbfLQ8TFxcNnaptVeOAQek4otWsuaaFDO7RsFj7c_OCN1uweEZRkcv79C4GDtpgjX4-812iZD0a5Z9/s320/IMG_0969.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282795515630964482" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Credit card number theft:</span> My credit card number was stolen (not the card itself as I still have possession of it). I hardly ever use the card, but such is life. I hope the people who stole my card number and used it in Columbia had a super awesome steak dinner, which was luckily the only item they charged.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Spider bite (feels like Arachnophobia): </span> I was bitten on the face, twice, by a spider. I was sleeping so I cannot be 100% certain it was a spider bite. Yet, I have spotted above 4 or 5 large spiders hanging around my bed, so I suspect one of them to be the culprit.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The cake!!!</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9zyakJ4hPGq0OE5lbECUJzMwwzYAVPFZ1ykluLjudwclLlD_JhqoCuDi0K8uLhaSNU6RRxFp7QEmxVoP716weDXhgN6CMgvPHNIxyKjqiRFo7b_vYNy-EeDAB8Bo8GASXzaQKAG4uu46/s1600-h/IMG_0981.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9zyakJ4hPGq0OE5lbECUJzMwwzYAVPFZ1ykluLjudwclLlD_JhqoCuDi0K8uLhaSNU6RRxFp7QEmxVoP716weDXhgN6CMgvPHNIxyKjqiRFo7b_vYNy-EeDAB8Bo8GASXzaQKAG4uu46/s320/IMG_0981.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282791976743739074" /></a><br /><br />Well, I suppose I have started the month of December off with a bang (as long as “bang” is referring to the ear piercing sound of firecrackers going off in the streets in front of the house where I live)!! The top 5 ways a gringo can spot Christmas in Nicaragua:<br />1) It appears my neighbors have installed a disco-tec in their living room. No wait, that’s just the reflection of multicolored blinking lights flashing into my house non-stop at all hours.<br />2) The song “Feliz Navidad” is getting playtime on the radio, and this time the song is being played for “Christmas” vs. just being played for its catchy tune for passengers on the bus during a hot summer’s day in say, June.<br />3) The ubiquitous “white plastic chair” can be seen in lawns all around town, generally in groups of 50 to 100 filled with people singing 3 to 4 hour songs with endless choruses (and the second verse is NOT the same as the first). Note to Reader: Songs are being sung to the “virgin,” which is usually a 1ft tall figurine placed on the alter surrounded by flowers. “Virgins” can be purchased at the local virgin figurine store (no joke).<br />4) I feel like I am in a plastic pine tree forest. Don’t worry, I am on the lookout for giant plastic grizzly bears that have been reported in the area.<br />5) Did someone say: Fiesta? or am I just hearing things...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Another party pic with the b-day girl herself...</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9Ildqfm1WSfu1MUBAi99eq3KFAM9R1_mxy68rz0-i-agTKPgXA6B1DEqxDySBZKYDf_ZiO6TI0j3Wz7n2Z3ZVPm1QycWQ3c7oePOSDZ1k5o3fLX2ayJpByxEIRqAs9MIbUMO8MO1SkDa/s1600-h/100_0695.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9Ildqfm1WSfu1MUBAi99eq3KFAM9R1_mxy68rz0-i-agTKPgXA6B1DEqxDySBZKYDf_ZiO6TI0j3Wz7n2Z3ZVPm1QycWQ3c7oePOSDZ1k5o3fLX2ayJpByxEIRqAs9MIbUMO8MO1SkDa/s320/100_0695.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282786529003803218" /></a><br /><br />It’s official, I am spending the Christmas season in the tropics…Nicaragua style of course. Yesterday, I went into the city of Leon (for some reason that still has not revealed itself to me), because just like the mall on black Friday, the city of Leon was packed to the brim with shoppers, travelers and venders. In three words I would describe it as “a bit hectic.” My reason for going into the city was to accompany a friend who needed to buy some house paint and meat. I thought that I would tag along for the trip to check out the festivities. As usual, there is never a dull moment when walking through the streets. Pirated DVDs and CDs can be purchased on every corner, street venders sell a variety of food from apples to grapes to cheese topped with onions, cream, and finally wrapped in a tortilla. As I wove in and out of the crowd, we made our way around town. Finally, we made it to the grocery store where my friend was going to buy meat! The day was unusually hot for the month of December; however, it was tolerable. Patience is still a virtue that I am working on, and by now I should know that things will always take much longer than I expect them to take. The lines were long, and people plentiful. My friend made her purchases. She had managed to pack 3 fairly large cardboard boxes full of fresh meat (not frozen). Now I thought, we are normally a good 90 minutes away from town via bus. Also, being the holiday season the bus terminals are jam packed with travelers…so how long will it take to get home today…and how long can meat be unrefrigerated while the hot sun pours down on it? While, my questions seemed at least reasonable, my neighbor thought them to be incredulous, and so began our journey. As she was yet unfinished with her shopping, she gave me explicate instruction to take the 3 meat boxes to the bus terminal in Leon and wait…and wait…and wait. One bus came and went, then I saw yet another pass while my friend was still nowhere in sight. She had also insisted on taking the “microbus,” which is a large van that holds upwards of 15 to 20 people. The downside to the micro is that they do not come as frequently and people do not form any kind of organized line to get onto the micro. Therefore, when a micro arrives, a bombardment of people ramshackle its doors and try to pile in using any means necessary just short of biting. I do not enjoy the micro, or its fight to the death boarding methods. I imagined the meat melting inside the boxes due to the heat. Then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the microbus, without warning the crowd swarmed and my friend jumped from her seat to elbow her was into some seats. I remained composed sitting calmly with the boxes. She won!! We got the 2 front seats in the micro and we were finally on our way home, and to this I said, “Feliz Navidad”. It took about 40 minutes to get home on the micro, which is the up side to taking a micro vs. a big bus. The meat had been unrefrigerated for upwards of 2 to 3 hours, and I was able to collapse into my hammock relived to have returned to my home and town.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />My dog, the queen</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge0yPBRep30WK80GReOyTgx5601Z_JcjsJl_v_dwOI5JZYRqUN-gVBM6BBnOtmeDxSaonbORgcoKnuXR0u2jw5JfVIWWx1VDi7etpDwPWg5Z66v5C0Ysl4I8iXfLsWnSJ6V42akPZNXm5W/s1600-h/Alteza+007.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge0yPBRep30WK80GReOyTgx5601Z_JcjsJl_v_dwOI5JZYRqUN-gVBM6BBnOtmeDxSaonbORgcoKnuXR0u2jw5JfVIWWx1VDi7etpDwPWg5Z66v5C0Ysl4I8iXfLsWnSJ6V42akPZNXm5W/s320/Alteza+007.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282781760924369570" /></a>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-28727696041240033022008-10-28T08:57:00.000-05:002009-01-02T12:48:45.059-06:00Betty Crocker gets a Dog<span style="font-weight:bold;">My students and I at the top of the central park Catedral de León<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcSRsrS1fBD2NbcJtqqwlqHxNLPHbex5KBctK9VGE-u6ZP22urIsHuq-lRqdbJtR0WSUlD41KWmyItYruSvvExSBIw33UnrWzyC_8OlWmQi1871T-AEgQ8Zt-iLAaCuqzdCCu5w_t2mU1/s1600-h/Competition+095.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcSRsrS1fBD2NbcJtqqwlqHxNLPHbex5KBctK9VGE-u6ZP22urIsHuq-lRqdbJtR0WSUlD41KWmyItYruSvvExSBIw33UnrWzyC_8OlWmQi1871T-AEgQ8Zt-iLAaCuqzdCCu5w_t2mU1/s400/Competition+095.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262215726587180754" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">¿Qué Paso?</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br /><br />Who is Betty Crocker: </span>It’s my nickname around the volunteer crowd (add it to the list behind: Brits, Brik, Chela, Gringa, etc etc). Why? because I like to bake in a pot on my stove and often bring my baked goods to be sampled by other volunteers.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Regional Competition:</span> I had one of my groups win the regional competition (they make candles) and here is a link to an article that was featured in the national paper, “La Prensa” about the competition: <a href="http://www.laprensa.com.ni/archivo/2008/octubre/24/noticias/regionales/290947.shtml ">http://www.laprensa.com.ni/archivo/2008/octubre/24/noticias/regionales/290947.shtml </a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Surviving a computer and ipod crash:</span> I just haven’t had very good luck lately, because within a week of each other my computer and ipod both crashed. I wasn’t able to recover any of my music or documents, but my computer is backup and running. My ipod on the other hand is pretty dead. I’ve discovered that life without my favorite music is a bit depressing. Thank goodness (sarcasm to the extreme) my neighbors continuously play a CD entitled “Nigga” (that’s the artist’s name, and I have no comment because I don’t know where I would begin).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Don’t pull a “Lenny” on me: </span> I went to get my hair cut for the first time in my town (normally I cut it myself). However, I was getting tired of ending up with uneven hair and so I decided to stop being so “cheap” and pay, what is the equivalent to $1.25, to get a trim. I arrived at the “hair salon or Salon de Belleza” in other words “someone’s house” and found that the inside of the house was decorated to be a mini-salon, while the outside was decorated to be a bar. I sat down in the styling chair and began to describe what kind of cut I wanted. Then the hairdresser started to pin up some of my hair to get started. The moment she touched my hair she said, “So soft” and began petting my head. My head was being treated like a Chia Pet. It should be stated that I use conditioner on a daily basis to get my unbelievably super “soft” and shiny hair. I also occasionally pour a bottle of beer on my head (while taking a sip on the side). It’s like beer battered chicken for your head. While my hair is getting deeply conditioned by the beer I am also simultaneously able to build a reputation as a “bola” or drunk. Once again I am joking about the beer. In all sincerity, I have never tried the “beer rinse” method, but I have heard from my students as well as reputable beauty sources that it builds “shine.” So apparently, I have bunny soft hair (that’s what I get for using conditioner). I am happy to report that I walked out of the salon without be choked to death unlike that poor bunny (Of Mice and Men reference) that never escaped Lenny’s hands.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQBAyzzGQcSltCTlRgijSPUuTkvlFuXsUNa0xb7fZB8Y-fvJmVy_gj6xqP62eHTgthIOrX_9R0y6jsvGxwkG2o-CwRGgt5SBb6vLRGwcGYFIFJjtYa7impq9Pz5HPIFw4oU_NPS6jlOc3C/s1600-h/Competition+094.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQBAyzzGQcSltCTlRgijSPUuTkvlFuXsUNa0xb7fZB8Y-fvJmVy_gj6xqP62eHTgthIOrX_9R0y6jsvGxwkG2o-CwRGgt5SBb6vLRGwcGYFIFJjtYa7impq9Pz5HPIFw4oU_NPS6jlOc3C/s400/Competition+094.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262212211937898834" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />A little white fluffy dog:</span> I just was “regalar’ed” (in English “gifted”) a little puppy for my birthday. Last year, I received a chicken, which I ate in soup. This year I received a dog, which I began to prepare to put in soup until I was informed that she was, “not the eatin’ type” and would be too tough to be put into soup. I kid, I kid, she was clearly never meant to be put into soup, and don’t worry dogs are not eaten in soup anyway. However, if you happen to be a giant lizard thing (called a Garrobo here in Nicaragua) you are SOL “sorry out of luck” because giant lizard things or anything that resembles a lizard will get turned into soup, also included in the soup are lizard eggs. The soup is quite clearly a “fertility soup” and is consumed by men and children. Fact: “the Garrobo contains every vitamin known to mankind, vitamins A-Z are all contained within the body of this small but miraculous lizard,” direct quote from my neighbor. Anyway, back to my dog, her name is Alteza or translation: Highness. It’s like princess, but I don’t like the name princess because it’s too stuck-up. Plus, my dog is clearly the “Queen” of all dogs and bows down to no one. She wakes me up at 5:20 on the spot to play; even though, I would prefer to wake up around 5:45 or 6. She is full of energy in the morning and at night. All of my school kids love her, I have been warned numerous times to be careful because someone might rob her (this is an actual worry of mine…because it happens a lot to dogs that are fed). However, I tell everyone that she is “Brava,” just like me, which means wild and will attack on command! <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Two black eyes:</span> My neighbor was beat up a few days ago because he was wandering through the streets intoxicated. He came out of the fight with a few cuts and two black eyes. The guys who beat him up were also drunk. Fights seem to breakout quite often, and people just hope that there isn’t a machete involved. Then I was asked, “Briks, could you write me a prescription?” To which I answered, “No.” Turns out my neighbor wanted to get refunded for his black eyes. He thought if he could get a receipt (the prescription slip written by a doctor) for his medical costs, he could press charges and get refunded for his condition. In reality, he didn’t go to the doctor and didn’t take any medication. Later on, I had a change of heart, and proceeded to write him a counterfeit prescription receipt. I made the prescription receipt out of 12 x 6 foam paper, complete with glitter stickers and my signature in sky blue Crayola crayon that stated “Doctora “#1 PHD in the World” Briks Jonson” followed by the date (to make it look official) and finally addressed: “Clinic location, from the big tree go 4 blocks east, in front of the house with the dog tied to the tree that yelps really loudly.” Two weeks later, my neighbor won his small claims court case and was awarded $200. To that he thanked me by saying, “Gracias Doctora “#1 PHD in the World” Briks, I will love you foureber an eber.” <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />It’s not over till I say it’s over:</span> We just held a local competition for the business class I am teaching and we picked 5 winners who will go on to compete at the next level. However, that leaves me with about 300 kids who will not be going to another competition. The school year is not over yet (I have until November) and kids are no longer motivated to participate in the class. Therefore, I have set aside all modesty and have resorted to some desperate measures. Those measures involve: singing songs in English in front of my class (such classics as “Row Row Row Your Boat” and “London Bridge”), adding a round of applause after kids answer questions correctly, incorporating more dynamic games that involve me doing something really dorky like dancing and singing. I have pulled out all stops and do almost anything now to keep them interested and participating in the class. Thank goodness no one is recording my performances on video camera; however, some of my students have camera phones and I do believe my image shows up quite frequently on their cells. Every teacher has got to have a gimmick and my gimmick comes easy because I am a gringa, and therefore inherently crazy and kooky. <br /> <br />September 14th marks a national holiday here in Nicaragua. It is the day of Independence. Therefore, the two months leading up to September are normally filled with preparations in anticipation of the holiday. The high school students have band practice and marching practice to prepare for the big day. However, this year the public high school in my town was short on funds, and therefore could not afford to have their drums, and other various instruments repaired. Thus, band practice became obsolete, because they had no instruments to practice. My students were sad, but I soon found out that although we were without instruments we would not be without band practice. For the past 2 months my kids have had “imaginary band practice,” pretending to play (but with nothing to practice or play with). This might sound like a sad situation, but it truly was a blessing in disguise. I recall last year’s drooling band practice, 7am to 8pm all day long banging drums and I instruments off beat and out of tune. Plus, even though they practiced for two whole months they never seemed to improve. The noise was unbearable. This year was much quieter. Since we had imaginary band practice kids would still get out of a large number of classes to “practice,” which is a bit of an annoyance when teachers are trying to teach and cover material. The other good news was that last year band practice was held during normal class hours. The drums would be banging at full volume, while I tried to strain my voice an octave higher to be heard by my students. It was frustrating. This year I didn’t have that problem! There is a happy ending to this story, because at the very last minute (4 days ahead of time) the parents were able to wrangle up enough money to fix the school’s broken instruments. In the end, all my students were able to have a band (and the sounded pretty decent the day of their performance) and I didn’t have to suffer through months of grueling practice.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Catedral de León<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5VsMBbZ1ihluP3RHU_2cGRYXG5N8BP-izxbYRIvdTx7YwXnv6hhHueTdOQAGiPoJJvYtVtp0W4cIAijhJsTYkwhLMOAEcBfUEY_IdL37sFHOeyfWxS4ntj9Ai3w1koHh7KlwjLal5az1A/s1600-h/Competition+099.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5VsMBbZ1ihluP3RHU_2cGRYXG5N8BP-izxbYRIvdTx7YwXnv6hhHueTdOQAGiPoJJvYtVtp0W4cIAijhJsTYkwhLMOAEcBfUEY_IdL37sFHOeyfWxS4ntj9Ai3w1koHh7KlwjLal5az1A/s320/Competition+099.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262209404483053874" /></a><br /><br />A few months ago I decided that I wanted some fresh cooked beans for my lunch. Now, I suppose I should first state the facts leading up to this story. I used to buy cooked beans from a woman who lives two blocks from my house. She was also very friendly and made a great batch of beans. I started to become a little too overly dependent on her delicious cooking and found myself going to buy beans nearly every other day. Then, her husband started hanging around the house more often. At first he was friendly, but that’s usually how it starts. Then he became a little too friendly, and he turned into outright obnoxious. Then one day his comments were too much, and I had to make a sacrifice: beans or no beans that was the question. If I wanted delicious home cooked beans that was the place to get them, but I decided that I didn’t want to be harassed by the bean lady’s husband every time I bought beans, and therefore I just had to find a new bean vendor. I asked my friends and neighbors, but most of them cook their own beans, and therefore do not need to buy beans from a bean vendor. Finally, one of my friends suggested a new bean lady. She lived a little further on the outside of town, but she didn’t have a creepy husband hanging around the house (like my previous bean lady). So I thought to myself, “why not? I can handle change.” The next day I went and bought some cooked beans to make a bean casserole (aka beans with tortilla, not really much of a casserole but I like to delude myself). Anyway, I was about 6 bites into my bean dish when something went CRUUUUNCH in my mouth. It was a rock. There was A ROCK in my beans. NOOOO!! Because not only had I bitten down hard on a rock but I had managed to bite down hard with one of my back molars and the consequence of this action was a broken tooth. So much for change. My new bean lady obviously didn’t wash the beans before cooking them, hence a rock being in my cooked beans. Due to transportation strikes at the time I was unable to go to a dentist for 1 month. Luckily, my tooth root had not been exposed; however, I did find myself missing half of my molar and unable to eat on the left side of my mouth. When I finally got to go into the dentist, she asked me what had happened. I recounted the rock in my beans story, and she seemed to sympathize with me before stating the obvious: “Why don’t you just cook your own beans from now on.” Since my tooth incident I have found myself eating less beans and rice, and I still have not resorted to cooking my own beans…yet. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">My dog Alteza<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMCsgBvd5JLKBcObDQns-I3sd3aklezmCDcNusGWxRgfywxX1YPvsEEg46q72LLhyVmzovyZw8EWSiPiiCzjEIX2p9URIZBY6k_AC7xHwtlNB4Pu2E_tJh84K3U1tMh8xL3Mtuq42U7b7e/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Comp+040.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMCsgBvd5JLKBcObDQns-I3sd3aklezmCDcNusGWxRgfywxX1YPvsEEg46q72LLhyVmzovyZw8EWSiPiiCzjEIX2p9URIZBY6k_AC7xHwtlNB4Pu2E_tJh84K3U1tMh8xL3Mtuq42U7b7e/s320/Malpaisillo+Comp+040.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262206743398551490" /></a>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-69855593601587264662008-09-07T15:57:00.000-05:002008-09-07T16:35:28.028-05:00It’s none of your beeswax; plus, popsicle stick sculptures and noodle art <div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CBrie%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size:180%;">¿Qué Paso?:</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Vaga Briks (in English, I’m a wanderer):</b> I have not written in a while, sorry, but I have been rather occupied with grading exams, running around town on my bike searching for people, falling off bridges, planning competitions, avoiding bolos (drunks) and evangelicals, and teaching English.<span style=""> </span>I am super tiered nowadays, with lots and lots to do all the time (and I am not complaining…things to do are AWESOME!).<span style=""> </span>That is my accuse as to why I haven’t been keeping up with my blog…but here I sit finally with a little free time, and I thought I would catch everyone up with what’s been happening…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Rainy Season:</b><span style=""> </span>The rainy season has started, and all my clothes are damp and things are starting to mold on me.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Ups and downs:</b><span style=""> </span>I am still enjoying my time here although there are always ups and downs.<span style=""> </span>For example, I was ripped off on a bus (and didn’t say anything because it wouldn’t have solved anything) but I was happily surprised when someone in my town stuck up for me and managed to get my money back.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Politically correct: </b>Lately, it has been difficult to deal with the built up political tensions between people, why can’t we all just get along?<span style=""> </span>For me, it has been a lesson in diplomacy: how to get people who so ardently dislike one another to come to an agreement or dare I say compromise.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Party time:</b><span style=""> </span>My town festival is in full swing this weekend.<span style=""> </span>The streets are lined with people eating cotton candy, candied apples and enjoying themselves.<span style=""> </span>I was people watching yesterday and eating a rather delightful dinner, when a waft of exhaust entered my nostrils.<span style=""> </span>My stomach turned a little, from the unpleasant scent, and I looked around to see where it had originated from, and that’s when I saw a motorcycle trying to make its way down to crowded and packed street.<span style=""> </span>“Why?” I thought.<span style=""> </span>It’s not like this is the only street in town.<span style=""> </span>The only explanation was that he was “showing off” his motorcycle and meanwhile he almost ran over half the people in town.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">A mule, a gordo and a priest:</b><span style=""> </span>This sounds like a joke,<span style=""> </span>but in all honesty it actually happened, and<span style=""> </span>I witnessed it all.<span style=""> </span>Although, I didn’t take any pictures to prove it.<span style=""> </span>Last weekend, was our town’s horse festival.<span style=""> </span>People ride around the town on big horses.<span style=""> </span>This year, the priest decided to get in on the action, and mounted a horse, but no one taught him how to control the animal.<span style=""> </span>The priest was recklessly riding around town, nearly running everyone down.<span style=""> </span>Next, a “gordo” (fat man) rode a stocky mule.<span style=""> </span>The poor animal was grunting under the heavy load, but the fat man didn’t seem to notice and kept taking sips from his brown paper bagged bottle of booze.<span style="">
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >It's a rug...the kids created this project and wrote up a business plan including how to market and finance the product </span>
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mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">Last weekend I found myself boarding a bus on a search for the most beautiful river in Nicaragua.<span style=""> </span>Conveniently, the river was only a short ride from my town, plus a quick ox ride and finally finishing up with a brisk walk.<span style=""> </span>By the time I arrived at the river I was more impressed by the many methods of transportation it took to reach the river than the river itself.<span style=""> </span>This bus ride, was the usual chaotic ride, almost comparable to Toads Wild Ride at Disney World (note, I said almost).<span style=""> </span>The Ox chart is where things got a bit more fun!<span style=""> </span>First of all, these two poor oxen were carrying a load of wood (for cooking), and my nica friend asked if we could hop on the back of the cart too.<span style=""> </span>The 3 of us were sitting among piles of wood being pulled by two oxen.<span style=""> </span>We were going at a snail’s pace.<span style=""> </span>So slow in fact that if there was a grandmother with a walker on the side of the road she would have quickly passed and left us in her “walker dust”.<span style=""> </span>My friend was jumping on and off the chart to take pictures (having plenty of time to snap a picturesque shot and easily catch up).<span style=""> </span>I was trying to shield my eyes from the overwhelming sun, and remain patient.<span style=""> </span>Even though walking would have been a more productive use of time, my friends refused to walk the 1 kilometro.<span style=""> </span>That is correct; we were not going very far, just 1k.<span style=""> </span>As the oxen drudged on, so did we.<span style=""> </span>Then we hit a rut in the road (bound to happen) and pieces of firewood went flying off.<span style=""> </span>The already slow ride became even slower.<span style=""> </span>Kids helped to collect the wood and redistributed it onto the cart.<span style=""> </span>Next, we hit a giant mud pit.<span style=""> </span>The cart’s wheels became embedded in the mud.<span style=""> </span>The ox had to pull extra hard through the pit.<span style=""> </span>Finally, we reached our destination (mas o menos).<span style=""> </span>The riverbed was dried up and the water was a muddy color.<span style=""> </span>Right now, the river is not a very pretty site, but in a few months and with some more rain it will be a site to behold (and I will only behold the site again as long as I don’t have to ride on the back of an ox chart).<span style=""> </span>They are slow animals, and I am just fine walking!</p> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">A few weeks ago, a student decided to throw a chair across the room into the wall.<span style=""> </span>The student was apparently angry that I had kicked him out of class.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t realize he was so quick to anger, because the intonation in my voice was nothing but normal and calm.<span style=""> </span>I gave him several warnings ahead of time and then resorted to asking him to leave.<span style=""> </span>However, he did not like this option, thus the chair being thrown.<span style=""> </span>Well, it turns out having a student throw a chair in a rage of anger has its advantages.<span style=""> </span>The students are now working harder than ever to get their work done!<span style=""> </span></p> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">Who needs a bike seat?<span style=""> </span>Someone stole the bolts right off of my bike.<span style=""> </span>One minute, the bolts were all in their place and the next minute my bike seat was doing a 360-degree swivel and my handle bars were all out of whack.<span style=""> </span>I think it’s also worth saying that this was at a different school than the “chair throwing” school.<span style=""> </span>I approached my school’s principal about the incident, mainly to see if anyone happened to get a glance at the perpetrator.<span style=""> </span>Then the next thing I know, all my kids were apologizing to me.<span style=""> </span>The principal decided to call a school assembly to announce to everyone that the gringa’s bike had been tampered with, and the result was that all my kids decided to apologize non-stop.<span style=""> </span></p> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">There is never a dull moment on a bus in Nicaragua, and this past week I found myself on a bus with 2 very drunken men (along with about 40 other people who were just trying to get home).<span style=""> </span>Of course, the men were super obnoxious, but no one wanted to kick them off the bus.<span style=""> </span>Therefore, for 2 hours we had to put up with their rambling, shouting and overall craziness.<span style=""> </span>I was super glad when I was able to get off.
<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Another business group of mine, they are making decorations for fiestas</span></span>
<br /></p> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2nmqUTULyh6_NKRJynI5t_WsnlBWlW8gmvmyB4CFNp3_W0mFXgeGuFeCxrCEYDfbsxD5Vkcvpc_jyLBmvtzmhPU2JqupZTbYGyFwGuKxLUPjAKBCVNKBDOpn1kUBUYdqB-HAa3ik-yAB/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Local+Competencia+2008+004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2nmqUTULyh6_NKRJynI5t_WsnlBWlW8gmvmyB4CFNp3_W0mFXgeGuFeCxrCEYDfbsxD5Vkcvpc_jyLBmvtzmhPU2JqupZTbYGyFwGuKxLUPjAKBCVNKBDOpn1kUBUYdqB-HAa3ik-yAB/s400/Malpaisillo+Local+Competencia+2008+004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243391847174447938" border="0" /></a>
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mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]-->I suppose I should clarify 1 thing first, I teach 4<sup>th</sup> year students who range in age of 14-18.<span style=""> </span>The class I teach is simple to explain: A business course that promotes creativity.<span style=""> </span>All year long, we work on increasing students’ business knowledge and then they apply their new knowledge to an actual working business that they are developing/creating for the class.<span style=""> </span>In the month of September, we have the first of 3 competitions.<span style=""> </span>As a motivating factor, the kids know that their business plans and products will be entered into this competition.<span style=""> </span>I just had the first competition at the local level.<span style=""> </span>I had about 43 groups of students competing all year long for 5 slots.<span style=""> </span>Before, the actual day of my competition I was able to eliminate <span style=""> </span>quite a few groups aka kids with popsicle stick art and ode to macaroni art.<span style=""> </span>From those kids I narrowed it down even more to the top 12 groups.<span style=""> </span>These groups then competed for the 5 spaces to go onto the Regional Competition.<span style=""> </span>It was a tough decision, but the groups that worked the hardest (in my opinion) did come out as the clear winners.<span style=""> </span>I am happy to report that all of my students did their work, which means they wrote a complete business plan.<span style=""> </span>However, the day after the competition was tough, because the kids’ motivation was way down.<span style=""> </span>I spent most of my class doing team building activities.<span style=""> </span>Now I am busy planning the Regional and National Competition, which will take place in October and November respectively. <p class="MsoNormal">In an effort to help prepare a group of students for our local competition, I decided to take a bike ride with them to help look for bees wax (they were utilizing the wax in their product).<span style=""> </span>They are making candles from bees wax, but of course, we had to hunt down the person who sells the wax.<span style=""> </span>No one knew exactly where this person lived, but they knew he lived pretty far down this long road.<span style=""> </span>In Nicaragua, there used to be a train that crossed across the country.<span style=""> </span>Although the train and track are long gone, the signs of train tracks can still be seen across the countryside.<span style=""> </span>In fact, this explains why there are many small seemingly random towns spread across the countryside.<span style=""> </span>At one point in time, these towns ran along the train line.<span style=""> </span>Anyway, my journey to find the bees wax man took me along the former train track lines.<span style=""> </span>We were a group of 5, peddling along on our bikes.<span style=""> </span>Now because there are no longer tracks, but the rivers remain, we were presented with a bit of a conundrum when crossing water.<span style=""> </span>There are unsteady rickety wooden planks in the spots of the former train tracks.<span style=""> </span>Below the rickety wooden planks, lay muddy, mucky cow patty littered coffee colored puddles of “water.”<span style=""> </span>Now since we had our bikes with us, we were forced to make the crossings extra carefully, with the bikes resting on our shoulders.<span style=""> </span>I really should work on my balancing skills, because in hindsight it would have paid off to have tightrope walking skills.<span style=""> </span>We finally found the “bee” man but just our luck, he wasn’t home.<span style=""> </span>I hopped back on to my bike, and as a group, we started biking 1 hour back into town.<span style=""> </span>On the way out to the bee house, we had to cross 4 “bridges” and so on our return trip we would also be faced with 4 bridge crossings.<span style=""> </span>I crossed the first without any troubles.<span style=""> </span>Then we came upon the second, and I crossed again rather quickly.<span style=""> </span>I was getting a bit cocky with my bridge crossing skills, and instead of taking my time, I was practically running across each bridge.<span style=""> </span>Then I hit bridge number 3, I made it halfway across, lost my balance, and before I fell, I decided to hop off into the mucky water.<span style=""> </span>I landed straight, my bike still resting on my right should, mud up past my knees.<span style=""> </span>I hopped out of the mud rather easily, but my ego was greatly deflated and I road 1 hour back to town a muddy mess.<span style=""> </span>Then I had to take a bus ride for 45 minutes in all my muddy glory.<span style=""> </span>I got home around 6pm to find I had no running water, and I have learned another lesson about hubris and showing off.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> </div>
<br />Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-69867292050023942052008-06-28T12:22:00.000-05:002008-06-28T12:50:36.636-05:00“Rollin’ Down the Street, Sippin’ on Ron y Enza, laid back, got my mind on my córdobas and my córdobas on my mind”<p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">¿Que Pasa?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Power line comes crashing through my roof:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>A few weeks ago, Nicaragua was hit with Hurican Alma. <span style=""> </span>My house sustained some damage (like a hole in the roof due to a wayward power line toppling into it), but my neighbors sustained even more damage to their homes.<span style=""> </span>During the storm, a chavalo decided to climb onto my neighbor’s roof to help secure the tiles.<span style=""> </span>There were ramas (branches) everywhere and giant trees were uprooted and lay in complete disorder.<span style=""> </span>We were without electricity, water and phone service.<span style=""> </span>Luckily, my town was able to pick up the pieces rather quickly and normalcy was restored within a few days (however, my house is still without power).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Dog sitting:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>My neighbors decided to take a trip into the city for two days and asked if I could house sit and dog sit for them.<span style=""> </span>I, of course, agreed and was left in charge.<span style=""> </span>I went over to their house around mid-morning to feed and check on the dog.<span style=""> </span>My neighbors left a giant bowl of chicken soup in their fridge for the dog to eat.<span style=""> </span>They told me that the chicken was settled at the bottom of the pot and to make sure I dished out pieces of chicken with the broth.<span style=""> </span>So, I poured some of the soup into the dog’s bowl but I noticed that none of the chicken made it into the bowl. <span style=""> </span>I reached my hand into the soup to grab some chicken.<span style=""> </span>Well, my neighbors forgot to mention that the “chicken” that they put into the soup was actually just chicken feet and hearts.<span style=""> </span>My hand made contact with the pointy chicken nails at the bottom of the pot, and I didn’t quite realize what I was touching.<span style=""> </span>I slowly withdrew my hand from the pot to discover that I was grasping feet and hearts.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">My fan died:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>After serving me for an entire hot season, my fan finally gave up and stopped working (the motor had been overworked).<span style=""> </span>I panicked because it was still super hot and I knew I would not be able to make it through the night without a fan.<span style=""> </span>So that afternoon I went out and purchased a new fan (that will hopefully not breakdown and keep me cool).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Go for a 3-pointer:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>My town has a basketball team, and every Saturday and Sunday I enjoy sitting on the sidelines and watching them play.<span style=""> </span>One team has a player named “El niño (“the kid”),” who is anything but a niño.<span style=""> </span>Instead, he stands 6’5” and is more like a giant wall.<span style=""> </span>However, he isn’t very agile or athletic, but he is really good at blocking the way.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">The trash band:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>The trash collectors just added a new bonus to their service, not only will they pick up your trash but they will also have a band (that sits amongst the trash) play a little ditty of a song.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Happy Mother’s day (bring on the band):</span></b><span lang="EN-US"> The month of May was Mother’s month.<span style=""> </span>However, only 1 day of the month is devoted full out to the moms.<span style=""> </span>The usual fanfare is to have a band serenade your mother’s at the wee hours of the morning (anytime around 3:30am or 4am).<span style=""> </span>I am not a mom or a wife, but my neighbors still thought it would be fun to include the gringa in all the festivities.<span style=""> </span>Therefore, at exactly 3:45am I had a 2 singers in a flatbed truck lined with giant speakers stilling outside of my house singing 4 songs.<span style=""> </span>I was just a little angry.<span style=""> </span>When the songs finally ended I thought I could get back to sleep (oh how wrong I was).<span style=""> </span>The truck moved only 2 houses away and began the same serenade again and again and again.<span style=""> </span>I had to hear it 4 times before they were finally out of earshot.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Bat killer:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>I killed a bat.<span style=""> </span>Enough said.</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mud pit</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivr0tuoGEPzcFL6F3mJnaUdaqiD6CEeJ88z4s6B24L5IXf8kvbz3sqFCVEAEMXBqwWLHhgag2Edvdl05laCnw5x2McqS1eLmDlwxkSmPfKufDGw4h3RWqANhbxXDoznIA2x5rG2KF4l507/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivr0tuoGEPzcFL6F3mJnaUdaqiD6CEeJ88z4s6B24L5IXf8kvbz3sqFCVEAEMXBqwWLHhgag2Edvdl05laCnw5x2McqS1eLmDlwxkSmPfKufDGw4h3RWqANhbxXDoznIA2x5rG2KF4l507/s400/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216989437395533314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span lang="EN-US">I was biking to school (nothing new there) and came upon a rather large puddle (aka en español charco).<span style=""> </span>I stopped at the edge and looked around for the clearest path to cross through, but didn’t see anything.<span style=""> </span>My only option was to go through the puddle.<span style=""> </span>I backed my bike up a few feet and went for it.<span style=""> </span>Two-feet in and my bike became stuck in the muck and I was forced to plant my left foot in the mud for stability.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I was wearing a skirt and a pair of dress shoes.<span style=""> </span>The mud came up to my knee.<span style=""> </span>I ungracefully hopped out of the mud puddle and sought out dry ground.<span style=""> </span>I road into town with one muddy leg and taught class that night I took my rain boots out of storage…they’re back and ready for action!</span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">When the power goes out in the night, everything is encapsulated by blackness.<span style=""> </span>Therefore, it is wise and recommended to stay indoors.<span style=""> </span>One night, the power went out and the rain started to pound on my roof.<span style=""> </span>In my home state of Colorado it rains, but in Nicaragua it pours.<span style=""> </span>I have never witnessed such a torrential downfall of rain, and the thunder that accompanied the rain hit me to the core.<span style=""> </span>No one in their right mind was going to leave their house during this storm.<span style=""> </span>That is when I received a knock on my front door, only to find my friendly neighborhood stalker standing in front of me asking to borrow some salt.<span style=""> </span>I lent him my salt.<span style=""> </span>Then a few minutes later, he was back again to return my salt.<span style=""> </span>I took my salt back.<span style=""> </span>Then he proceeded to ask to borrow some chiltomas (peppers).<span style=""> </span>I lent him some peppers.<span style=""> </span>Then he asked to borrow the salt again.<span style=""> </span>This escapade was probably going to continue on and so I decided to put an end to it by telling him I was going to go to bed.<span style=""> </span></span></p> </div><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">Some rockin´students of mine at the mud pits</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1s27a4cC_fZyXtBdtDCb4IN2CW5NMVMvkW1fYBrjJIu6ajyMOjJ0b6sAHPNaYf6CwiuzIowDIyvyGfLTOcrmWSIAgQ4U5TKgg2GXJ4Q1hVbFrREfQ5K0nslOMPt6suHjdjlpVnEmBvrs6/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+007.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1s27a4cC_fZyXtBdtDCb4IN2CW5NMVMvkW1fYBrjJIu6ajyMOjJ0b6sAHPNaYf6CwiuzIowDIyvyGfLTOcrmWSIAgQ4U5TKgg2GXJ4Q1hVbFrREfQ5K0nslOMPt6suHjdjlpVnEmBvrs6/s400/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216989442586713666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""></span>I rather enjoy taking bike rides around the surrounding countryside and I often encourage my school kids to come along for a ride.<span style=""> </span>We had all planned to go to the hot springs (which are located in a neighboring town).<span style=""> </span>The ride was about 1 hour and we were going to leave early on Sunday morning.<span style=""> </span>I told the kids to meet me in front of the school at 7am so that we could leave before the sun got too hot.<span style=""> </span>Everyone was told to bring a sack lunch and plenty of water.<span style=""> </span>I woke up early on Sunday, and rode over to the school.<span style=""> </span>I had packed myself a sandwich, and a snack of Ritz con queso.<span style=""> </span>Moreover, I had 2 water bottles full of H2O.<span style=""> </span>I also threw in some extra snacks for my kids.<span style=""> </span>At 7am, on the dot, one of my students rode up on his bike ready to go.<span style=""> </span>When I asked him where everyone else was he replied, “Oh, I will go get them, just wait here.”<span style=""> </span>Thirty minutes later, he returned with the crew.<span style=""> </span>Only seven of my kids had bikes and three kids were being “chinear’ed” (carried) on the crossbars of the bikes.<span style=""> </span>What a group.<span style=""> </span>I double-checked that everyone brought food and water.<span style=""> </span>Then we left.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>About half way through the journey, we stopped for snacks and water.<span style=""> </span>That’s when one of my students pulled out a 3-liter “Big Kola” bottle filled with water to pass around to the group.<span style=""> </span>After a quick break, we continued on…until finally we reached our destination, the boiling mud pits.<span style=""> </span>The boys started throwing boiling mud on one another and the girls were running away shrieking.<span style=""> </span>I stood on the sideline trying not to get in the line of fire.<span style=""> </span>The boys finally tired and we all decided to eat lunch and then head back home.<span style=""> </span>One student brought a block of cheese to eat.<span style=""> </span>Another student brought avocado and salt.<span style=""> </span>They all traded food amongst themselves, and I was just glad that we chose the shorter excursion trip versus going all the way to the volcano (an 8 hour round trip).<span style=""> </span>We ended the trip chasing a lizard and riding back into town performing bike tricks (for example, feet over the handlebars, one foot peddling, etc.). </span> <span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">More mud pits</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8a-T54QwmAt-VeV34g1gyS1D0JkZVU7TWeJZ0fjnqDnyyIW5LalZ_Z5UtaOgHyns5ITvXhyXv7OtMFSWQYm1N6AS8_3kVa7Zq9nmuJaqRbXINCopvVUlSa9ku-5pMPRJk-qh1rtp9KfYy/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8a-T54QwmAt-VeV34g1gyS1D0JkZVU7TWeJZ0fjnqDnyyIW5LalZ_Z5UtaOgHyns5ITvXhyXv7OtMFSWQYm1N6AS8_3kVa7Zq9nmuJaqRbXINCopvVUlSa9ku-5pMPRJk-qh1rtp9KfYy/s400/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216989446460494946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The power line that across the street from my house</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlGehZDOkKW6PodpUcuboUg_KaR5skCXw5m8s2ziJ_IPdNOSV4VNZNnmLg0xoZo3GY8nGGoqdGIbj-hZ5aU6S861aHko_niumdPAFZh-a_iYORLEWon_lv7jrygLvHYvRiq4CNzvTr4Hd/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlGehZDOkKW6PodpUcuboUg_KaR5skCXw5m8s2ziJ_IPdNOSV4VNZNnmLg0xoZo3GY8nGGoqdGIbj-hZ5aU6S861aHko_niumdPAFZh-a_iYORLEWon_lv7jrygLvHYvRiq4CNzvTr4Hd/s400/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216989449527256162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As a small child of five, I vividly remember visiting the Barnum and Bailey circus.<span style=""> </span>Acrobats, trapeze artists, elephants, and clowns all given their own separate performing space in the giant cement auditorium filled full of screaming kids and reluctant adults who brought their children to the event.<span style=""> </span>The clowns are my fondest memory, for some, the image of a clown might conjure up feelings of fear, but that is just because as a child they probably saw the movie “It”.<span style=""> </span>Brief movie synopsis: a killer clown is on the loose and he is after a bunch of suburbanites, I know terrifying.<span style=""> </span>I can honestly say that I do not have this fear of clowns, and I owe this in part to the fact that I didn’t see the movie “It” until I was around 20 years old, and by then the graphics, special effects and plot were outdated.<span style=""> </span>Anyway, back to the clowns, I always loved the act where about 15 clowns piled into and out-of a tiny vehicle that appeared only large enough to hold 1 person in the first place.<span style=""> </span>So how did they all fit?<span style=""> </span>It is one of the great-unsolved mysteries of all times; right up there with, how did the Egyptians build the pyramids?<span style=""> </span>I will uncover that mystery later.<span style=""> </span>Besides, I highly doubt anyone knows the secret to the clown car. However, last night I came as close as ever to unveiling the mystic that surrounds this illusion (Note to reader:<span style=""> </span>start playing the music “It’s the final countdown” in your head; trust me, it will make what I am about to say even more amazing and wondrous).<span style=""> </span>Ok ready, music playing?<span style=""> </span>I am about to reveal the mystery of the clown car:<span style=""> </span>How do so many clowns fit into one isty-bitsy, tinny-tiny, minuscule vehicle?<span style=""> </span>Well, the answer is quite simple, they all <b style=""><i style="">chinear</i></b> one another, bending and contorting their bodies into the vehicle.<span style=""> </span>Yep, it’s that simple and it might seem rather obvious.<span style=""> </span>Now that I have revealed the “big” secret, you’re probably thinking to yourself, I already knew that (or you might be thinking what in the world does chinear mean).<span style=""> </span>While I am sure you’ve pondered this great mystery, and “chinearing” was a likely hypothesis, you ruled it out as being “not physically possible.”<span style=""> </span>However, I am here to tell you that in fact it is physically possible…how do I know this as being 100% true?<span style=""> </span>The answer, I have been inside of a clown car and pulled this body contortion act (also known as chinear in Español) in front of all the people in my town.<span style=""> </span>Enough about clowns, it’s time to recapture the scenario that took place one fateful night in Malpaisillo Leon (my site).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The day started like any other, I awoke to my neighbors blasting the “Happy birthday Jam remix CD,” the one where the creepy guy pronounces the word “birthday” as “BIRDday” (in a most disturbing voice).<span style=""> </span>Yes, that is the music I awake to every single morning, it is the bane of my existence.<span style=""> </span>I rolled out of bed and put a pot of water on the stove for coffee, because I don’t function without at least 1 cup of coffee.<span style=""> </span>Next, I finished washing my laundry that I let soak in my “pan” overnight.<span style=""> </span>At 6am, my neighbors came over, glad that I was up, so that they could ask me a very pertinent question “Brigs (not my real name, but sadly that’s what I am known as in my town…close enough I guess),”What are you doing today?”<span style=""> </span>My reply, “It’s Saturday, so I will be cleaning, mopping, etc. etc.”<span style=""> </span>Their faces lit up (almost a little too brightly) and I knew I had roped myself into yet another commitment without even knowing what that commitment entailed.<span style=""> </span>Turns out, they wanted me to cook a pancake breakfast, and later they wanted to cook lunch for me, and we would all finish out the day by going to a disco dance club.<span style=""> </span>The day went by rather quickly; the pancakes were fluffy, golden brown and delicious.<span style=""> </span>Lunch, was a slice of fishy goodness on a plate, fried of course, but good nevertheless.<span style=""> </span>Around 8pm I was informed that we would be leaving in 30 minutes (calculated Nica time:<span style=""> </span>if x=Gringo time of departure,<span style=""> </span>y=Nica time of departure,<span style=""> </span>and z= random variable such as: visitors show up at the front door to talk or maybe a Jehovah witness tries to convert me or better yet the 30 year old man down the street proposes to me, again).<span style=""> </span>Entonces, who needs a mathematical equation to tell me what my gut already knows, we won’t really be leaving in 30 minutes…at the earliest we will be leaving in 1 hour.<span style=""> </span>It’s no big deal, because the disco tech is only 3 blocks down the street from my house, or approximately 3.2 minutes via foot.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">One hour and 15 minutes passes by, and I am finally summoned to come outside to leave for the party.<span style=""> </span>That’s when I see it, a 1987 white Toyota sitting in front of my neighbors house, and I think immediately, “Oh no, where are we going?”<span style=""> </span>Turns out my <i style="">fechenta</i> neighbors, pulled out the car to drive to the disco.<span style=""> </span>I will reiterate the fact that the disco is 3 blocks from my house, yes that is correct, just 3 blocks.<span style=""> </span>They had pulled out their car to go 3 blocks.<span style=""> </span>Now I must admit that this came as only a moderate surprise, because it has happened before.<span style=""> </span>In fact, a week earlier, they pulled out the car to go only two blocks, to the restaurant, <i style="">Cielo NICA,</i> located around the corner.<span style=""> </span>And 3 weeks prior, they pulled out the car to go to the <i style="">panadaria</i> that is quite literally 1 block around the corner (and I’m not talking city blocks here, I am talking regular suburban street blocks).<span style=""> </span>Anyway, I played along and got into the car…but not too fast…because there was a crowd surrounding the car…strange, right?…turns out everyone was going for a ride, all 8 of us.<span style=""> </span>My neighbors all started to get into the car and I proceeded forward, to jump in as well, but I was politely held back and told to wait my turn.<span style=""> </span>My turn, turned out to be dead last, because it turns out, I had chosen the short straw, and therefore was going to be “<i style="">chineared”</i>. <span style=""> </span>I cautiously wiggled one of my legs into the vehicle, next I hunched over and tried to fit into the car (that was already carrying 7 other people).<span style=""> </span>Slowly, carefully, cautiously, I slipped my other leg into the car, now came the difficult part, closing the door.<span style=""> </span>Good thing I’m not claustrophobic, and I thought to myself, good thing we are only going 3 blocks.<span style=""> </span>Stupid, stupid, stupid (I am referring to myself here and not the reader…so please continue…).<span style=""> </span>I should have known, we weren’t going straight to our destination because Saturday night in Malpaisillo is <i style="">iqual </i>to “cruising night,” shouting out the window a grandiose “ADIOS” and waving to everyone in sight.<span style=""> </span>What a whip (whip= slang for car/cool ride) we were rollin’ on 27 inch chrome colored (although not actual chrome) rims, blasting Los Toros Band, and rockin’ the hydraulics (actually I don’t think the car had any hydraulics but I am pretty sure it was missing a few springs).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Forty-five minutes later, after making 15 laps around town, we finally arrived at the disco (remember the disco is only 3 blocks from my house).<span style=""> </span>My left leg had lost feeling about 30 minutes into the ride and my neck is now permanently angled 15 degrees to the right (due to having been <i style="">chineard </i>and thus forcing me to hunch my head).<span style=""> </span>And that is how I know, for a fact, with 100% certainty that it is possible to fit numerous clowns into 1 tiny vehicle…. </span></p> <span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">The power line that fell into my house</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsENv0Jm4vfXTQECibHsQtWfPrc_PH9abC0WBRY2r73PHdANPxjmmjwVGkxqzU_6vbqxesratbIz0Qdhd1-Vtp9m1Z0EwUxjPUHmuRJybi0RZsoYQnDdPP7gEfdcpEn3cCzVp7QAHYJOl/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+011.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsENv0Jm4vfXTQECibHsQtWfPrc_PH9abC0WBRY2r73PHdANPxjmmjwVGkxqzU_6vbqxesratbIz0Qdhd1-Vtp9m1Z0EwUxjPUHmuRJybi0RZsoYQnDdPP7gEfdcpEn3cCzVp7QAHYJOl/s400/Malpaisillo+Espana+kids+011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216989455972537426" border="0" /></a>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-50117131118810121452008-05-12T11:35:00.000-05:002008-05-12T11:59:59.205-05:00Cowchildren and Cannibals, represent just another typical English class<p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">¿Que Pasa?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Creepy man avoidance tips:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>I spend a good portion of everyday trying to avoid potential marriage proposals.<span style=""> </span>Just short, of jumping into bushes, I try to avoid the unwanted creepy man attention like the bubonic plague.<span style=""> </span>However, living in a small town makes it a little difficult to avoid people.<span style=""> </span>Whenever I walk out my front door the next block over knows that I am leaving my house, before I ever round the corner.<span style=""> </span>Yesterday, I stepped out and 2 seconds later Mr. Creepy comes around the corner on his bike.<span style=""> </span>I felt trapped but I always have a backup plan.<span style=""> </span>I walked 4 feet and yelled to my neighbor, who is very aware and sympathetic of my situation.<span style=""> </span>She came out of her house and we pretended like I was just visiting her and that I wasn’t going to go anywhere…I was attempting to wait out Mr. Creepy…eventually he had to go away.<span style=""> </span>He instead rode his bike 15 feet away and awkwardly waited, and waited, and waited.<span style=""> </span>Finally, he gave up and pulled a U-turn to head back to his house.<span style=""> </span>I had won this round and I took off running for the market!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Vaca negra (translation: black cow</span></b><span lang="EN-US">):<span style=""> </span>This is a delicious ice cream float…and not a cow!<span style=""> </span>Sadly, there is no root beer involved but plenty of Coca Cola and therefore it is vanilla ice cream topped with Coca Cola.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">I am falling apart:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>A few weeks ago, I had one of my tooth fillings fall out, which I can’t get fixed because there is no local transportation.<span style=""> </span>The next day I had a toenail fall off.<span style=""> </span>Finally, I ate food from a local street vendor and I am suffering the consequences…bring on the rehydration salts!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Sin transporte (without transportation):</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>Basically, the whole country is without public transportation right now due to a strike.<span style=""> </span>The strikers want the government to subsidize the rising cost of gasoline.<span style=""> </span>As a result, all buses and taxies are grounded.<span style=""> </span>There have been riots breaking out in the big cities, and from what I have seen on the news it looks a bit chaotic.<span style=""> </span>I am safe in my site, but it looks like I will be stuck in my site for the rest of May.<span style=""> </span>This means that I will not be able to teach at a majority of my schools because I have no way to get to them (as I use both my bike and public transportation to make the trips).</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The 1 ring circus</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKZ728rHpunIKKy9kpFiXB5WHaHVZLdJJ1d22TcqY1IYovt-zi5LglGfK0ajU2zrjUjNFXmjOPb4SUX3Hk6QRLFK7EkJNizVHkUSAtmD_WcaoMQFi6wLf8FOFytDIuzrPASkjf_onr6M9/s1600-h/Circo+Time+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKZ728rHpunIKKy9kpFiXB5WHaHVZLdJJ1d22TcqY1IYovt-zi5LglGfK0ajU2zrjUjNFXmjOPb4SUX3Hk6QRLFK7EkJNizVHkUSAtmD_WcaoMQFi6wLf8FOFytDIuzrPASkjf_onr6M9/s400/Circo+Time+001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199534696824044754" border="0" /></a> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">One week ago, the <i style="">Circo</i> (circus) drove into town.<span style=""> </span>They carted all of their gear in two large caravans decked out in the colors blue, red, and yellow.<span style=""> </span>On the side of one cart was a giant smiling clown face.<span style=""> </span>I knew the instant I looked into those big grinning teeth that I would be going to this circus.<span style=""> </span>He had lured me in and all it took was a ridiculously large crooked tooth <i style="">payaso(clown) </i><span style=""> </span>smile.<span style=""> </span>I immediately biked back to my house to tell my neighbors, “The circo is in town.”<span style=""> </span>They seemed a little less thrilled then I was upon my initial reaction, but then again they didn’t get a look at the clown face or all the mesmerizing colors.<span style=""> </span>My neighbor promised that in one weeks time we would go to this circo and I would be able to experience firsthand another truly Nicaraguan event. <span style=""> </span>Flash forward one week, to yesterday, the first rains of the season were washing away the dusty roads.<span style=""> </span>I was hoping that my roof would not leak, and the circo adventure was only hours away.<span style=""> </span>The circo was slated to start at 8pm and so we all left our houses at about 8pm, because the circo was only two blocks away.<span style=""> </span>As we approached the front gate, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy wafted over the crowd and I was disappointed I had only brought enough money with me for the entrance fee.<span style=""> </span>We purchased out $1 tickets and entered through a dazzling array of curtains.<span style=""> </span>As I walked through the curtains, I could see at once that this was going to be an adventure.<span style=""> </span>This was a 1-ring circus and the bleacher style seating completely surrounded the performance ring.<span style=""> </span>There were 10 rows of “seats” (aka rickety 2x4 plywood that had seen better days), all of which looked to be held up by little more than fraying pieces of rope.<span style=""> </span>In my quick calculation of the possible danger imposed by the rope and decaying wood I felt it would be best to sit on the bottom row closest to the exit.<span style=""> </span>However, my safety assessment was completely ignored and we pranced on up to the tippy-top row stage left, the corner furthest from an exit.<span style=""> </span>As I recalculated my danger assessment, I realized that if this set-up collapsed there would be no getting out (but heck I thought seize the day…these circus people are professionals…right?<span style=""> </span>I am sure they calculated the proper weight dispersion for the arena style seating.<span style=""> </span>All I can say is that I had my toes and figures crossed that no one larger than a small child would sit around our group, thus not pushing the weight capacity over the brink.<span style=""> </span>Across the way, I spotted a rather obese man making his way onto the rafters and I held my breath as he sat down…to my surprise, nothing happened…yet! “On with the show,” the ringmaster blared through her static filled microphone.<span style=""> </span>The first act to come out was a magician, he pulled the old Jesus act by turning rum into water…although as I recall Jesus turned water into wine, which therefore still tops this man’s trick.<span style=""> </span>Why start with rum and make it into water???<span style=""> </span>What was this guy thinking.<span style=""> </span>Next, he made more water appear out of seemingly nowhere and finished up by making 3 balls appear in a box.<span style=""> </span>This might have been a magnificent show, if I hadn’t seen a Vegas magic act prior to seeing his show.<span style=""> </span>He lacked a bit of showmanship and razzle-dazzle.<span style=""> </span>Next, a pair of payasos (clowns), with wigs made of colorful stringy yarn and typical clown face paint appeared in the center ring.<span style=""> </span>They continued the show by telling some risqué jokes, so far so good.<span style=""> </span>I was waiting for some kind of animal act.<span style=""> </span>I knew they did not have an elephant but I saw some goats outside and figured that later on the goats would make an appearance.<span style=""> </span>However, the goats never showed up nor did any animals for that matter.<span style=""> </span>The rest of my much anticipated circus show was made up of….get ready for it because it certainly surprised me….dancing girls wearing thongs and bras.<span style=""> </span>I would never have seen this coming; the audience was made up of a mix of people.<span style=""> </span>Small children with their parents, boyfriends and girlfriends, adult males and females…if this were a dancing girl show, I would have expected a mostly male audience (and absolutely no children).<span style=""> </span>Now to spread the icing on the cake, the dancing girl in the act also happens to be one of my 14-year-old students.<span style=""> </span>So there she was shakin’ it in the center ring song after song after song.<span style=""> </span>Finally, the shaking ended and the ringmaster entered into the center of the performance space.<span style=""> </span>She announced that there would be one more act.<span style=""> </span>All I could think was, “What next?” <span style=""> </span>Bursting out of the side door entered a man dressed as Spiderman doing some kind of spider flip and scurrying to the top an unsteady scaffold, which was rigged with the same fraying rope that held all of our seats together.<span style=""> </span>Good thing I was a lifeguard 6 years ago because my knowledge in first aid might just come in handy when this guy falls and gets seriously messed up.<span style=""> </span>The music started playing and Spiderman began his unsteady walk across the tightrope.<span style=""> </span>“Now for the famous bicycle trick that only a true artist can perform,” announced the ringmaster.<span style=""> </span>Up went a tiny bike without any handle bars, I deducted that the Spiderman was going to attempt to cross the tightrope via bicycle (funny, I don’t remember Peter Parker every doing any bike riding over large buildings).<span style=""> </span>Right then, the clown stopped short, he looked at the bike and called out that he needed a wrench.<span style=""> </span>Up went the wrench.<span style=""> </span>As he stood over the bike banging on it with the wrench, one can only guess in an attempt to fix the bike, he looked a bit trepidations (and quite honestly who wouldn’t be?).<span style=""> </span>The wrench was then thrown to the ground, missing the head of a fellow circus performer by a mere 2 inches.<span style=""> </span>The other performer didn’t even flinch and the show was about to go on.<span style=""> </span>I knew this was a bad idea.<span style=""> </span>No one else seemed to be saying anything.<span style=""> </span>He placed his mini-bike on the rope again to perform the trick and then he looked down and to my surprise decided not to perform the trick.<span style=""> </span>He signaled the ringmaster yet again, and she announced that tonight the trick would not be performed.<span style=""> </span>Thank goodness, because I didn’t feel like seeing Spiderman fall off his mini-bike.<span style=""> </span>That was the end of the show.<span style=""> </span>I don’t think I will be going to another circo, seeing one of my students dancing was quite enough to keep me away.<span style=""> </span>Also, the entire time I was at the circo my stalker, who had followed me to the event, sat across the ring staring at me.<span style=""> </span>Moreover, the chance that the seating area could have collapsed at any moment is a risk I am only willing to take once.<span style=""> </span>However, as always, it was a sight to be seen and an experience to be had.<span style=""> </span><span style=""><br /></span></span></p> <span style="font-weight: bold;">La gente de Malpaisillo</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytdcnJLCLPB5z9hQX-5z43xFGzkdt9ZS04V3am-Tu6dMqBpdFtHEo3kW_sA83ZpDPpEdV0PAiYRM-D92LHJ0FhqWUL9hVWQRSfo9D1MlWIF8x-TnnHdlH0y3rd-yRNKiwJg4p-Cma2nzh/s1600-h/Circo+Time+002.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytdcnJLCLPB5z9hQX-5z43xFGzkdt9ZS04V3am-Tu6dMqBpdFtHEo3kW_sA83ZpDPpEdV0PAiYRM-D92LHJ0FhqWUL9hVWQRSfo9D1MlWIF8x-TnnHdlH0y3rd-yRNKiwJg4p-Cma2nzh/s400/Circo+Time+002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199534705413979362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">My neighbor is a nurse practitioner, although she could be the next pied piper, and this past weekend she decided to hold a party for all the niños (children) in the neighborhood.<span style=""> </span>For the niños this party was not a typical fiesta.<span style=""> </span>Rather it was a dubious way of luring children into a trap, which they could not escape once the realized the true nature of the “fiesta.”<span style=""> </span>I will explain.<span style=""> </span>At 6 am on Sunday, which is normally a peaceful and quite day, I awoke not to the sound of the roosters or even the familiar chime of my alarm clock but instead to a mild earthquake.<span style=""> </span>The walls of my house were vibrating.<span style=""> </span>Was a volcano erupting…what the heck was going on?<span style=""> </span>Should I run for cover under a doorframe?<span style=""> </span>There was no need to run for cover.<span style=""> </span>The earthquake I was experiencing was no natural disaster, because the quaking was in fact emerging out of two 4x6 foot black speakers that rested tentatively on my front stoop.<span style=""> </span>My stoop had morphed into the “DJ’s booth.”<span style=""> </span>Except, this DJ didn’t take requests.<span style=""> </span>Instead, he was playing the popular organ grinding, get down and party, birthday CD.<span style=""> </span>How I dread the ubiquitous birthday remix CD, and even though I spend every morning listening to the CD, thanks to neighbors several houses away, normally I do not have to listen to the CD as my house quakes to the beat.<span style=""> </span>To add to the effect, the DJ would make random announcements between song breaks.<span style=""> </span>At 7:30am the <i style="">bolo </i>(drunk) on the corner even came over to make an announcement (although I couldn’t understand a bumbling word he said).<span style=""> </span>By 7am a balloon tunnel had been built to the left of my front door, so that children and adults could pass underneath it’s ark as they walked into the backyard.<span style=""> </span>So far, the scene was looking very convincing.<span style=""> </span>It was identical to a typical piñata party.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>There were balloons, annoying squeaky music, soda and candy but one very important thing was missing from this scene: a birthday girl/boy.<span style=""> </span>My neighbors do not have any kids…so what was going on?<span style=""> </span>Well, as the children who passed under the golden ark of balloons soon discovered, this was no fiesta, oh no, it was vaccination day!!<span style=""> </span>The music was being played at top volume to drown out the cries of the children in the backyard who had walked unexpectedly into a piñata party ruse.<span style=""> </span>Instead, of taking a few whacks at a Strawberry Shortcake shaped piñata, the children got a shot in the behind.<span style=""> </span>It’s a cruel, cruel world when children are deceived into believing a fiesta will take place and instead receive shots.<span style=""> </span>I have noticed that fewer children frequent my house now, and I believe it is because they no longer trust my neighbor.<span style=""> </span>The “fiesta” of shots ended at 3pm that same day.</span></p> <span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">The curtain of mystery</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMpNzWaUp57CpVbyfJ2apvEtOXzkj22pbsSZw278Jkr2e3r1ZOc1VTKrHpbO76fHsYomIUFjgOdpvSCz8Snh2zLmD-DZ1cgFxrLU5ksXBfdd9K1NMjZsPqiNt8yMuLRb1NDigSq8tW3P55/s1600-h/Circo+Time+004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMpNzWaUp57CpVbyfJ2apvEtOXzkj22pbsSZw278Jkr2e3r1ZOc1VTKrHpbO76fHsYomIUFjgOdpvSCz8Snh2zLmD-DZ1cgFxrLU5ksXBfdd9K1NMjZsPqiNt8yMuLRb1NDigSq8tW3P55/s400/Circo+Time+004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199534709708946674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I just started teaching English classes, because I have had numerous requests.<span style=""> </span>I normally turn down people because they tend to be 20-year-old men who only want “classes” in order to be invited into my house and spend time with me.<span style=""> </span>After weeding through all the requests, I picked out the people that truly want to learn and study.<span style=""> </span>That being said, my first class was a rude awakening for my students, because I informed them that the class would be held ALL in English.<span style=""> </span>This scared and intimidated them at first.<span style=""> </span>They all have a basic background in the English language, as they studied English in school.<span style=""> </span>I told them they should watch TV in English.<span style=""> </span>The popular movie choice for everyone in <i style="">Scarface</i> and for music they enjoy a good Celin Dion classic.<span style=""> </span>We discussed cowboys, and one of my students said, “And what about the cowchildren?”<span style=""> </span>“The cow children,” I responded, “I am not quite sure I understand you.”<span style=""> </span>Well, turns out my students thought cowboy only referred to older male cowboys and therefore the word cowchildren would refer to the kids.<span style=""> </span>I set the record straight, and told them cowboy and cowgirl are all encompassing words and that the word cowchildren does not exist (at least to my knowledge).<span style=""> </span>Another one of my students said, “I eat people.” “What??” I cried.<span style=""> </span>I was a bit taken aback by this comment.<span style=""> </span>Luckily, everyone in my class has a working knowledge of the Hannibal Lector movies, and I explained that eating people would make them a cannibal just like Hannibal Lector.<span style=""> </span>They all understood this and realized that the phrase was missing a key word.<span style=""> </span>My student meant to say, “I eat with people.”<span style=""> </span>Of course, we all make mistakes and other times things are just lost in translation.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">My friends and I sitting in the top bleacher seats</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NsdL0RAc50KdmBLMwxSDFrYWS-FLUhF6UdQuXHY2VJke-2WumcL5Zp4wGmtIXunjB13O42uQvJq7Re7si9-FKrmYzcG1WThaGIZJAjOGbN6DIqB7fsOZKYtd0EtjcdLyWYhR9vvyYjxA/s1600-h/Circo+Time+006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NsdL0RAc50KdmBLMwxSDFrYWS-FLUhF6UdQuXHY2VJke-2WumcL5Zp4wGmtIXunjB13O42uQvJq7Re7si9-FKrmYzcG1WThaGIZJAjOGbN6DIqB7fsOZKYtd0EtjcdLyWYhR9vvyYjxA/s400/Circo+Time+006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199534718298881282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";" lang="EN-US">No it’s no Idaho potato, mainly because it is not from Idaho and well, it’s no spud.<span style=""> </span>But quite frankly, I have tired of eating rice and beans, day in and day out, and so yesterday I sought to expand my horizons while not emptying my wallet.<span style=""> </span>I went to my local market and there it was in all its glory: Yucca (although when I order yucca I prefer to point to it because the word yucca is also a slang word for a certain part of the male anatomy).<span style=""> </span>Sitting in a large straw basket on the side of the curb, with pigs and street dogs sniffing around but not bothering to even take a nibble; lay pounds and pounds of yucca.<span style=""> </span>Well, the animals may not find it worthy of their sophisticated pallet, but gosh darn it I was hungry and I thought I would go for it.<span style=""> </span>I told my local yucca vendor that I just wanted a little bit…she repeated, “Just a few cords then” and I said that would be fine.<span style=""> </span>Two seconds later, I see her piling a ton of yucca into an unmarked thin black plastic bag, which would undoubtedly break on my way home from the market due to the heavy weight of its contents.<span style=""> </span>For what looked and felt like, at least, a few pounds of yucca, I only forked over 2 cords…2 CORDS!!<span style=""> </span>Now, that’s a steal of a deal.<span style=""> </span>I double bagged my purchase (with a bag I had brought from home) because I have played this game before.<span style=""> </span>A street vendor fills thin bag too full and then my bag breaks halfway between my house and the market.<span style=""> </span>Inevitably, all of my neighbors find out what occurred and remark what a shame.<span style=""> </span>Then they tell me not to worry.<span style=""> </span>All I have to do is wash the produce that just fell into the black nasty street water and it will edible.<span style=""> </span>That is just asking to get sick; the two-second rule just does not apply when food is dropped into street water.<span style=""> </span>Anyway, I have learned from my past mistakes and sicknesses.<span style=""> </span>Although, I had to make the same mistake about 4 times before I learned to bring another bag to create the sturdy double bag.<span style=""> </span>Therefore, I started towards my house, hungry as could be, lunch approaching quickly, ready to throw that yucca into a boiling pot of water.<span style=""> </span>Well, here’s another lesson learned, turns out yucca takes a good 30 to 60 minutes to cook through until it becomes soft and edible.<span style=""> </span>My patience was tested, I was on the brink of just eating the yucca half cooked (but realized this was not a viable solution).<span style=""> </span>So I waited it out.<span style=""> </span>Finally, the yucca was ready!<span style=""> </span>I served it up with some <i style="">lentjas </i>(lentals)<i style=""> </i>and veggies and wada ya know, I had a <i style="">guiso</i> (stew), I devoured the sweet yucca goodness and determinedly decided that next time I wanted to cook yucca, I would be more prepared.<span style=""> </span>The next day, I had a hankering for some more yucca, just like eating Pringles, “once you pop you just can’t stop”.<span style=""> </span>However, I didn’t feel like waiting a full 30 to 60 minutes for the yucca to cook.<span style=""> </span>I opted to go to the pre-cooked yucca vendor in town.<span style=""> </span>Now, I had never purchased solely yucca from this woman, usually I buy the soup, only 25 cords, and the yucca comes in the soup.<span style=""> </span>However, the yucca is cooked in a separate batch and is added to the soup mix after the soup is ordered. <span style=""> </span>I just figured that I could purchase the yucca <i style="">sin sopa </i>(without soup).<span style=""> </span>Turns out, that was a no go.<span style=""> </span>Her voice echoed out, “No,” and an image of Seinfeld’s“soup Nazi” flashed into my head. <span style=""> </span>I was refused flat out, “No Yucca for you.”<span style=""> </span>The best pre-cooked yucca (in fact the ONLY pre-cooked yucca in town) and she wouldn’t sell it to me.<span style=""> </span>I tried to reason, I said, “I will pay the same price I would pay for a bowl of soup.”<span style=""> </span>However, with my bad Spanish I probably more likely sounded more like a caveman and said something that more closely resembles, “Soup good, uh yucca better, pay soup, give me yucca.” <span style=""> </span>With my keen business sense, I tried to further reason with the vendor.<span style=""> </span>I explained, once again using caveman jargon, that she would be making even more money off me because she would actually save soup.<span style=""> </span>I was hoping it would come to papelografo (poster paper), but unfortunately my desperation set in and I whipped out a pre-prepped diagram of cost versus savings to demonstrate my point.<span style=""> </span>Hey, no judgments, I’m a business volunteer and I draw diagrams in my sleep, it’s an innate characteristic (I also wear a pocket protector and carry around a TI-83). <span style=""> </span>But her answer was the same, as she uttered a stout reply, “No.”<span style=""> </span>No… no?? The same in Spanish and English, I understood perfectly, it just wasn’t going to happen and I should just throw in the towel.<span style=""> </span>Faced with defeat, I walked away long faced, sad and whimpering like a puppy.<span style=""> </span>On the verge of ETing (Early Termination from PC), because the soup lady denied me yucca, I was ready to pack my bags and jump the next flight out.<span style=""> </span>Instead of leaving, I decided to opt for the second best option: <i style="">Gallo Pinto </i>(rice and beans).<span style=""> </span>Yes, I walked down the block and bought myself some pre-cooked <i style="">gallo pinto</i> and ate it while wallowing in my own misery and sorrow. My tears of sadness served to salt my cuisine because I had failed to buy <i style="">queso</i> (a mistake I have only made once) in all this commotion and distraught.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">Spiderman and clown preforming acts that defy death </span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvah0btQTGRKfIds7l4dykkJov3Dq17rJUIpgu_nkZqCB9WNQykAk7gAFCUCHixfoUn7cJlWU-VTEb5rqsXVmSGNIunTjT8ngWRQPwkk8VPYTIfQbjmd94G4HuUYSmS66e355yelC-qUjO/s1600-h/Circo+Time+008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvah0btQTGRKfIds7l4dykkJov3Dq17rJUIpgu_nkZqCB9WNQykAk7gAFCUCHixfoUn7cJlWU-VTEb5rqsXVmSGNIunTjT8ngWRQPwkk8VPYTIfQbjmd94G4HuUYSmS66e355yelC-qUjO/s400/Circo+Time+008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199534722593848594" border="0" /></a>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-10102252155501551652008-04-16T17:59:00.000-05:002008-04-16T18:15:40.993-05:00It’s fieldtrip time: 1 bus, 60 Nicaraguans, snacks, and Transporter 1 and 2 (why wouldn’t I go?)<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I must admit it has been getting increasingly hotter in Nicaragua, but yesterday I saw something that really made me think I must be living in an oven (which is what the local people call, Leon, the part of Nicaragua that I am living in).<span style=""> </span>I got on a bus headed up North and sat down somewhere in the middle, to the right of me was a man carrying two live chickens in a bag.<span style=""> </span>In front of me sat a mom trying to control her 3 kids and behind me sat a man in a cowboy hat.<span style=""> </span>For the first time in a long while the bus wasn’t packed full had we all had our own seats, it was quite pleasant.<span style=""> </span>As I was looking around observing, I noticed something rather odd, the bus driver and his helper were wearing oven mitts.<span style=""> </span>Now to my knowledge we weren’t planning to bake a cake and Betty Crocker wasn’t anywhere in sight…so why the mitts?<span style=""> </span>Apparently, the steering wheel to the bus, made of shiny metal, attracted the sun’s rays and thusly heated up to temperatures that warranted an oven mitt to be worn.<span style=""> </span>Quick note, all of my fellow passengers were just as shocked as I was that two grown men were wearing oven mitts…all they were missing was an apron!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">My bat problem is back…now I think I have a whole family making a nest in the rafters of my roof, but a new friend has joined the gang: a giant rat.<span style=""> </span>The rat skitters across my roof and it is the size of a cat too bad it’s a rat and not a cat.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The classroom scene, at times, is really a sight to behold.<span style=""> </span>It reminds me of the crazy hyperactive monkeys caged at the zoo mixed with a jailbreak scene from the movies.<span style=""> </span>In the U.S., the worst classroom was simply a noisy classroom but here I have to be a firefighter, referee and teacher all rolled into one.<span style=""> </span>In the past, I have seen fires started, flame balls thrown, kids standing on desks, kids throwing desks, kids throwing large objects, and finally kids tossing kids.<span style=""> </span>However, usually I can handle it.<span style=""> </span>Last week, I reached my breaking point and for the first time since I started teaching, I completely lost control of a class and I had to walk out mid-class instead of teaching.<span style=""> </span>My counterpart was of no help because she was just yelling over all the kids who were also yelling.<span style=""> </span>She kept shouting, “You are losing points, minus 10 points from your grade.”<span style=""> </span>The only problem is that they are empty threats because all the students will pass.<span style=""> </span>Therefore, the kids do not care about their grades!<span style=""> </span>Threatening to lower a grade is not a motivating factor. <span style=""> </span>The class culminated with a mini-fight breaking out between students. That is when I threw in the towel and gave up.<span style=""> </span>I assigned homework and just walked out.<span style=""> </span>I hope that next week will be better.</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">El Rosario, where trash is turned into treasure...aka compost piles help </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-weight: bold;" lang="EN-US">cultivate </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> plants</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwU-3p4wbzSczSA_Wvy64k-THlqlha8vcbT1sFN5Az5vNG4_UKeXCiM7THgAhyt-uV1gjQ20ahdIlsiZudRLowf0EvqQogxi34Ah_QgTV_YV6d7qU1AOxbpqaJKN9hzLY1cCJiF4udEhJT/s1600-h/El+Rosario+005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwU-3p4wbzSczSA_Wvy64k-THlqlha8vcbT1sFN5Az5vNG4_UKeXCiM7THgAhyt-uV1gjQ20ahdIlsiZudRLowf0EvqQogxi34Ah_QgTV_YV6d7qU1AOxbpqaJKN9hzLY1cCJiF4udEhJT/s400/El+Rosario+005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189984029322923954" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I came to the turn off, a long dusty dirty road, which leads out to one of my school.<span style=""> </span>Normally, I traverse the road alone, which I enjoy doing.<span style=""> </span>Occasionally, there is a 30-year-old guy that sells lottery who will wait for me to ride into town so that he can ride in with me asking me question after question.<span style=""> </span>I try to avoid this man at all costs, as I find his haranguing annoying and I am sick of telling him, “No I do not want to date you.”<span style=""> </span>Yesterday, was an unlucky day because my bike broke, giving him just enough time to catch up to me.<span style=""> </span>He started with his usual bout of questions about sports teams (that I have never heard of) and as usual he moved onto his dream to live in the U.S. with me.<span style=""> </span>Then he started talking about something weird, he wanted to know about the vitamin water that the USA allegedly provides to all of its citizens.<span style=""> </span>Apparently, the water dripping from U.S. faucets is rich in all sorts of vitamins, which help us to become stronger, taller, and faster (sounds a bit to me like <u>Brave New World</u>).<span style=""> </span>This guy wasn’t talking fiction, he was dead serious. <span style=""> </span>He really thought that the U.S. had this “vitamin water.”<span style=""> </span>I set the record straight (I think?) and told him that vitamin water didn’t exist, which sadden him just a little.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> More pics from my fieldtrip to El Rosario. This picture shows the actual compost pile.</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjNyk0_90fnpqCti2EMxTXxxUswmwrR6A9AXX-3aNNO_Fagprr89BYWyaVk5LM5GkYFHQncWL8Xv3xUB6Jf9a4WO3bYhrx988S9hp2rtPVIK_EldtSKDZ9NmoZJ-G0EjfW2KGdf4SNBWO/s1600-h/El+Rosario+013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjNyk0_90fnpqCti2EMxTXxxUswmwrR6A9AXX-3aNNO_Fagprr89BYWyaVk5LM5GkYFHQncWL8Xv3xUB6Jf9a4WO3bYhrx988S9hp2rtPVIK_EldtSKDZ9NmoZJ-G0EjfW2KGdf4SNBWO/s400/El+Rosario+013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189984042207825858" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It has been a good 15 years since I last took a fieldtrip, but a few weeks ago, I was able to experience the pleasantness of sitting on a bus full of passengers ready to go somewhere to see and do something!<span style=""> </span>The first question I was asked when I sat next to my bus buddy was, “Where are we going?”<span style=""> </span>I responded, “El Rosario, why where are you going?”<span style=""> </span>She replied, “I’m just going where everyone else is going.”<span style=""> </span>I told her, “Well then it looks like you are going to El Rosario.”<span style=""> </span>This didn’t seem to disparage her in the least and she handed me a bag full of potato chips, which I gladly accepted and ate.<span style=""> </span>However, there was a rhyme and reason for this fieldtrip.<span style=""> </span>My town was going to another town (4 hours away) to observe their method for recycling garbage.<span style=""> </span>My town has a trash pick-up service, but the service only collects everyone’s trash and then burns the trash in one big collective pile, versus individuals burning their own trash in their own individual piles.<span style=""> </span>Therefore, this fieldtrip was an important step in getting the town’s people to see how composting trash is not only better for the environment, but can be turned into an actual business by selling the composted soil and plants. <span style=""> </span>All of this was just fine and well but the trip to get to this other town was a trip I would rather not take daily (or even weekly for that matter).<span style=""> </span>People were eager to go at 6am; each bus passenger ate a heaping plate of gallo pinto, queso, tortilla, crema and jugo for breakfast (and now I understood why my bus buddy had hopped on the fieldtrip bus).<span style=""> </span>Next, there was a 4-hour ride to the town.<span style=""> </span>We arrived to find that there were only two bathrooms available to 60 people (and oh yeah the water wasn’t working…do the math).<span style=""> </span>We made it to the recycling plant and received 2 hours of interesting information, but it also happened to coincide with lunchtime.<span style=""> </span>People were getting antsy and hungry.<span style=""> </span>We all got back onto the bus and arrived at local restaurant for another huge meal of meat, rice, salad and fresco.<span style=""> </span>Finally, the trip was ending and we were gearing up to drive back to our town in the big yellow school bus.<span style=""> </span>One problem, the bus stopped working.<span style=""> </span>We were served snacks and told to wait a few hours, while the bus was being repaired.<span style=""> </span>Eventually, the bus was fixed and a fresh DVD was popped into the television, which was firmly welded into the front of the school bus.<span style=""> </span>However, not everyone could agree on what to watch. What a conundrum. <span style=""> </span>Half the bus wanted to watch Transporter 1 and 2 (that was my vote as well), while the other half of the bus wanted to watch soap operas (boring).<span style=""> </span>It was a sticky situation but luckily Transporter 1 and 2 won out (thank goodness).<span style=""> </span>My bus ride home involved watching a action packed movies, while the woman sitting next to me spit on the floor continuously while yelling loudly to her friends who sat a few seats away.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>With my feet surrounded by puddles of spittle and my mind deteriorating slowly from watching too many action movies back to back, we made it back into town at 8pm a mere 14 hours after we departed.<span style=""> </span>It was a whirlwind day filled of valuable information for all.<span style=""> </span>I left the bus feeling a little more informed as I took a sip from my jugo de manzana and a bite out of my sugar-coated piko.<span style=""> </span>What a field trip, and I must say that it made me reminisce on the fieldtrips of my childhood (minus the gallo pinto).</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> More composting fun...</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWMUQfZRYtx-55kgWaknPTGZk25-puerkZQX2NW640aKjkauvKoY-0_7dJvZ6wsStSMifB6H3Yg0fnutnbYoLCdsrjaNJxZ_Rl0Eqq70W2IpnBEnQ5HQ2b6hlnx-MdODSdh75zno6hFrU/s1600-h/El+Rosario+016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWMUQfZRYtx-55kgWaknPTGZk25-puerkZQX2NW640aKjkauvKoY-0_7dJvZ6wsStSMifB6H3Yg0fnutnbYoLCdsrjaNJxZ_Rl0Eqq70W2IpnBEnQ5HQ2b6hlnx-MdODSdh75zno6hFrU/s400/El+Rosario+016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189984046502793170" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The door-to-door salesman is alive and thriving.<span style=""> </span>I remember hearing stories and even recall seeing old movies with door-to-door salesmen peddling their goods.<span style=""> </span>However, where I grew up I was never solicited by a door-to-door salesman, sure the occasional girl scout would stop by and even charity organizations but never a true blue salesman (which was probably due to the anti-solicitation rules in my neighborhood).<span style=""> </span>In Nicaragua, the salesman still exists and he stops by my house at least once a week (although other vendors stop by everyday).<span style=""> </span>Today a man with a giant duffle bag stopped by my house trying to sell me every single item in the bad.<span style=""> </span>It started with sheets, then towels, moving onto shampoo and creams, window curtains, dishes...<span style=""> </span>It reminded me of Mary Poppins’ bottomless pit of a bag that she carried filled with floor lamps and other home furnishings.<span style=""> </span>This salesperson had everything.<span style=""> </span>He also said that I didn’t even have to pay for everything upfront that I could buy things on credit.<span style=""> </span>I listened to his spiel and then politely declined.<span style=""> </span>This guy was on a roll and he would not take no for an answer (and what salesman will?).<span style=""> </span>He asked what I would buy that he could bring with him the following week!<span style=""> </span>I replied that I couldn’t think of anything that I needed.<span style=""> </span>With all the street vendors selling things, I don’t ever really have to leave my house (but I choose not to be a hermit and thus leave my house daily).<span style=""> </span>Anoche (last night) I did purchase some lemon-scented floor cleaner from a man, which came in handy. <span style=""> </span>Basically, I never know what products are going to pass by my front door…it’s like the home shopping network, except I don’t have to call up and order.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Plants being grown at El Rosario...</span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuegiaweRcsX_d_umyvPq6CqJ6H7dbIPtHM1P7-j6_G0sMhNcoVYOK8j-csfUB0-Yk9I8iU_pM4IaKPNunVVO5nYKMaPUMbr1ax7IRwkmaJpWyTVF6OqfuRu4Vp-9CP10lZaE7MhAIkfZP/s1600-h/El+Rosario+022.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuegiaweRcsX_d_umyvPq6CqJ6H7dbIPtHM1P7-j6_G0sMhNcoVYOK8j-csfUB0-Yk9I8iU_pM4IaKPNunVVO5nYKMaPUMbr1ax7IRwkmaJpWyTVF6OqfuRu4Vp-9CP10lZaE7MhAIkfZP/s400/El+Rosario+022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189984055092727778" border="0" /></a>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-49941517233587721042008-03-29T12:09:00.000-05:002008-03-29T12:48:55.061-05:00Apparently Even Jesus had Bad Hair Days<div align="left"><strong>¿Que Pasa?</strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><strong>Scooby dobby doo where are you?</strong> Everyone loves that goofy dog (not to be confused with Goofy that other lovable cartoon dog…who to my knowledge does not fight ghosts, which is what distinctly differentiates the two characters). I have a plethora of Scooby Doo stickers, depicting Scooby fighting all sorts of ghouls and ghosts. When I grade papers, the best papers get a Scooby sticker and then those chosen students also get to read their papers in front of the class. It actually works pretty well because the sticker gives them a confidence boost…go Scooby!</div><div align="left"><br /><strong>The perils of cow patties: </strong>Following directly behind a cow herd is dangerous business, word to the wise: look down, not up! Cow paddies are not fun to step in…that is the last time I forget to watch where I walk.</div><div align="left"><br /><strong>Just buy a tire gage:</strong> This has happened numerous times to me…I board a micro bus and the driver gets out of the front of the vehicle to walk 360˚ degrees around the car…kicking each tire as he passes by…what is he doing? Well, he is checking the tire pressure before he sets off onto the road with 30 lives. </div><div align="left"><br /><strong>A reoccurring problem:</strong> When I walk around town, ride my bike around town, or if am just plain out in public chances are I will always be passed by a man on a motorcycle. Now this isn’t such a big deal, except in a machismo society the men always have to shout something in my direction, whether it’s a whistle, or a long drawn out Cheeeeeeelita…doesn’t matter…the fact is they cannot let me pass without commenting. But motorcycle men seem to have a little trouble multi-tasking because 6 out of 10 times, they will be yelling something in my direction and forget that they are driving…and then they stall out! One minute they are yelling at me and the next minute they are stuck in the middle of the street going nowhere because they stalled their vehicle!</div><div align="center"><strong>Another saint being carried through the streets</strong> </div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCktuwlZUKoJcZZsbDp5sllEhqWlZqJ0OWcpt_lD-5d16kISHzkS-AFgUi6B_I40g0uO8TumJaxixZ6xBa5K8k6nZrH5Zh12jM_MflZ7bXzUpVY3-_DaH6u3FqWAj01eLUacdaqQEUcxCS/s1600-h/semana+santa+015.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183217343829560402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCktuwlZUKoJcZZsbDp5sllEhqWlZqJ0OWcpt_lD-5d16kISHzkS-AFgUi6B_I40g0uO8TumJaxixZ6xBa5K8k6nZrH5Zh12jM_MflZ7bXzUpVY3-_DaH6u3FqWAj01eLUacdaqQEUcxCS/s400/semana+santa+015.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong>Jesus having a bad hair day. When I have a bad hair day I wear a hat...just a suggestion, Jesus.</strong><br /></div><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDth34IE952-Mhua8BYqVH_4L2IevnP_F9KE_WtJzTI6qIkpgsz9Q5DARVnhoXBMCTNDhKbyH0s0YUdX1i0p0UhdkJewP4QkGkHs1oYxNl9uvUaGeWw2tRMObDDcZsMANavzxyFsWLmjuI/s1600-h/semana+santa+012.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183216029569567810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDth34IE952-Mhua8BYqVH_4L2IevnP_F9KE_WtJzTI6qIkpgsz9Q5DARVnhoXBMCTNDhKbyH0s0YUdX1i0p0UhdkJewP4QkGkHs1oYxNl9uvUaGeWw2tRMObDDcZsMANavzxyFsWLmjuI/s400/semana+santa+012.JPG" border="0" /></a><strong>1 kilometro (most aptly named for reasons which I will elaborate on):</strong> I attended yet another wake. This time, however, I did know it was a wake. Therefore, I ask an essential question: How long are we going to be at the wake? The response: “Only a few hours.” Ok, I thought I could deal with a few hours, no big deal, right? Wrong. Well, I neglected to ask another important question: How far away/where is the wake located? If I had asked this question ahead of time, I most defiantly would not have attended but because I forgot to ask this question I got sucked into one wild ride. I got into a small, low ridding compact car (this time I didn’t have to sit on anyone’s lap, which was a plus). We started driving down the highway, so far so good, and then I realized that the driver and all the passengers did not know where the wake was located. So we pulled over, but everyone was too shy to ask for directions. Then they decided to call a relative of the dearly departed, to ask for directions, well this proved futile as well because the person they called was too distraught to accurately explain where the house was located. So we proceeded forward based on an assumption that the house was located by a “bridge.” Now, I suppose this wouldn’t be too bad if there weren’t about a half a dozen bridges located along the highway. So like the ball in a pinball machine, we bounced back and forth between two bridges, we would reach 1 bridge, look around for some kind of “turn-off” and then pull a u-turn on the highway to proceed to the previous bridge (that we had already visited). This went on for the good part of an hour, back and forth, another u-turn, another u-turn, back and forth. By this time, I knew that I should never have agreed to come, and that it was going to be a loooooonnnnnnnnggggggggg night (not to mention I had to bike about 30k at 7am the next morning). FINALLY, we found the turn off, only to realize that the vehicle we were in was not going to be able to off-road the bumpy, rocky road. “But don’t worry Brie,” that’s what the family told me followed by,” It’s only 1 kilometro”…so the car can make it…right? Wrong again. We started off on the “side road” bottoming out the car over and over again (my face cringing at the sound of metal coming into contact with hard stone). About 30 minutes into this off road’in experience everyone realized that it is a lot further then 1 kilometro. So the driver parked the car at a finca (farm), and we all started to walk, because they didn’t want to damage the car further. After a 20 minute walk, we arrived just in time to hear the screams of a pig being killed and mangos falling from a massive tree onto the unsuspecting heads of mourners below. “Is this some kind of sign?...Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” I thought. But the fact was, I had finally arrived and I wasn’t going to be able to leave for at least a few hours. So we un-stacked our white plastic chairs, took a cup of instant coffee that is a customary offering at wakes, along with a piece of white bread (also customary). And we sat down to join the other 70 mourners, who were all gossiping, laughing, crying, and hitting upon every emotion in-between. Fast forward 30 minutes and all of a sudden a person walked by me holding a pig’s head, about four inches from my right arm. My stomach turned, I shouldn’t have had that instant coffee. But it was too late, and I had to avert my eyes away quickly. Luckily, on the other side of me a bucket full of pig parts was passing by…I was surrounded. Around midnight we made that trek back to the car, it was now pitch black, the blackness encompassed us, and the stars shone bright overhead. We had one flash light and we walked carefully down the steep path…I was in front of the group trying to pick up the pace (keep going everyone!). Then my friend, who I was walking with elbow to elbow, lets out a shriek, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. I shone the flashlight in the direction of the movement, and there was a poor little iguana (more frightened of us I am sure) and I think to myself, RUN little guy or you will most surely be caught and eaten in a soup. My friend started screaming even louder, and as I tried to quite her down the iguana escaped into the trees. We found the car where we left it, got back in, bottomed out a few more times, made it onto the highway, and drove home.<br /><div align="center"><strong>Another sawdust painting in the streets</strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDmuR2wjvCJUzxWvJXFVpDKq-jIQBmxzzaPKzN99J-2v7jyT93LrGulLfa4G99GYMoajjUyUTjTj_ro69C5wRy_dp1P1Cu3RW5rnynHU1MDyYOrOm1IMxNvJiVFQTN7UjqwwzxXBElV9P/s1600-h/semana+santa+008.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183214844158594098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDmuR2wjvCJUzxWvJXFVpDKq-jIQBmxzzaPKzN99J-2v7jyT93LrGulLfa4G99GYMoajjUyUTjTj_ro69C5wRy_dp1P1Cu3RW5rnynHU1MDyYOrOm1IMxNvJiVFQTN7UjqwwzxXBElV9P/s200/semana+santa+008.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div align="center"></div><div align="left"><strong>Quick bike story:</strong> I was out exercising on my bike, when the chain fell off…no problem….I have a lot of practice fixing my bike, so I flipped that puppy over and started to fix’er up. Well, a group of people on bikes came along and saw me…and took pity. They asked if I need helped, and I said nope, I am just fine. Well, they didn’t believe me…sadly. Because the next thing I know, the leader of the group had taken out his machete and asked me to move aside (I complied immediately…I don’t mess with machetes). The man started to machete my bike chain. In my head I was screaming: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! NO NO NO NO…don’t take a machete to my bike it has been through enough trauma. But he kept going (I felt like crying but the tears just weren’t coming). He “fixed” my bike aka did a lot more harm than good…but his intentions were good. Then the group insisted I ride back into town because they didn’t trust that my bike would stay “fixed” (and I thought it would probably completely fall apart at any minute due to the machete incident). So there I was riding up hills and pedaling on flat road in the easiest gear (my legs spinning out of control) riding back into town. I guess in the end I did get my exercise, but now my poor bike is really bent out of shape. </div><div align="center"><br /><strong>El Flaco translates <span style="color:#000000;">into: thin, skinny, scrawny...Hog Dot translates into: ?? </span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong>Don´t worry, I didn´t purchase a Hog Dot</strong><br /></div><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4lApb6DGBNKlSH2kpYWHUrpgzohzYiPopj1wZhCsqQq6Hpo08YupuzfQE8TwU8_eF3SYSLDPDtrGZnqXRl17x11At2TMQKNMn2pz2KeC2yvJRLxs3-RX3jrlUDxggiDVDWqSv86eIAbC/s1600-h/semana+santa+006.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183213955100363810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4lApb6DGBNKlSH2kpYWHUrpgzohzYiPopj1wZhCsqQq6Hpo08YupuzfQE8TwU8_eF3SYSLDPDtrGZnqXRl17x11At2TMQKNMn2pz2KeC2yvJRLxs3-RX3jrlUDxggiDVDWqSv86eIAbC/s400/semana+santa+006.JPG" border="0" /></a> I attended Semana Santa (Holy Week) this past week…and well here is a brief synopsis (followed by some pictures): On Good Friday, I went to a barrio in la cuidad de León (the city of Leon) where people assembled sawdust paintings in the street (all depicting various religious scenes). There were food vendors lining the streets selling chicken tacos, carne, and fresco. The paintings were brilliant colors and stood out strongly against the blacktop background. Everyone assembled into two lines and walked nearby the edges of the different paintings, taking photos and observing the various scenes. The paintings stretched for blocks and blocks. After everyone had viewed the painting they were stomped out by a precession holding candles and life-size saint statues. Mixed in with the saint statues was none other than Jesus, who had a day glow shine to his face and a women’s brown curly wig adorning is head. I observed that the saints and Jesus were being slowly rocked or swayed back and forth by the groups of teenagers carrying each statue. I thought this was strange and concluded that the statues must be rather heavy and this smooth motion made it easier for carrying the statues. However, this theory was stomped out when I heard a strange sound emanating from the back of the procession. It was a roaring sound, like a motor of a car. I looked over the heads of the montón de gente (a lot of people) and realized that coming up in the rear was a generator. I proceeded to look a little more closely at Jesus and his companions, and realized that underneath their separate pedestals ran meters and meters of extension cords, which all eventually ran into the generator. Therefore, the swaying motion was also an effort to keep the wires securely attached…to give the saints their saintly glow. As for Jesus’ wig, I would recommend they put a hat on him for next year’s parade.<br /></div><div align="center"><br /><strong>Yes, those are actual children and not mechanical dolls</strong></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPLUgxpfx-5HmcIfpJZzNN6YykIuM-Bk_aaQ7LS-iC0zMiIwi-XELceEdg7x3cy7wk3a5wmIHqIC4miOP5VhyphenhyphenIQmxj1O5uCwz8dDexIA0TrVXNTBVB8AnTd6Bpe0X3w_jX_7OKAytjathr/s1600-h/semana+santa+005.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183213323740171282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPLUgxpfx-5HmcIfpJZzNN6YykIuM-Bk_aaQ7LS-iC0zMiIwi-XELceEdg7x3cy7wk3a5wmIHqIC4miOP5VhyphenhyphenIQmxj1O5uCwz8dDexIA0TrVXNTBVB8AnTd6Bpe0X3w_jX_7OKAytjathr/s400/semana+santa+005.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>Sawdust painting that I felt was very whimsical</strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gfGimkQ2oT7oycWWKr79MsaZ4NltDgQbkSuqidhfuf1i7Xd9i18EL14d1icWc-P1qftT_25y5VhmlKb1HwHYM656QyVe-ncegDgYYH8GS2xLlOb6QL32nJxwvr061B7nvClQLs_NK7PZ/s1600-h/semana+santa+001.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5183212658020240386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gfGimkQ2oT7oycWWKr79MsaZ4NltDgQbkSuqidhfuf1i7Xd9i18EL14d1icWc-P1qftT_25y5VhmlKb1HwHYM656QyVe-ncegDgYYH8GS2xLlOb6QL32nJxwvr061B7nvClQLs_NK7PZ/s400/semana+santa+001.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-54659795622801438162008-03-10T16:47:00.000-05:002008-03-14T11:15:46.965-05:00Wakes: Not fun on any end (either you’re dead or you’re dying to leave)<div align="center"><strong>¿Que Pasa?</strong></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="left"><strong></strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong></div><div align="left"><strong>SShhhhhhhhhhh:</strong> Lately, I find myself in hiding from unwanted visitors aka creepy guys. They will yell into my house “Americana, Americana, Americana” and I will remain silent. </div><div align="left"><br /><strong>El dia de la mujer:</strong> I was awakened at 4am this morning to celebrate “Day of the Woman.” Now, if they really wanted to pay homage to the mujer (woman), they should let her sleep-in instead of waking her up at 4 with an annoying message of: “Attention, Attention, Much Attention: Happy Day of the Woman.” This is the message I heard blasting out of 4 large stereo speakers piled high in the back of a pickup truck that was playing and replaying the message up and down the streets (and I must reiterate at 4 IN THE MORNING).</div><div align="left"><br /><strong>More pancakes please:</strong> People just love pancakes! I had a pancake party last weekend and another one this morning. My neighbors are even talking about potentially selling pancakes in the central market (don’t worry, it won’t really happen).<br />The power of the cell phone: I see a lot of expensive cell phones around town, which always surprises me. Anyway, people own the MP3-player-cell-phone-combo, and insist on playing their music out of their cell phones so that everyone can hear. I question, why make everyone on the bus listen to music from really bad cell phone speakers…just buy some headphones…please!</div><div align="left"><br /><strong>My bike is the source of joy and pain:</strong> Because, while it enables me to get around town quickly it also breaks down a whole heck of a lot. And of course, last Wednesday was no different. My bike broke in the middle of no-man’s-land and I was forced to walk at high noon. I felt like Laurence, from Laurence of Arabia, walking through the desert wasteland (of course, minus the make-up that he wears in the movie…and why is he wearing mascara in the desert anyway?). The sun beat down hard and the air was thick with heat. I went through 2 nalgene bottles worth of water within an hour’s time. I finally arrived at a village where a kid named Nelson helped me repair my bike. Then I road on and taught class.</div><div align="left"><br /><strong>Making a quick getaway:</strong> I went out for a bike ride to get some exercise/escape, and was joined by a group of people. They were asking me all sorts of questions about American baseball teams (and I don’t know anything about baseball). So the conversation went like this, “Do you know where the “insert baseball team name here” are from?” My reply, “Nope.” This conversation went on for about 12k or mas o menos una hora (or more or less 1 hour). </div><div align="left"><strong><br />Mini conversation excerpt:</strong> “My name is Carlos, you know that is Charlie in English” “Hey what is your name in Spanish?” “What do you mean; Brie doesn’t have a Spanish equivalent?” “My sister’s name is Darling, what is that in English” “Hey speak some English”…….My response (in English) “Hey”<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><strong>In search of Brigs Jhonson</strong> <strong>(even the spell checker on my computer recognizes this spelling of my name as incorrect and therefore has accordingly underlined it in red squiggly line):</strong> I believe it was Shakespeare that said “that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” But I feel it’s rather apparent that Shakespeare never tried to assimilate into a new culture, learn a new language and simultaneously live with the pseudo name Brigs. What’s in a name? A lot. Maybe I could suggest that the local folk start calling me Lolita (but this opens a whole other Pandora ’s Box). So for now, and for the remainder of my service, I will be known as Brigs. </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Running down the side of cerro negro</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizcZHjbdnrG7AQOSviVCsYCBfD4oaPBc1qyU9SWLG_2iEZbc-tYkgDoqYH-KyIeF8q35L-rpAro9GL0Oq4HhX4QatZcjxNnl7_qeh2sL190QRYkuOOJzsYIjQ83YAUY075TPs2fy0W3Utu/s1600-h/Running+down+volcan.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176236402161792850" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizcZHjbdnrG7AQOSviVCsYCBfD4oaPBc1qyU9SWLG_2iEZbc-tYkgDoqYH-KyIeF8q35L-rpAro9GL0Oq4HhX4QatZcjxNnl7_qeh2sL190QRYkuOOJzsYIjQ83YAUY075TPs2fy0W3Utu/s400/Running+down+volcan.JPG" border="0" /></a>Well I guess there is a first time for everything, and I should have seen this one coming, but I didn’t. So what happened exactly? I went on a date, not knowing it was a “date.” In fact, I thought I was going dancing with a big group of people, but it seems like they had something else in mind. I ended up, awkwardly, going to a local restaurant with only 1 other person…”my date?” Of course, my students work at this local restaurant, and therefore within 2 minutes it was all around town…that I was out with this guy who lives down the street from my house. Now, 10 minutes into the impromptu date, the guy asked if I would be his girlfriend…this is a guy I JUST met…heck, I don’t even know his last 4 names yet . Then I quickly learned that he had been stalking me. That’s right, he starts talking about the time when I was riding on my bike with this person or that person…it seemed like he had been watching me for some time (from afar)…which I suppose isn’t that hard to do because I do stick out. Well, I put up with his questions …then…we went to the local dance club (aka outdoor cement covered courtyard and pronounced “CLOOB,” also rhymes with boob). Finally, we met up with the rest of the group (the same group that ditched me earlier). We danced the night away and of course I was caught on camera doing some kind of gawky robot/trance dance. The disco was then shut down early due to “lena” or fighting (turns out some guy was caught looking at someone else’s girlfriend and so that guy had to punch the first guy to defend his girlfriends honor…or something like that). Oh yeah, I told the guy I couldn’t be his girlfriend because I don’t know him well enough…but I am thinking it’s about time the American “boyfriend” comes back into the picture…otherwise things just seem to get too hectic.<br /><br />Ever stand in line at the ATM for 1 hour and 30 minutes? I have. It’s not too fun. What causes such a line at the ATM…well, it’s a combo of things: first, people don’t know how to use an ATM quickly (because they are not familiar with the technology), also the ATMs run out of money, which forces everyone to wait for a money refill. I was on my last 10 cords…aka 50 cents…so I needed some cash fast, and therefore I was forced to wait in an insanely long line.<br /><br />On the bus again (the story of my life), some guy sat next to me and insisted on reading over my shoulder. I had my book out and was enjoying passing the time reading until the man next to me started reading random English words that were printed on the page. He said such things as, “Fish, Man, Mountain, Dog.” He couldn’t read a complete sentence but had no problem reading single words. I tried to reposition my book, so that he couldn’t read out loud from it, but I finally just gave up and decided to take a nap instead. That didn’t detour him at all because the “Hot Stuff” song came on and in a high off pitched tenor…he decided to sing to me…and all I thought was: GET ME OFF THIS BUS!<br /><br /><div align="center">Proof that my students call me Brigs...<br /></div><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKyJRk-Oa1SC37nMqdh_Umx1ujCXsRzP18PKGv9ozppVWKVvmJWiDO1RM7ygCQ-vFqXf6cHi8qZM29yDGQCKShDi684DI3HgPshC4tidrMK1aFOUwHkT-WR7je4ibwiVpopywMOee6ycy/s1600-h/Brigs+Jhonson+002.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176234194548602674" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKyJRk-Oa1SC37nMqdh_Umx1ujCXsRzP18PKGv9ozppVWKVvmJWiDO1RM7ygCQ-vFqXf6cHi8qZM29yDGQCKShDi684DI3HgPshC4tidrMK1aFOUwHkT-WR7je4ibwiVpopywMOee6ycy/s320/Brigs+Jhonson+002.JPG" border="0" /></a>Last night I learned a valuable lesson…always ask “how long is this going to last” (and always remember Nicaragua has different traditions and customs). I got myself roped into a commitment. The commitment in question: I agreed to go pay my respects to the dearly departed grandmother of one of my friends. We (my neighbors and I) were all going to leave around 7pm as a group. I didn’t question how long we were going to be, because I thought that might be rude (Mistake numbero uno, I should have asked). I was sitting in the back of a low riding Toyota pick-up, dust kicked up all around us, rolling through mud, over rocks, through rivers…and finally we arrived. That’s when I realized something was amiss; because people were all seated in white plastic chairs outside of the departed’s house…it was a wake. A WAKE! That meant we weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. These people had been sitting in their chairs for hours and I was soon to join them. I walk into a small room jammed with chairs and people sipping coffee (coffee at 8pm…that was another sign I was going to be hanging out for a while). Then in a corner, I spot grandma, she is laid out in a coffin, and our group decides to sit 3 feet away. What, I would think, should be a solemn moment of commemoration turned into an all out gossip fest…here are a few excerpts from the conversation throughout the night:</div><div align="center"><br /><strong>“Brie has really nice fingernails, it’s because she wears gloves when she cleans her plates or does her laundry”</strong></div><strong></strong><div align="center"><br /><strong>“There should be more food here, I’m hungry”</strong></div><strong><div align="center"><br />“Brie is very tall, much taller than the last volunteer we had”</div><div align="center"><br />“I could really go for some fried chicken right now”</div><div align="center"><br />“Brie’s hair is naturally that color, she doesn’t dye it”</div><div align="center"><br />“Let’s go look for food” -by this time it’s about 11pm</div><div align="center"><br />“Brie isn’t wearing any makeup and look at how blue her eyes are” </div><div align="center"><br />“I could really go for some fried plantains”</div></strong><div align="left"><br />Six hours later, we finally left. I was exhausted (by the conversation and the sitting). My conclusion, wakes aren’t fun (and yes, I realize they probably shouldn’t be “fun”), but sitting and waiting for hours and hours while the deceased person is in a coffin only several feet while we converse about fashion, food, and pretty much every topic imaginable except for the deceased. It was tiring (the person being remembered should be glad that they’ve passed on and don’t have to sit and be bored).</div><br />Way out in the middle of nowhere, I was riding home from a long day of teaching, with my music blasting, I was riding determinedly towards home. I heard some guys shouting at me, which is normal, and I was resolute to ignoring them, but for some reason I looked up and made eye contact. And who did I see, it was non-other than my neighbor with 4 of his chavalo friends and they were all hanging out of trees, just like monkeys. I skidded my bike to a halt, out of surprise and curiosity. What were these guys doing way out here? Well, they were ahuntin’ iguana. They were hunting with rocks, that were thrown at the poor helpless animals and knocking them out of their trees onto the ground (about 30 feet below). The boys (all in their 20’s) were hanging out of trees, that were twisting and turning every which way, and to my keen eye did not look very sturdy or steady. No matter, because the boys wanted to make iguana soup. They killed 2 large iguanas (1 luckily escaped). I almost got hit in the head by one of the rocks that the boys were throwing haphazardly into the trees at their targets, the iguanas. Later we were all picked up in a truck, which was the only reason I decided to stay with the boys…a ride home (it was really hot that day)! The boys told me the iguanas have all sorts of vitamins in them, but when I asked what kind of vitamins they replied “Quién sabe” (who knows). Apparently, iguana is really good for kids too. The next day, the boys were cooking up their iguana soup and asked if I wanted a taste…I replied NO WAY! End of story.Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-49208280705640174972008-03-01T11:53:00.000-06:002009-01-02T12:46:14.844-06:00What to pack for the journey, a few suggestions for future Peace Corps volunteers:I remember packing for Peace Corps and being freaked out that I was packing too much, I wondered if other volunteers would be bringing as much stuff as me? Would I even be able to carry everything? Luckily, my fears were quelled the moment I arrived in D.C. and saw other volunteers struggling with all of their bags…I fit right in (In the end I brought 3 bags total: 1 hiking backpack that can hold up to 50lbs, 1 backpack and a duffle bag on wheels!). Also, I would suggest future volunteers to email current volunteers with any of their questions or concerns (I know I love getting email!) Ok, on to the list of stuff I brought:<br />1. Laptop (filled full with my favorite movies, tv shows, music, yoga-video podcasts and Spanish podcasts). What I use it for now: I enjoy typing emails ahead of time on my laptop and completing my work reports on my laptop (due every 4 months) in the comfort of my house (instead of at the internet café). My suggestion, if you own a laptop you might as well bring it! Finally, make sure you have a good anti-virus program on your computer, because you will be transferring viruses onto your computer if you use your flash drive at the internet café and then later plug it into your personal computer. <br />2. Laptop cooling fan pad and laptop sleeve/cover (Many volunteers don’t have a cooling fan, but I have found that in the heat it just helps. The sleeve/cover is great to keep the dust off of your computer during the hot season).<br />3. Surge protector /power strip (also, there is no need to bring any kind of power converter because the electricity wattage in Nicaragua is equal to the wattage used in the U.S.)<br />4. Flash drive (2g or larger)<br />5. I-pod/mp3 player<br />6. Mini Speakers to connect to laptop and/or ipod<br />7. 1 book vs. numerous books (the Peace Corps has a library filled of fiction/non-fiction books from current and past volunteers. Also, the Peace Corps provides volunteers with a great Spanish dictionary, verb conjugation book and grammar book. Plus, during training (the first 3 months) you won’t have a lot of time to read! Remember, your favorite books can always be mailed to you, and generally speaking packages make it through in 2 weeks.<br />8. Regular backpack (for weekend trips)<br />9. Old cell phone that is unlocked (new cell phones can be purchased in country for as cheap as $15, but if you have an unlocked old cell phone that you like… it can save you some money because you can just purchase a new “chip” for the phone that will run about $5). The cell phone system in Nicaragua is pay as you go (in other words, you purchase your minutes ahead of time). <br />10. Minimum clothing and shampoo/conditioner/soap/bath products (as used American clothing can be purchased in country as well as American brand shampoo/soap etc. or these things can be shipped through at a later time). However, you might not have time during training to go out and purchase these items…if you have a higher Spanish level, you will have extra time on your hands…otherwise bring what you think you’ll need for 3 months!<br />11. Headlamp (used for night reading and cooking dinner or even bathing when there is no electricity…replacement batteries can be purchased in country).<br />12. Shoes! I brought along 1 pair of running shoes, 1 pair of flip flops, 2 pairs of closed toe flats (which were easy to pack, 1 pair in beige and the other pair in black). Flip flops can be purchased in country for 30 cords ($1.50ish) but I have had a hard time “quality” shoes…so I would recommend bringing what you think you’ll wear for 2 years (I have purchased used American clothing to replace clothing that has worn out, but I have not purchased any new shoes…nor will I…because the quality is just not there…aka cheap material=blisters)<br />13. 1 towel and 1 wash cloth (towels can also be purchased in country but they are super thin towels…so if you want something “fluffy” bring it from the USA).<br />14. My definition of business casual= I wear either a dress or a nice pair of jeans (aka no holes) with a (thin cotton) short sleeved shirt<br />15. Sunglasses and a hat…it’s hot and sunny…when traveling via bus I always like to keep my face covered from the rays!<br />16. Meds: Peace Corps gives you a “med kit” filled with aspirin, Band-Aids, suntan lotion, bug spray, etc. etc. (so there is no need to pack that kind of stuff)<br />17. Sheets and pillows will be provided to you during training (by your host family) and after training you can purchase these things in country (I found used American sheets for C$150 cords total or Nica sheets (aka 150 thread count) sell for C$ 250 cords). Pillows go for around C$100 cords.<br />18. Cooking stuff such as a non-stick pan, measuring cups, garlic crusher etc. etc. can also be found in country…just be prepared to pay American prices for these items!Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-88324028553993884182008-02-26T11:00:00.000-06:002008-02-26T11:19:41.990-06:00Ancient caveman tool: “the rock,” proves useful<div align="center"> <div align="left"> <div align="center"><b>Local <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">shop</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">where</span> I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">buy</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">cheese</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">and</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">other</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">good</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">stuff</span>.</b><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5nOWXayzuG79zgklgZEDQYFaMQYQX-AD7c0PLARfa_xa15yLqq7TygD_5gTB00kXw5aWrafnJCvVQdQtN7-eSgo_xKIOQx_XYdmzWCynw8QsO-JjNIEbXqoKSFD13KEiN_pcUxeW4PZN/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5nOWXayzuG79zgklgZEDQYFaMQYQX-AD7c0PLARfa_xa15yLqq7TygD_5gTB00kXw5aWrafnJCvVQdQtN7-eSgo_xKIOQx_XYdmzWCynw8QsO-JjNIEbXqoKSFD13KEiN_pcUxeW4PZN/s320/Malpaisillo+016.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171337230276970546" /></a></div> <span class="blsp-spelling-error"> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Que Pasa?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Frogger:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>I have a frog that changes colors living outside in my washbasin…I just hope I don’t bleach him by mistake one day, because mistakes do happen.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Play that funky beat:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>I love when I walk into a business establishment, for example the local internet café or a local restaurant, the owner sees me enter and simultaneously disappears into a back room, and then moments later I hear the melodies of Elton John or Billy Joel being played through the overhead speakers… </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">“Polvo” (“Dust”)=Dirt=Extensive Cleaning:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"> It is becoming increasingly dusty lately, as it heats up everything is turning brown and the dust is being kicked up.<span style=""> </span>Not fun.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Low electrical lines:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>In front of my house there are electrical lines running everywhere, and they are hung rather low.<span style=""> </span>A week ago, I witnessed a large truck drive up my street, recognize that the lines were hung low, but they preceded forward anyway…meanwhile the truck’s passenger, climbed out of the window and got on-top of the truck.<span style=""> </span>As they approached the wires, he lifted them over the truck one at a time.<span style=""> </span>How did he know they weren’t live wires?<span style=""> </span>The answer: He didn’t, but he risked it anyway because who wants to go through the hassle of reversing a vehicle.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Eskimo:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>The ice cream vendor starts selling ice cream around 9am…should I really be eating an ice cream sandwich for breakfast?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">My heart will go on…make it stop</span></b><span lang="EN-US">:<span style=""> </span><st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">A street</st1:address></st1:street> vendor stopped by my front door, trying to get me to buy rat poison, which I didn’t need.<span style=""> </span>I told him no thank you, but this didn’t squelch his spirit and he started serenading me in English…Celine Dion’s ever so popular, “My heart will go On.”<span style=""> </span>I finally found out why this song is so popular…turns out that in English class, the kids “study” the song lyrics.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">La gata “the cat”:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>Yet another nickname, because of my blue eyes people also call me “the cat”…because apparently cats have clear eyes…does this also mean that I have 9 lives? …eat mice? ...have hairballs?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Bike problems (the ongoing saga):<span style=""> </span></span></b><span lang="EN-US">My bike broke down yet again, and this time it was really really broken.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t even walk it back into town because everything was out of alignment, so I reached for a rock and banged and banged on my bike (no this was not an act of rage or frustration) I was repairing it…and guess what, it actually worked…wait to go caveman tool!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Food dishes that are scrumptiously delicious</span></b><span lang="EN-US">:<span style=""> </span>I ate a “potato fried thing” yesterday that reminded me of McDonalds’ breakfast hash browns except for one difference, my hash brown was filled with beans and rice but no toy…top that McDonalds!<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:metricconverter productid="2.3 pounds" st="on"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">2.3 pounds</span></b></st1:metricconverter><b style=""><span lang="EN-US"> of fabric please:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>I went to the fabric store to get a new table cloth and learned that instead of selling the fabric by the yard the store sold fabric by the pound…I just found this interesting…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Water and electricity out again:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>This past week I was without water and lights, but around midnight yesterday I was awakened by the drip drip drop of trickling water.<span style=""> </span>I rushed outside to start filling up buckets.<span style=""> </span>Then I started to rinse out dirty laundry that had been sitting in a soapy tub of water for over a week.<span style=""> </span>I was soaking my undergarments in a bucket and decided to start cleaning the bathroom as well (because I thought there was a good chance that there might not be water again in the morning).<span style=""> </span>Without thinking I dumped the bucket with my undergarments out into my wash tub, and filled the bucket up again to wash out the toilet (side note: my toilet doesn’t flush automatically and therefore I have to dump a bucket of water down it to flush it…or in this case to clean it).<span style=""> </span>Well, I didn’t know it at the time, but I accidently left a pair of underwear in the bucket and then proceeded to dump the water in the toilet. <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>Thus, washing away a clean pair of undies…but thank goodness not clogging the toilet…Whoops.<span style=""> <b><br /><br /></b></span></span></p> <b><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"></span></b></div> <b><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">This</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">restaurante</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">makes</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">home</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">made</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">yogurt</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">and</span> bread...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">what</span> a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">treat</span>...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">only</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">catch</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">is</span> I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">have</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">to</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">travel</span> 3 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">hours</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">by</span> bus <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">to</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">get</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">to</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">it</span>!</b><br /></div> <div align="center"> <div align="left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEhJyfOU78sYxmQxVYQmFwMJilJdUDszPIov8KpoIznOjw7ON5_61VnaNEGXqWXeDmuuWygakf96rkF2ZAxmN1eaSA-NkVnsQBiJUbUlWYaDodJQFLRc921s9Kwlaw_W0zh1g2eHSyr2_/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEhJyfOU78sYxmQxVYQmFwMJilJdUDszPIov8KpoIznOjw7ON5_61VnaNEGXqWXeDmuuWygakf96rkF2ZAxmN1eaSA-NkVnsQBiJUbUlWYaDodJQFLRc921s9Kwlaw_W0zh1g2eHSyr2_/s320/Malpaisillo+013.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171336620391614498" /></a> <span lang="EN-US">I took a quick trip up North to enjoy some cooler weather and stop by the bank (as my town is not equipped with a bank).<span style=""> </span>On the bus ride home a woman in the front decided to “get her flirt on” with the bus driver.<span style=""> </span>Here we all are going around tight curves in the road, while this woman gets right up in the driver’s face to make “kissy lips” at him.<span style=""> </span>He is laughing, having a grand old time.<span style=""> </span>I am on the verge of tears thinking that this is quite possibly the last bus ride I will ever take…because we are barreling down the road without an attentive driver.<span style=""> </span>I did make it back in one piece, but not without having many close calls along the way almost hitting: a cow herd, an oncoming car, the side of a bridge, and a horse.<span style=""> </span>I just wish people would save the googlely eyes for later…when perhaps the bus driver is not occupied with DRIVING!</span></div> <div align="left"> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">While waiting for the bus, I was approached by a really friendly lady who told me she lives in Dario, <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Matagalpa</st1:city>, <st1:country-region st="on">Nicaragua</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>Then she proceeded to talk about Ruben Dario, a Nicaraguan poet.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know about other volunteers, but the first time I heard about this guys was when I stepped foot in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>But he is a huge source of national pride and EVERYBODY knows his name and history.<span style=""> </span>Some people can even recite a poem on the spot.<span style=""> </span>This woman, from the town of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Dario</st1:place></st1:city>, knew a whole heck of a lot about the poet and she decided to impart her knowledge upon me.<span style=""> </span>Waiting for the bus, I had no choice but to sit and listen.<span style=""> </span>About 30 minutes later I spotted a bus speeding down the road, and I took this opportunity to jump up and run (not that it wasn’t interesting…but I have heard the “history” so many times…that I have heard enough!)<span style=""> </span>Alas, the bus was not going to my town, and therefore I had to sit back down and listen to another hour of facts/poems/etc etc. about Ruben!<span style=""> </span>This is what I learned from her (and I am not sure if this is actually historically accurate): He was a drunk who only studied 3 years then married a Spaniard and <span style=""> </span>finally went on and to become a poetic genius.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Jiminy Cricket, was all cute and smiley in the classic Disney movie Pinocchio, whistling away as the unfortunate pathological liar of a puppet got himself into deeper and deeper trouble.<span style=""> </span>However, I have found that the cricket whistle is not music to my ears, and I have never uttered the words “give a little whistle.”<span style=""> </span>In fact just the opposite, I have been squashing a few here and there but it doesn’t even seem to make a dent in their population and infestation in my house. The bugs and their nonstop chirping have infiltrated and taken over my bedroom.<span style=""> </span>They are in my roof between the tiles, under and on top of my bed, in my shoes, and well, it seems they are just about everywhere.<span style=""> </span>On the bright side, the cockroach and mouse population has been drastically diminished. Also, my clothes are no longer moldy.<span style=""> </span>In fact, they dry in 5 minutes flat after I put them on the barbed wire line.<span style=""><br /><br /></span></span></p> </div> <b>The road that leads into and out of my town (this pic was taken while I was waiting for the 5am bus to roll in)</b><br /></div> <div align="center"> <div align="left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-_Dx-dTWEkLVN0TIBPMwMWXyoCEiz5rAPn0IbS56UIYGeiBWbAX32tO28IwK7pOPg4JO4T-3Fh4i5b7GID9GqfPm4glP0y7AO38q1eX_MxxA_J4FtdB7I3JUvFk73PUscQvxpS9e0eGT/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-_Dx-dTWEkLVN0TIBPMwMWXyoCEiz5rAPn0IbS56UIYGeiBWbAX32tO28IwK7pOPg4JO4T-3Fh4i5b7GID9GqfPm4glP0y7AO38q1eX_MxxA_J4FtdB7I3JUvFk73PUscQvxpS9e0eGT/s320/Malpaisillo+009.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171335946081749010" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This week marked the first week of school, and what a headache.<span style=""> </span>I went around begging and pleading for the principals to get the class started.<span style=""> </span>I will briefly explain the craziness of school scheduling:<span style=""> </span>Teachers gather in a big room and on the chalkboard there is a giant grid that includes all the days of the week and the different time sessions for school.<span style=""> </span>Next, teachers start marking off what classes they are teaching, what grades, etc. etc.<span style=""> </span>When all of this is finally worked out …they throw it away…and start anew…yes that’s right, they do it all again…this goes on for weeks and weeks.<span style=""> </span>As if for not, the schedule is re-scheduled and all of this creates confusion and disorganization.<span style=""> </span>Teachers don’t like it …but that’s just how it is.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I have been on a lot of crazy bus rides, and recently I went on another crazy ride.<span style=""> </span>I loaded onto a microbus (aka a mini-van) and it started out that everyone had a seat (15 people total)…then we started driving towards our destination and picking up more people…20 people, 23 people, a family of 5 jumped on increasing the total to 28…30 people AHHHHHHH!!<span style=""> </span>It got to the point that there were so many people in this thing that the sliding van door…WOULD NOT CLOSE…people were hanging out the side of a MINI-VAN going 50mph.<span style=""> </span>Naturally, there were a lot of profanities floating through my head during this ride…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">To my dismay, I hopped the “slow bus” yesterday, unknowingly, which turned the usual 45 minute ride into a 1 hour and 45 minute experience.<span style=""> </span>The bus crept along at a snail’s pace all the way to my school.<span style=""> </span>When I finally reached the school, I had 5 minutes to slam down my lunch and then teach class.<span style=""> </span>I went into the classroom as the students were all standing in the quad receiving announcements from the principal.<span style=""> </span>About 10 minutes later a rush of students bombarded my classroom.<span style=""> </span>Like a school of salmon swimming upstream, the students pushed through the classroom door.<span style=""> </span>More and more students continued to flow in and I looked around thinking…how can we possibly fit any more people in this room?<span style=""> </span>Turns out we fit 90 students in a classroom built for 30.<span style=""> </span>The desks were arranged side by side all the way up to the chalkboard.<span style=""> </span>I was only able to walk in front of the class if I took steps sideways.<span style=""> </span>Nobody could stand up because they were all trapped in their desks, yet class went on and in the end it went well (all things considered).<span style=""> </span>There were some great ideas generated, but the classroom environment was not very conducive to active learning, but we all dealt with it because we had no choice.</span></p> </div> <b><br />Another shop that I purchase stuff at!</b><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOl9fJFY6Zbgo93_ltk3HV7uFXqua1XQ_bTCgWOoY-woVzY9TYgWCB9NsX00SDyS6Stl8UaEiMTA8KnPwt46ly_4JAk8YuewTzffMPlY0N_nFHdgOaNnYzp8_TbtSwk0z-7eOUeKasDbhM/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOl9fJFY6Zbgo93_ltk3HV7uFXqua1XQ_bTCgWOoY-woVzY9TYgWCB9NsX00SDyS6Stl8UaEiMTA8KnPwt46ly_4JAk8YuewTzffMPlY0N_nFHdgOaNnYzp8_TbtSwk0z-7eOUeKasDbhM/s320/Malpaisillo+006.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171335370556131330" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The school year is back in full swing, and I am teaching a full load.<span style=""> </span>I bike ride everyday to get from school to school, and in this heat it’s a tough ride.<span style=""> </span>I think the kids are glad to be back in school and I am happy to be working with them all again.<span style=""> </span>So far, so good, things are getting done and school hasn’t been canceled too much (but only 3 weeks into the school year and I have already had some of my classes canceled).<span style=""> </span>It’s rough when class is canceled because then the next class feels really rushed, we have a lot of material to cover and we have to get through it all…so I act a bit like a drill sergeant…to get things done.<span style=""> </span>I really want all my kids to be able to compete in the competitions at the end of the school year, which means putting in a lot of work now (but the payoff in the end is worth it and it’s a huge motivator).<span style=""> </span>The class is the same course I taught the previous year, a business course, where students learn about small business owners, stocks, market studies, business planning etc. and create their own products and businesses.<span style=""> </span>At the end of the year they can enter their Business Plan and product in a total of 3 ascending competitions (with prizes) to compete against other Nicaraguan students all over the country.<span style=""> </span>In the end, the most creative product takes the grand prize (the kids love competition…and so do all of my co-teachers).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">So a few weeks ago an Evangelical church moved into the neighborhood.<span style=""> </span>They started zapping everyone’s electricity because they were plugging in their ridiculously large speaker system and singing at the top of their lungs.<span style=""> </span>Well, I am happy to report that they have been kicked out and moved to another location (where they will most likely be kicked out of as well).<span style=""> </span>Everyone around me started to complain about the noise, which is a big deal because <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region> is a “load/noisy” country…so if my Nica neighbors are complaining about noise it must be bad.<span style=""> </span>Also, everyone was upset by the fact that “se fue la luz” (“no lights/electricity”) whenever the church group plugged in the big speakers.<span style=""> </span>Their celebrations would often last until 10 or 11 at night (and they started at a cool 4pm in the afternoon).<span style=""> </span>Imagine, 6 to 7 hours of really loud annoying music.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I recently struck up a conversation on a bus with a 40 something year old musician that travels around <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region> playing at different venues.<span style=""> </span>He was curious what I was doing in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region> and I told him that I was a Peace Corps volunteer.<span style=""> </span>He was familiar with the name of the organization and I explained to him that I worked in the schools teaching a business course.<span style=""> </span>He then proceeded to tell me that he would like to travel to other countries to branch out his music career.<span style=""> </span>And then he struck me with a question, “Can I drop my kids off at the Peace Corps office so that you guys can watch them until I get back, they are old enough anyway to be on their own.”<span style=""> </span>I looked at him with a quizzical eye and responded, “Well, Peace Corps doesn’t really work that way.”<span style=""> </span>He seemed confused, he restated his question and then added, “You guys are teachers and look after kids in school, so why not just watch my kids after school too.”<span style=""> </span>I knew he would never quite grasp the Peace Corps mission and I resorted to changing the subject until I could disembark the bus (this tactic actually worked).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-20582082758689330132008-02-03T12:03:00.000-06:002008-02-03T12:12:10.993-06:00Speed 4: Blind Curves Up ahead with dangerous Sun Glare…it must be passing time! (Staring Keanu Reeves? nope, staring me and 149 Nicas<div align="center"><strong>These are my new curtains...beautiful!</strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvGqXwsRi8CQFKus9dyTiOkYXj1jhD0p4nFBVh7G4CCJoGMnmlIZV-leSY8vakyKurEhNJpJHe5CDy0QG4tzq5bUuD68Pzfj_0XPOwBFRWabZlY2eZDc18cYth1FqwJvN4ZgaskgGYecc/s1600-h/My+house+004.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162817284357938722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvGqXwsRi8CQFKus9dyTiOkYXj1jhD0p4nFBVh7G4CCJoGMnmlIZV-leSY8vakyKurEhNJpJHe5CDy0QG4tzq5bUuD68Pzfj_0XPOwBFRWabZlY2eZDc18cYth1FqwJvN4ZgaskgGYecc/s400/My+house+004.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Que Pasa?</span> </strong></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><strong></strong></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><strong>Tub of lard:</strong> I hadn’t seen one of my counterparts for a while, but yesterday we got together to do some lesson planning for the new school year. The first thing she says to me , “Gordita (translation=fatto) how much do you weigh now?” I laughed it off, don’t worry I take everything with a grain of salt. But she just couldn’t let it go, she kept insisting that I had to of gained weight, which I haven’t, but finally I gave in and just said “como, no” (of course). </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br /><strong>Regalos Regalos (aka recent gifts):</strong> My neighbor made me curtains for my house; she picked out the fabric herself and sewed them together by hand. Now when the sun shines through my one and only window, my house lights up in an orange glow.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br /><strong>Why won’t that ship just stay sunk?:</strong> Titanic the movie AND soundtrack have been playing continuously, non-stop, there must not be a pause button on my neighbor’s DVD player, forget about Jack somebody save me, and who took the time to translate the song “My heart must go on” into Spanish…am I rambling?? I apologize, but after hearing Titanic playing for the umpteenth million time, I think I have finally lost it…</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br /><strong>“The money is in the banana stand” - Arrested Development:</strong> In Nicaragua, a popular treat is a frozen banana dipped in chocolate. It is called: Chaco Banano. After months of gaining confianza (trust), I now have an in with the neighborhood chaco banano vendor, and I get them for free…delicious, delightful, delectable…I have built this treat up a little too much, it’s no Crème Brule, but it’s as close as I’m going to get.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br /><strong>Band Practice:</strong> First of all, I would just like to state that I am a propionate of band practice…because practice makes perfecto. Also, because my parents had to put up with my flute playing for years and years until I mastered my craft (their poor ears). However, I do not support the right to just blow away on any old instrument, without any regard for tone. That being said, my neighbor just got a new trumpet, and he feels it’s his right to just blow the heck out of that thing morning, noon and night. My only sugerencia (suggestion) is that the sound of an instrument should never be mistaken for the sound a dying animal makes. So this is my last plea to the little boy across the street, “Kido, you have tuned the C long enough, and guess what, it’s still flat…maybe you should take up a new hobby (something that doesn’t involve noise).”</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br />I arose at 6am one morning, in anticipation of catching a big Expresso bus to Managua. I am standing on the side of the road peering into oncoming traffic, wishing the cars and buses would all just go a tad bit slower, as my retinas do not have time to register the destination clearly printed on top of each bus passing my way when they are cruising at a casual speed of 100kph. What’s the point of even printing the route on the bus, if one cannot read it unless their name is Superman? So to truncate my effort I flag down almost every bus…only to flag them away with a stern “no” headshake when I realize their final destination lands elsewhere other than Managua. Finally, a bus to Managua arrives and I jump on, only to find out that it is “standing room only” and I still have 2 hours to go…but I’ve learned to take what I can get…and so I board, no use in being picky. I wondered why the bus was called an Expresso, and I found out soon enough. Like a high speed Hollywood car chase scene, I was suddenly staring in my own version of Speed (of course minus the fabulously handsome and always comic Keanu Reeves). Hopefully, the fact that I enjoy a good Keanu Reeves flick doesn’t discredit my own character; judge me not by my movie selection. But I like Keanu, not only for his acting ability (or arguably his lack there of), but simply because he looks good doing whatever he is trying to do…no he’s not a classically trained actor, but if the part calls for someone to deliver a line in a monotonous fashion, then Keanu’s perfect for the part. Alright, enough about my Keanu crush…back to my real life version of Speed. However, if Keanu was on my bus he would of probably uttered the line. ”We can’t drop this bus below 40mph,” undoubtedly in a lifeless tone. The bus I was riding was abiding firmly by this rule; in fact it was going even faster than necessary. Not only did we not drop below 40mph (remember I am riding in a giant yellow school bus) but the big bus also felt the need to pass every car, truck, and big bus in sight. At one point, we were passing another yellow bus and the passengers on that bus were pointing at our bus …yelling…warning us not to pass…because quite clearly there was another micro bus headed our direction in the “passing lane” and we were bound on a collision course. Oh well, we went for it…and by “we” I really mean to say the idiot bus driver that 150 people had trusted their lives to…reckless…yes…exciting…not in the least. I have learned to look the other way and just hope the accelerator kicks in soon. We cleared the other big bus with seconds to spare…and I made it to Managua in remarkable time…and that’s why it’s called an Expresso.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br />Whenever/wherever (no I’m not talking about the Shakira song) I travel in Nicaragua I always bring along my best friend…Saco (pronounced “sack-o” and which translates directly to mean sack). Saco is compact, reliable, and the perfect accessory for any trip. When I went back to the States for Christmas, Saco came with me…I forgot that in the U.S.A. people don’t use Sacos and therefore my Saco elicited some stares…were they envious of my fashion forward style sense? Just maybe. Saco, used to be a flour bag in a previous life, but now it has been converted into an over the shoulder satchel. I like saco for another reason, it blends in. I haven’t had anything stolen yet (knock on wood). If I stored my belongings in an incongruous sack, I might be setting myself up for theft so instead I opt for the reliable and dependable saco. That way, it doesn’t stick out from the rest of the bus cargo. Also, saco only costs 5 cordobas…cheeeeap! Saco only has one shortcoming…sometimes saco unravels in very inconvenient places. I have overcome this defect by simply doubling up on sacos…problem solved…however it took me one very unpleasant unraveling experience to learn that I should double up. There I was on the streets of Managua caring hoards of books in my saco (yes I readily admit that I packed saco too full…my mistake). Suddenly, I heard a funny crinkle sound (later I realized it was the sound of plastic threads unraveling) and then snap…the handle broke. I was 5 minutes away from the bus stop and so I sucked it up, instead of heading somewhere to buy another saco, I just forged ahead. In my two arms I was carrying a heavy load (this experience also reawakened my weight training routine). I boar the heavy load all the way back to my house (3 hours and 30 minutes away, most of which was on a bus therefore I wasn’t carrying saco in my arms this entire time). Since this experience, I have started weightlifting my gatoraid bottles filled with rocks (approxamility 5lbs. each) and I have purchased another saco!</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br />Once in a while I need to get away from the constant stares and just escape from my town. Everyone means well, but I have little privacy and that can be wearing, at times. When I want to get away, I usually ride my bike out around the farms that surround my town. It’s just an hour circle around town but it’s enough to escape! Yesterday, I put my headphones on and blasted some Justin Timberlake “Sexyback”, and was looking forward to my peaceful ride. I was 10 minutes outside of town when I was approached by several other bike riders…going my way. Not wanting to be rude, I took off my headphones (paused “Sexyback”) and started up a quick casual conversation, meanwhile I was focused on passing this group and riding ahead at a faster pace. I said my hellos and goodbyes, then attempted to ride off fast…but it was to no avail…they all followed me…wanting to participate in my daily ritual called ejercio (exercise). So now, I permanently removed my headphones and was thus bombarded by questions from the group of kids as they struggled to keep pace with me. They continually asked if I was getting tired yet, to which I replied, “Not yet.” They all followed me on my route and then asked when I would be back. The end of this story is that now I have a bicycle exercise group…and I have NO where to escape when the attention becomes too much! </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br />In the past, I have ridden the bus in some pretty uncomfortable positions, but nothing beats the last bus ride I had going to and from my town. I boarded the big bus at half past 4, which meant that we would not be departing for at least another 30 minutes. They only seat available was the “wheel seat,” the one I always try to avoid with a passion. For those who have never ridden on a yellow school bus, the wheel seat, is a dreaded seat because there is absolutely no leg room…why? Because a giant hump takes up all conceivable leg room, thus allowing the bus wheels to turn and the bus to more in a forward motion. I do not object to the idea of the wheel seat, because without it, the bus wouldn’t be going anywhere very quickly, or it would be extremely off balance, like one of those giant monster-truck vehicles that insist on running over other vehicles for the sake of entertainment. As I have yet to attend a monster truck rally, and do not have the need to participate in one, I prefer that the wheel seat stays put. But sometimes, there is not choice and reluctantly I sat in the “wheel seat” right up against the window. Next to me sat a women with a tub of chote on her lap, a big burlap saco filled with stuff (thankfully she didn’t have a live chicken). So there I was smashed up against the window, knees to chest, and my own backpack resting somewhere between my lap and chin. The bus was heating up as well, we still had 30 minutes till takeoff and the body heat combined with the sweltering sun, and the fact that all windows were rolled up, made the bus feel like a sauna. Finally, we rolled forward and I was forced to sit in the fetal position for 1 whole hour, until we finally rolled into my bus depot. As I shakily stood up to depart I realized that both of my feet were asleep along with the entire right side of my body. This made for an awkward exit, as I looked strickenly like the hunchback of Notre dame, hunched over and hobbling. Good news is my body quickly gained feeling again and I have sworn off the “wheel seat” permanently, I would rather stand, and in fact, next time I will stand.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br />My name has morphed into its own, I have been called Brik, Bris, BRI, La Gringa, Chela, Chica, Muchacha, and now I am most commonly called “La Brie.” I have officially become an object, no longer a person, or a gringa, I am a thing…gladly I am still a noun (I could easily be an adjective, for example my neighbors call each other “fea,” ugly, all in jest). I must admit I have grown rather accustomed to hearing “La Brie” that dare I say I like it? It has a certain ring to it, and like I said I could always be called worse!</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br />After all this time in-country my Spanish has made leaps and bounds…but it’s still not fluent…and I still make mistakes…and most of this mistakes result in embarrassment. This week seems to be that kind of a week, I haven’t fumbled up lately, and therefore it was bound to happen sooner or later (more likely sooner). On to my story, my friend came over to my house and asked me if she could borrow my “grabadora” (CD player). I was unfamiliar with this vocab word, but I was familiar with another vocab word that is very similar: “grapadora” (stapler). Therefore, when she said grabadora, I heard grapadora…and was immediately confused…why did she need a stapler? I told her I didn’t have a stapler, because I don’t, but then she insisted that I did have one. This friendly argument went on for a bit and finally I asked why she even needed the “stapler.” She said she wanted to play music. I asked how she could play music with a stapler. She was no thurooly confused as well. She was about to give up and then she made a final point towards my mini-speaker system (used for playing music). Then it clicked, I ran to my trusty dictionary and looked up “grabadora,” it wisely revealed to my dense mind that a grabadora is a CD player. I lent my friend my CD player. Then the next day, I was on the bus with one of my friends and they referred to the grabadora…once again my mind thought of a stapler, before I was kindly reminded that a grabadora plays music and is not used to bind together paper. I think I finally got it!</div>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-90340848318136990402008-01-24T18:07:00.000-06:002008-02-02T17:03:08.454-06:00Falling face first into a pile of dung **Note to Reader: regrettably (for me), this title is not being employed as a metaphor<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />¿Que Pasa? </span><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></span></b><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US">Minor injury:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I lost my thumb nail, which presents a slight problem when washing clothes and dishes.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Quite frankly, I am just glad it is growing back… slowly but surely.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Not sure how I lost it in the first place, but I suspect one of my many bike crashes to be the culprit.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US">Mop up that mess: </span></b><span lang="EN-US">I came home from a weekend away and the minute I opened the double door to my house (reader beware random tangent coming: in reality, I fumbled for my keys that are attached to a rusty-red chili shaped key ring, which people often mistake for a real chili pepper and frequently question why I have decided to attach keys to it instead of eating it...this happens at least once weekly, let me just say on their behalf that it is a <b><u>very</u></b> realistic looking wooden chili…kudos to the artist. <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>So I began to unlock the first door into my house, a clad iron door that I am forced to squeeze my hands through while twisting an upside down padlock right-side-up in order to unlock it with one of my 4 keys…sometimes the lock rusts shut and I am unable to open it on my first try…and yes, it is a brand new padlock… next, I unlock the wooden double doors that lead directly into my house…both doors are secured with giant padlocks, which take me way too long to open…and it is at that moment of frustration… when the pain being issued from my contorted right hand currently struggling with the lock conjures up a distant memory …my electric garage door opener…just one click, I am shedding tiny tears just remembering this modern convenience and the fact that with just one click access is granted). Sorry, I had to get that off my chest.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Anyhow, the minute I opened my door, my neighbor showed up right behind me, causing me to startle, with a mop in hand.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>She said she wanted to help me clean, since it is now summer the dust is starting to consume my house.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Anytime someone offers to help me clean I gladly accept, and this is just another example of my helpful Nica neighbors!<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US">School is in session (almost):</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>The new school year is about to start in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region> on Feb. 4<sup>th</sup> and I cannot wait to work again with my forth year students (who I worked with last year when they were in third year).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I am ready to get going again; however, I am not ready to ride my bike in the summer heat.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Although, I did have a water bottle holder recently installed on my bike, which will prevent me from foaming at the mouth while the afternoon sun looms overhead threatening to dehydrate me further.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US">Current side project:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Since school has been out, I have been working with the local library in my town with kids ranging in age from 6 to 12, it has been amusing.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>They especially love to play games with me. <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>I tend to lose the games and suffer the punishment (aka ridicule).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>As punishment, for losing, I am expected to sing or dance…if I sing, I sing in English (which the kids LOVE), but I have found that, oddly enough, I also enjoy singing in front of this hyper active bunch.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Por que? (why?) Because I am horrible at remembering lyrics, but when I sing an English song in front of kids that only speak Spanish it doesn’t matter what I say…so there is no pressure.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><span style="font-size:+0;"></span>So I belt out songs (such as: We All Live in a Yellow Submarine, Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head, Bye Bye Miss American Pie and the occasional Irish lullaby) that are littered with lyrical mistakes …so I just sing my heart out…who knows maybe Broadway awaits?<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>After singing I like to mix in a little dance such as the “the robot” or “sprinkler” or the ever popular “disco”…have I found my true calling? I sure hope not.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US">Popular fresco of the week:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Piña con arroz (pineapple with rice)…still not sure if I like this one…enough said.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US">Funny (at times ironic) T-shirt phrases:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>8 year old girl wearing a t-shirt adorned with the English phrase “I drink until he looks good” (She didn’t know what it said but still YIKES).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Also spotted, a teenage boy wearing a “Sorority Sisters for Life” t-shirt…I will keep my eyes peeled for more.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">The World Map Project, hopefully coming to my town soon...this is a map another volunteer painted in their community (with the help of local community members). I hope to paint the map in my local town´s library.</span><br /></span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnw1uzhDA2KXuj2vnJ2HcAwNYKhoqNSGSpIOXgithwjXExcm4E5vvfYXoTc1HI9ah81motmYkqPnn-h6OZlJFEzwRph6bg-c0UIXjh72YeB7nNJZhi7rLesVsToE80j4TdI8ah0drq6Gu7/s1600-h/World+Map+Project+003.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159201042153790994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnw1uzhDA2KXuj2vnJ2HcAwNYKhoqNSGSpIOXgithwjXExcm4E5vvfYXoTc1HI9ah81motmYkqPnn-h6OZlJFEzwRph6bg-c0UIXjh72YeB7nNJZhi7rLesVsToE80j4TdI8ah0drq6Gu7/s400/World+Map+Project+003.JPG" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Today I participated in a four hour bus ride.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I was crammed in the second to last seat located in a tiny, microbus that insisted on passing cars on blind turns while the noon sun blinded the driver’s vision.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I knew the bus driver was “blinded by the light” (thanks Manfred Mann) because he wasn’t using a sonar radar navigational system…like that of other mammals such as whales and bats.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Alas, and sadly for all bus passengers involved, my driver was unmistakably marsupial and therefore had no sonar radar navigation capabilities.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>But anyways, I am getting off track already and so early on in my Blog, all the windows were rolled up so that hairdos remained motionless but sweat dripped freely on the foreheads of everyone inside the “moving oven of fun” (nope this is not a new amusement park ride…it’s just the bus). <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>Unlike my fellow passengers, I worked up an “afternoon glisten,” because I don’t sweat I only glisten.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I made it back to my town (glistening) only to find that my street was sin luz (without light).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>“Why, is only our street without lights?” I questioned my neighbors.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>And their reply was plain and simple…the evangelicals.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Now I was a bit confused at first by their response…were the evangelicals masterminding a plan to put the Catholics in the dark (until they converted?).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Or maybe the evangelicals were just sick of watching all of the Catholics drinking and dancing freely (since evangelicals are not allowed to participate in either) and they decided to smite the Catholics…finally, sweet revenge? <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>Well, while all of these scenarios seem very possible in my mind…the truth is that the power went out simply because the electrical wiring was overloaded when the Evangelicals decided to have a giant church gathering on my street.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>They made the mistake of plugging in 1 too many giant speakers and microphones …the result being a power surge…and boom, the electricity went out for the entire block. <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>Anyway, all of the “power overloading” explanations were revealed to me at a later time.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Because when I came home all I knew was that I had no electricity.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I didn’t know there was an evangelical gathering 3 houses away getting ready to sing religious music so loudly that I would be forced to stuff cotton in my ears just to get to sleep later that night (but like I said, this was all revealed at a later time).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><span style="font-size:+0;"></span>So fortunately (which later turned out to be unfortunately), 10 minutes later, the lights were back on when someone switched the circuit breaker.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>However, I quickly realized that there was a diabolical plan working against me, I would not get to rest peacefully that night or subsequently for three nights following this fateful day.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Because the second the electricity came back on, it brought with it…the Evangelical’s worship service.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>The worship service involves the “worshipers” sitting as close as possible to giant 5-foot wide speakers as someone “sings” (subject to opinion) music into a scratchy microphone.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Then I realized…in a moment of weakness I wished the lights back on giving the Evangelical gathering, a mere 3 houses down, “the power” to blast music and sing off key into a static filled microphone.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>As I went in search of food later that night with my neighbor, we both walked by the gathering and looked into each other’s faces and without saying a single word I knew what we were both thinking, “I wish the electricity would go out again.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Growing up I always had dogs, there was Zach my Scottish terrier, Oliver the Wheaten Terrier and Zoie my Golden Retriever.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Needless to say, I like dogs, always have.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Therefore, yesterday when I saw a small puppy wondering dangerously close to a busy highway road, my instinct took over and I reached out for the puppy, no bigger than my hand, to “save it.”<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I cradled and cooed my way to friend’s house where I thought I could drop off the puppy for safe keeping.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>A meager 10 minutes passed, of puppy cuteness, and I realized and commented shortly thereafter to my friend, “This was a mistake.”<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I can remember Zach, Oliver and Zoie all being irresistibly cute when they were puppies but I have obviously repressed all of the negative memories such as, their nonstop noisiness and whimpering.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Not to mention, it is a big responsibility caring for a dog/animal.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>So after unwittingly rescuing the puppy from the side of the road and bringing it into my friend’s house, I knew I couldn’t handle the responsibility of owning a dog in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region>, although many volunteers can and do.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I knew I traveled too frequently to ever be home for the puppy.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Therefore, there was a decision to be made…what to do with the dog?<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I didn’t want to put the poor thing back out on the street, and I came up with only one possible solution…and I fully admit that it’s a bit (ok extremely) childish but in my defense, it was late at night and I didn’t know what else to do…so….gulp…I took the puppy and dropped him off at the richest house in town.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Yep, I gave the puppy to the rich people in town (childishly thinking that they would properly care for the dog).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>In defense of this decision, at least the dog isn’t wondering the streets where it was highly likely to get struck by a car.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><span style="font-size:+0;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I tend to always be on my guard while walking in the more urban areas of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region>, due to the fact that there are uncovered manholes everywhere (which I have thoroughly written about in a previous blog entry).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Today I am unhappy to report that like a ignoramus, I fell into a manhole (only my right leg, and thank goodness it wasn’t that deep of a hole, only <st1:metricconverter st="on" productid="1 foot">1 foot</st1:metricconverter> deep).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Still, there I was walking along, saying adios to someone and BOOM; I instantly shrunk a foot in height as my foot sank into the uncovered hole.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I nervously looked around to see if anyone else saw my blunder.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Of course, I picked that day to wear flip-flops as well.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I didn’t think anyone saw but just in case I thought I would try to “play it off” as natural (I know, this is ridiculous, but it was an unconscious reaction to cover up my mistake).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I am happy to report that I did not fall over; I just pulled out my uninjured foot and gave a slight chuckle while shaking off dirty stagnate water(to demonstrate to anyone watching that…hey, look, I can laugh at myself) and then I quickened my pace into an awkward jump/jog…as if to further show anyone watching that, yep I meant to fall into that hole, in fact I purposely fall into manholes as often as possible to increase the difficulty-level of my cardio workouts??<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I know, I know, who would buy that excuse.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Word to the wise, watch out for manholes because they are just lurking, watching and waiting to grab onto a foot and suck it into the dark abyss.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">A week ago, I joined my neighbors to watch soap operas in their impeccably clean living room (mopping 5 times a day would have that affect, unlike my house that gets mopped 1 time per week). <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>Everyone was staring into the television waiting for the big plot twist to be revealed (that the two lovers are in fact brother and sister…or maybe just distant cousins…I don’t quite remember the details…I only remember that there was incest involved…channeling Oedipus).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>After 2 hours worth of nonsensical soap operas, the news was scheduled to come on, finally, what I was waiting for ACTUAL NEWS!<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>The soap operas all ended with enough of a cliff hanger to get the audience to tune in again next week… and then the news was about to start…here it comes…I held my breath as the first story was about to be revealed to my intent ears…but then, the screen turned black, just like that…nope, it wasn’t a power outage, not this time, my neighbors apparently aren’t the “news watching type.” <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>I put in 2 solid hours worth of soap opera viewing with the intention of watching the news at the end… 2 HOURS and THE MINUTE the news appeared on the T.V. it was turned off… NOOOOOO….I was really looking forward to an update on world, local, and statewide events…but all my wishing was to no avail.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>My neighbors ushered me into another small room, which contains a computer (by the way, very few people actually own computers and those who do cannot afford an internet connection).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Anyway, they started up the computer, because they had some things they <u>really</u> wanted to show me.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I waited, not sure what to expect, and then there it was:<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>On their computer was a “My Documents” folder containing hundreds of email forwards, which they saved onto a floppy disk at the local internet café and transferred onto their home computer.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Hundreds and hundreds of cheesy email forwards promising things such as “eternal happiness if this email is forwarded onto 10 other virtual friends” and of course if the recipient decided not to forward these messages…they will have bad luck for 20 years.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>At the end of the night, my neighbors requested my email address (and I told them I didn’t have one) because I didn’t want my inbox to be bombarded with the dreaded junk mail that they seem to love.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Riding along on my bike one day, fancy free, I turned the corner of the dirt road that stretched out before me and found myself in a slight predicament.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>An ox cart lay <st1:metricconverter st="on" productid="20 feet">20 feet</st1:metricconverter> in front of me blocking the road.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I looked to my right and then to my left, there was no way out, surrounded by trees and farms the only way through was bypassing the ox chart.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>The driver heard me approaching and turned, looked me in the eyes and acknowledged the predicament.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I’m sure he was thinking…what the heck is the gringa doing way out here on her bike.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>As my bike came to a grinding halt, the ox cart driver attempted to maneuver the giant animal to the side of the path, in order to make room for me to pass.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>After a few attempts, the ox complied and I was able to safely slip past waving goodbye to the driver and thanking him repeatedly.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Just as I thought my worriers were over I was hit with a whole new obstacle…mud…and lots of it.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I quickly analyzed the situation because I knew I didn’t have a whole lot of time (as the ox cart was approaching behind me and I didn’t want to be stuck behind it again).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>So I made a split second decision, which turned out to be poor judgment on my behalf, I backed my bike up <st1:metricconverter st="on" productid="10 feet">10 feet</st1:metricconverter> to get a running start…and I charged through the mud on my bike, peddling at full speed.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Regrettably, my bike toppled over and brought me with it…there I was face first in mud/cow dung.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I was unhurt (except for my ego, which was badly bruised). My face, hands, legs and side were covered in mud. <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>I didn’t expect to be receiving a spa treatment that day and forgot to pack my fuzzy slippers and Egyptian cotton spa robe.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I contemplated sitting in the mud for a bit with the intension of taking advantage of the mud’s mystical healing properties (does cow dung have healing properties too?<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>…doubtful).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I decided to haul myself out of the mud, I threw some water on my face and hands to wash off (meanwhile my clothes, arms, legs and shoes remained covered) but I didn’t have time…the ox cart was coming!<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I hopped back on my bike and rode home a muddy/smelly mess.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Only to immediately jump into a cold shower and wash off the mud.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>As I watched my hubris being washed down the drain, I knew I learned another important lesson:<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>when faced with a giant mud pit, and the possibility of being stuck behind a slow ox, ALWAYS pick the ox…and remember patience is a virtue. <span style="font-size:+0;"></span></span></p>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-46478169920753872622008-01-15T15:53:00.000-06:002008-01-15T16:11:28.565-06:00Flash a pose, work the runway: Firecracker Headwear (dangerous or dangerously stylish?)<p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">¿Que Pasa?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Why not make a fruit basket:<span style=""> </span></span></b><span lang="EN-US">The current seasonal fruit is cantaloupe, and I just cannot seem to get enough of it…sweet and juicy!<span style=""> </span>As well, we have mandarinas (mandarins).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Blood hound:<span style=""> </span></span></b><span lang="EN-US">Yes, I now have a new skill that I will undoubtedly place on my resume.<span style=""> </span>I am like a blood hound in the sense that I can now detect the faint smell of … (wait for it)… dead rat (gross, I know).<span style=""> </span>It’s a musty sour odor that permeates through the air and wafts into my nostrils.<span style=""> </span>I can even detect the time of death (no I can’t, that is an exaggeration).<span style=""> </span>But this skill has its benefits, because it enables me to detect and therefore remove dead rats from my house ASAP.<span style=""> </span>Yesterday, I did just that, and another one bites the dust.<b style=""><o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Weather report:<span style=""> </span></span></b><span lang="EN-US">Cool and windy.<span style=""> </span>I am having trouble housekeeping due to the wind, every time I sweep my house the dust just flies back into my house (into my eyes and face).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">There’s a hole in my bucket: <span style=""> </span></span></b><span lang="EN-US">That’s right, my trusty bucket now has a hole, and I am too cheap to buy a new one.<span style=""> </span>Water transfer has become a speed race, fill the bucket and quickly pour the water before it leaks out the bottom of the bucket.<span style=""> </span>A new bucket is an investment that I currently cannot finance, don’t worry I am raising funds for a new bucket…hopefully next month I can buy one.<span style=""> </span>The funny thing is a new bucket isn’t even that expensive, I am just that cheap.</span></p> <div align="center"> <b> The fiesta band...live singers that moved to the beat!</b><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQPXQ_wJQf240IYfgTGPCqgxmFS1csoE3pRd6FzbXz4RpKrwlRCuYnMcsku1tZZT8Jdrci8AA9uzDYDOyyXnacWb0Qzxl238xqciaeP4lrjqt0XEIapJ0thxeoofbksMtb91ZHhFipuDb/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Official+Town+Fiesta+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQPXQ_wJQf240IYfgTGPCqgxmFS1csoE3pRd6FzbXz4RpKrwlRCuYnMcsku1tZZT8Jdrci8AA9uzDYDOyyXnacWb0Qzxl238xqciaeP4lrjqt0XEIapJ0thxeoofbksMtb91ZHhFipuDb/s200/Malpaisillo+Official+Town+Fiesta+001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155827371701218082" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In my state of sleep deprivation it is difficult to even remember the events that occurred the previous 3 days.<span style=""> </span>All I can say is: fiesta, plain and simple.<span style=""> </span>Yes, this past weekend my town celebrated their patron saint in an all out extravaganza that included a Ferris wheel, live music, FOOD, carnival games, carnies, and all sorts of debauchery.<span style=""> </span>Preparation for the fiesta started early last week, with the assembly of rides and food tents.<span style=""> </span>By Friday, everything was setup and people were ready to let loose and party.<span style=""> </span>The first night, I went to sit under a tent and simply people watch.<span style=""> </span>The streets were crowed; the smell of carne asada drifted through the tent and created a smoky cloud that reminded me of the 4<sup>th</sup> of July, and <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colorado</st1:place></st1:State> summers.<span style=""> </span>People of all shapes and sizes were pushing their way through the throng of bodies, some with deliciously sweet candied apples in hand, others with flashing toys and laser beams pointed on the foreheads of innocent bystanders.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>The scene was far from quiet, as fireworks were being continuously shot off in the sky and music was blasting its way through 40 loud speakers.<span style=""> </span>And then it happened…a tidal wave of children and adults were rushing in towards the tents where people were eating, conversing, and drinking.<span style=""> </span>The screeching sound of their voices permeated through background noise and I heard “EL TORO, <st1:place st="on">EL TORO</st1:place>.”<span style=""> </span>What? I didn’t know my town did the running of the bulls, I thought to myself should I get up and move away from the ”danger zone”…all of the people around me seemed panic stricken, and I didn’t feel like being impaled, so I arose and attempted to look over the crowd (which wasn’t difficult as everyone is rather small in stature).<span style=""> </span>And there in all its blazing glory was “el toro.”<span style=""> </span><st1:place st="on">El toro</st1:place>, is a man with a box on his head, and sticking out of the box are fireworks (bottle rockets, sparklers, aka dangerous projectile objects).<span style=""> </span>And this crazy man was lighting the fireworks (that are attached to his head) on fire.<span style=""> </span>CRAZY CRAZY CRAZY.<span style=""> </span>To boot, he is pointing the projectiles towards the kids, which made them run towards the tented area in the first place.<span style=""> </span>Apparently, the crazy man with fireworks attached to his head is not allowed into the tented area, but I have to make a slight observation, would a man who willingly stapes fireworks onto his head consciously stay out of the tented area?<span style=""> </span>I mean, come one, he has FIREWORKS on his head, is he going to even remember where he can and cannot enter.<span style=""> </span>I think not, and therefore the fear in the children’s eyes was warranted, as they ran from the crazy man.<span style=""> </span>Also, can this man see or hear, after having fireworks coming out of his head?<span style=""> </span>Anyway, to my knowledge no one was injured, or impaled, but nevertheless, I kept my distance.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I am beginning to feel like a broken record lately, because over Christmas my little neighbor (who is 5 years old and as cute as a button) received a tricycle, which she rides past my house hours on end.<span style=""> </span>Every time she passes by my house she says “Adios” and I respond “Adios.”<span style=""> </span>This continues on and on, and I mean hours, I am hardly exaggerating.<span style=""> </span>Adios, Adios, Adios, Adios, Adios, Adios.<span style=""> </span>But I continue to humor her because she is just so darn cute.<span style=""> </span>Of course, in turn I feel foolish for saying Adios 15 trillion times, but that is the price I pay for cuteness.</span></p> <div align="center"><b>Sitting under the tent people watching...</b><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDWisJMfV3maraxi4epzIqc6bubB0gB0WCqd9lcjSZSN3cjaecmobSoVxIznDZxf-AzpA-e1y0XwdcEfRYODq80UWVo3FHiQqD4rHfHypGtFYmf1-NcJ3hgNNNC1nzYlsipMd4kFjbD3B/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Official+Town+Fiesta+008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDWisJMfV3maraxi4epzIqc6bubB0gB0WCqd9lcjSZSN3cjaecmobSoVxIznDZxf-AzpA-e1y0XwdcEfRYODq80UWVo3FHiQqD4rHfHypGtFYmf1-NcJ3hgNNNC1nzYlsipMd4kFjbD3B/s200/Malpaisillo+Official+Town+Fiesta+008.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155826336614099730" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Exciting news I have a new lawn ornament, kind of like a lawn gnome but not quite as colorful.<span style=""> </span>In fact, a lawn gnome wouldn’t be quite as exciting as what I have…a drunk camped out on my street corner.<span style=""> </span>Yep, he sits there all day long, drunk as can be, teetering back and forth on the front stoop calling out unintelligible things at passersby, occasionally throwing things and always slurring.<span style=""> </span>However, having a drunk on the corner has its benefits too, they keep people away.<span style=""> </span>Also, when they are awake and not slumped over in a drunken stupor, they act as a security alarm…yelling and keeping people off my stoop.<span style=""> </span>Toss them a few cordobas, and they have now become a hired watchman, reporting all news and keeping shady people away.<span style=""> </span>The drunk is friendly and not dangerous because his family lives in the corner house and they keep an eye on him, and in turn he keeps an eye out for the entire street.<span style=""> </span>However, he does present a minor problem, <span style=""> </span>when I walk outside of my house I don’t always enjoy walking past him because he’ll try to engage me in a conversation, but with his slurring I just cannot understand a single word he says…to avoid this I trying going to opposite direction down my street, but this presents another problem because when I go the opposite direction I run into the 30 year old bachelor who apparently is my one true love (prince charming, in fact).<span style=""> </span>So I am left with a difficult choice, walk by the desperate bachelor man or walk by the drunken slurring man, 9 out of 10 times I pick the drunk!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Four days ago I went to yet another children’s piñata party. <span style=""> </span>As a gift I brought chica fresa (a small little strawberry shortcake doll) for the birthday girl.<span style=""> </span>I came to the party fashionably late, because I had already eaten dinner and wanted to avoid being fed twice, but it was to no avail, because even though I had come late the hosts still insisted on feeding me!<span style=""> </span>So I ate two dinners that night.<span style=""> </span>The nicas are very gracious hosts and would never let a guest go unfed.<span style=""> </span>Second dinner consisted of rice, with veggies and chicken with a slight BBQ flavor, it was very good.<span style=""> </span>The decapitation of Winnie the Pooh (the piñata) happened earlier in the night and I had missed seeing it because I had arrived late (but just in time for cake).<span style=""> </span>In the corner lay a piece of Winnie’s torso but amazingly his head (although apart from his body) remained unharmed, which presented an opportunity…kids started passing around the giant Winnie piñata head and placing it on top of their own head.<span style=""> </span>As music was blasting from a small portable boom box kids danced, their bodies moving to the beat and the Winnie head staring expressionless into the distance.<span style=""> </span>And then it was my turn…yep, I did it too…I put a Winnie the Pooh piñata head over my head.<span style=""> </span>There are pictures too, but I have made an executive decision to not post them, why, because I am trying to forget this lapse in judgment.<span style=""> </span>There I was sitting in a chair doing a mini dance with a piñata head on! Finally, to culminate the absurdity of this night, I dance to “It’s raining Men” (sans Winnie the Pooh head) and taught the YMCA dance to a cluster of niños (kids).</span></p> <div align="center"><b> This is a vendor selling toys at the festival.</b><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihd9ob0baj3OdivwyCsFzs70waeLW2zeRPM94YLzG6zTo_ZtNt4d7NJp5Xhlo-dWa6tIHw_z8zMlu7TAUgdMCgn0pRYFKLbaUyZLE-YMQFJJGOqdLfZdfh2xWsnOiaQ6FovLtffw1laD8_/s1600-h/Malpaisillo+Official+Town+Fiesta+009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihd9ob0baj3OdivwyCsFzs70waeLW2zeRPM94YLzG6zTo_ZtNt4d7NJp5Xhlo-dWa6tIHw_z8zMlu7TAUgdMCgn0pRYFKLbaUyZLE-YMQFJJGOqdLfZdfh2xWsnOiaQ6FovLtffw1laD8_/s200/Malpaisillo+Official+Town+Fiesta+009.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155825889937500930" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Since the month of August (the month I arrived in my site) my counterpart kept talking about her town festival, and how excited she was for me to attend.<span style=""> </span>She even brought out her photo album with pictures of the festival.<span style=""> </span>To my untrained eye the pictures all seemed to be from the same event but I was carefully informed that the pictures were taken several years apart at each different fiestas (apparently the decorations stayed the same from year to year…tradition).<span style=""> </span>Well, in the month of December, I attended the festival and I must report that it was nothing less than extravagant.<span style=""> </span>As always, we left late (just the way things are done, no one is ever on time) and made our way to the festival in the back of a truck.<span style=""> </span>I was sitting in a plastic lawn chair that was positioned precariously in the back of the truck and in my lap sat a 6 year old child.<span style=""> </span>I thought to myself, if we hit one bump, me and the kid are flying over the side…and as a precaution I gripped the side of the truck until my knuckles turned white and my arm ached with pins and needles (like my own super human strength would save us if we crashed).<span style=""> </span>I am happy to report that I did arrive safely to the festival.<span style=""> </span>Since we were so late, I was made to walk awkwardly in front of the entire town to the front, where I was seated and then serenaded by a local band that sat a foot away.<span style=""> </span>Halfway through the celebration fireworks were shot off overhead and instinctively people rose off of their white plastic lawn chairs and placed the chairs upside-down over their heads (protecting themselves from the fiery flames falling onto the crowd from the fireworks being shot off above).<span style=""> </span>Alas, I didn’t immediately put 2 and 2 together and I thought the crowd was taking part in some kind of ritual “The plastic chair over the head dance.”<span style=""> </span>I was 2 seconds away from raising my own plastic chair and taking part in the “ritual” when I was politely informed that because I stood under a tin roof awning there was no need to put a chair over my head….”oh, of course” I said.<span style=""> </span>At the end of the festival my counterpart passed out 1,100 nacatamales served on glass plates (she gave me 2 extra tamales and some ground up pork meat as well).<span style=""> </span>The night ended well, full from nacatamales and fresco I fell asleep on the way home.<span style=""> </span>However, I was seated safely inside the truck this time around!</span></p>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-14449722474561583462008-01-08T16:48:00.000-06:002008-01-08T17:11:10.051-06:00Alvin and the Chipmunks are playing LIVE in my backyard (“Yippee!”…tinged with a hint of sarcasm)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnJWSEzNyr4ctzRE4y4fJMoezFk8ZzZSnrD1xtCTBrmOgcMIJRADQ-AM8hNWkVRRDS4K4Yw9m7_QhzXdO1MC6ZXI227eWI9X5iFsl8A9Tw4G3OQZCqGBGb3fawEFgzyDg0dgxx1qPrH_p/s1600-h/Head+Lamp+and+Frog+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnJWSEzNyr4ctzRE4y4fJMoezFk8ZzZSnrD1xtCTBrmOgcMIJRADQ-AM8hNWkVRRDS4K4Yw9m7_QhzXdO1MC6ZXI227eWI9X5iFsl8A9Tw4G3OQZCqGBGb3fawEFgzyDg0dgxx1qPrH_p/s200/Head+Lamp+and+Frog+001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153245774233774834" /></a><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">¿Que Pasa?<o:p></o:p></span></b> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Back from break:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>Not like it was any surprise, but when I opened up my house after coming back from vacation I found several dead rats strewn across my floor.<span style=""> </span>Nothing that a broom and a little bleach won’t fix!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Another moment of feeling totally ridiculous:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>Oh the head lamp is a wondrous thing (thanks again Whit).<span style=""> </span>What is a head lamp exactly; well to put it simply it’s a hands free devise that straps a flashlight onto the wearer’s forehead.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>It sheds light upon things that I once awkwardly stumbled over, while simultaneously making me look like a total idiot/miner searching for gold.<span style=""> </span>The good news is I have fewer bruises; the bad news is my neighbors mistook me for some kind of ghostlike apparition…BOO!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Music of the moment:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"> The always popular Celine Dion “My Heat Will Go On,” from titanic (maybe it’s finally time to let go of Jack).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span lang="EN-US">Insightful thought (which consequently lacks insight, and therefore is merely a thought): </span></b><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>Looking back, the month of Diciembre (December, in case that was unclear) was speckled with fiesta after fiesta...it started with <st1:personname productid="La Purisima" st="on">La Purisima</st1:PersonName> celebrated on Dic. 7 followed by el Dia de Guadalupe and concluded with a brief trip back to the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region> where I rang in the nuevo ano (new year) with friends and family.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">My neighbor came over to my house with fresh coconut and a pot of white beans (which are rare because Nicas always eat red kidney beans).<span style=""> </span>She asked me a simple question, “Do you like these (as she pointed her nose towards the pot).” Like a dimwit, I responded, “I don’t know? <span style=""> </span>What kind of beans are they?”<span style=""> </span>She looked at me… and then looked at the pot…then looked at me again, and responded curtly, “White Beans.”<span style=""> </span>I answered with a quick “oh, yes” (as I felt the stupidity swell up inside of me).<span style=""> </span>Her eyes gave it all away because I knew immediately that she was thinking: you nincompoop, what do these look like… they are white things shaped in the form of a bean.<span style=""> </span>Later that night I ate my frijoles blanco (white beans) with a few chilies, red peppers and onions thrown in the mix (I call it white bean chili, I know… original).<span style=""> </span>And for the record, I knew they were white beans, I was simply making an inquiry into what variety of white beans they were…and I still haven’t found out, because I am afraid to ask my stupid question again!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">What happens when a virus is transferred from a local internet café onto a perfectly reliable computer??<span style=""> </span>It wreaks havoc destroying all music and photo files one by one before finally finishing off the computer by flashing the ominous ERROR 11 warning.<span style=""> </span>Unfortunately, I know this warning all too well because my computer was attacked by the deadly internet café virus…and was accordingly shut down. <span style=""> </span>On a good note, I was headed back to the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region> <span style=""> </span>in 1 weeks time…land of computer geeks galore.<span style=""> </span>The end of the story is that my computer was out of commission for most of December (hence the lack of blogging) but now it is up and running again.<span style=""> </span>Be forewarned…always scan flash drives before transferring data from a café onto a personal computer…</span></p> <div align="center"><b>My counterpart and I at a fiesta</b><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGbK_iMNhn4JvW0kLgno55_qESlzV7X7svXYXYzdj4mJl5xg-Z1WDUTIHcY1JL3MlAiNlmbluKxtv9ctpD_7kpWHf2_Z6_YyUFZflIOwjowj8kGGEnNeKoDRQp2lUyOji04cmmAauBhK8/s1600-h/Fiesta+de+Guadalupe+008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGbK_iMNhn4JvW0kLgno55_qESlzV7X7svXYXYzdj4mJl5xg-Z1WDUTIHcY1JL3MlAiNlmbluKxtv9ctpD_7kpWHf2_Z6_YyUFZflIOwjowj8kGGEnNeKoDRQp2lUyOji04cmmAauBhK8/s320/Fiesta+de+Guadalupe+008.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153244812161100514" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">About a month ago, I was on a bus headed back to my town and a lady (who also happened to be from my town) plopped down in the seat beside me.<span style=""> </span>We were talking for a while and as we drew nearer to our town I remembered that I needed to buy some cheese to accompany my dinner for that night.<span style=""> </span>However, as the sun had already set and the moon could now be clearly seen overhead, I was faced with a predicament…who sells cheese this late at night?<span style=""> </span>I know, extreme crisis!<span style=""> </span>As a momentary panic set-in, shortness of breath included, I asked the woman next to me if she knew of any cheese vender that stayed open this late.<span style=""> </span>She looked at me (seeing the pain in my eyes due to lack of really salty cheese) and respond “Si, claro.”<span style=""> </span>As we exited the bus she beckoned me to follow her (using the popular shoo-away hand gesture…which I refer to in an earlier blog accompanied with an easy to follow picture diagram).<span style=""> </span>I quickly stood up from the sticky plastic vinyl bus seat, which always manages to leave unsightly crinkle lines on the back of my legs.<span style=""> </span>I stayed by her side as we approached the house of cheese and she shouted in “Hay queso fresco?” (is there fresh cheese?).<span style=""> </span>I held my breath for the response, and then it came, “<st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Como</st1:place></st1:City>?” (“What?”).<span style=""> </span>Apparently the T.V. was up too loud, and the family inside didn’t hear the question.<span style=""> </span>As my companion shouted again “Hay, queso?”<span style=""> </span>I impatiently waited for an affirmative response, and finally it came, those lovely words that I wanted to hear “Si, hay queso” (yes, there is cheese).<span style=""> </span>I hurriedly bought 10 cords worth of cheese (or approx. 50 cents worth) and started my walk home (of course not before graciously thanking the women who led me to the cheese vendor).<span style=""> </span>Dinner was splendid, rice and beans with a side of really salty (but fresh) cheese. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I have been in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region> now for 9 months, and this longevity has enabled me to subsequently distinguish and clearly identify certain sounds that when I first arrived in-country seemed to be just background noise.<span style=""> </span>But now I see that they represent certain cultural aspects of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region> that are unique and intriguing.<span style=""> </span>I will now proceed to describe the noises I hear and although I cannot post clips…I implore the reader to use their wondrous imagination to conger up the sounds!<span style=""> </span>Every morning at 4am the “noise” starts, and no it’s not just noise, it’s in fact a CD.<span style=""> </span>A very popular CD, that happens to be played at every child’s birthday party I have ever attended.<span style=""> </span>I call the CD “Jammin’Jams to listen to while eating corn flavored birthday cake and watching children practically maul one another over small pieces of candy that are flying out of a Strawberry Shortcake shaped piñata.”<span style=""> </span>If this title is a bit confusing, I will try to break it down another level.<span style=""> </span>At piñata parties there is inevitably a piñata shaped as popular cartoon character (chica fresa aka strawberry shortcake seems to be pretty popular right now on the party scene).<span style=""> </span>Also, after the kids swing at the piñata and dance the traditional piñata dance (that involves clapping and twirling…far too complicated for me to perform…I am still searching for my inner-rhythm to emerge triumphantly).<span style=""> </span>Finally, cake made with corn flour is served to all the guests.<span style=""> </span>Now note that while all of these things are taking place a CD filled with 22 tracks of birthday songs (including tracks from The New Kids on The Block, which was a popular 80’s boy band group, and ever so popular Simon and the Chipmunks).<span style=""> </span>Yet, the scariest solo rendition of happy birthday is sung by a man with a deep tenor voice, who pronounces Happy Birthday as Happy BIRDday.<span style=""> </span>Now I can tolerate this CD<span style=""> </span>at kids parties but my neighbors apparently really love the birthday songs and they insist on playing this CD EVERY morning (starting at 4am) until around 11am.<span style=""> </span>Yep, the “Birthday Remix CD” is played on full blast EVERY morning.<span style=""> </span>And as much as I like waking up to Simon and the Chipmunks singing their remix of the classic happy birthday song, I would much rather wake up to…well, silence…yes, silence would be wonderful.<span style=""> </span>I am curious as to what CD the neighbor’s play during fiestas, because it seems like they would want to switch it up once in a while!<span style=""> </span>The next noise that I am now able to recognize on a whim is the sound of the “Giant Tall Things.”<span style=""> </span>I need a photo to accurately depict their true size/appearance, but I will briefly describe the costumes:<span style=""> </span>There is a person that stands under a large giant woman costume (complete with a head made out of newspaper and painted into the likeness of “a woman” and a large rippling skirt made of various colorful fabrics, which acts to hide the person underneath that is touting the giant woman doll).<span style=""> </span>I would venture to guess that the giant tall thing stands about <st1:metricconverter productid="10 feet" st="on">10 feet</st1:metricconverter>.<span style=""> </span>Next, there is always a kid standing nearby with a giant head placed over their regular sized head (yep, just a giant head made from newspaper and painted).<span style=""> </span>And finally there are the kids with the drums.<span style=""> </span>They bang their drums around town (signaling to everyone within earshot or a <st1:metricconverter productid="10 mile" st="on">10 mile</st1:metricconverter> radius that the giant tall thing is approaching.<span style=""> </span>What next?<span style=""> </span>Nothing, that’s it, the kids march it around town!<span style=""> </span>But the scary thing is I now can recognize the distinct sound of the “Giant Tall thing” march…I can in fact discern the sound from just normal drumming or various marching band drumming.<span style=""> </span>It is music to my ears.</span></p> <div align="center"><b> These are nacatamales (chicken or pork mixed in corn stew)</b><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAa5ONfoDPuNtdEqoKiOBMKjw9pb5QAgLldI0zXeZx5CIMrIyOEvdvnU08BnlZUqsvcVCFyOJUcgsFYJw3zqzed4UHyOxwLtUzElDFU3-kZmM3FW4JbPzgAWMKbu5O1HWMOu1lwnaIpTtO/s1600-h/Fiesta+de+Guadalupe+007.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAa5ONfoDPuNtdEqoKiOBMKjw9pb5QAgLldI0zXeZx5CIMrIyOEvdvnU08BnlZUqsvcVCFyOJUcgsFYJw3zqzed4UHyOxwLtUzElDFU3-kZmM3FW4JbPzgAWMKbu5O1HWMOu1lwnaIpTtO/s320/Fiesta+de+Guadalupe+007.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153243459246402258" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">A few weeks ago I was dog sitting, and decided to take the dog for a walk.<span style=""> </span>I put Clavo, the dog, on a leash and prepared to venture outside.<span style=""> </span>Clavo is a very popular attraction in my town (perhaps because he is a novelty…a dog not roaming free… and a dog that likes to give big kisses, without trying to bite or bark).<span style=""> </span>So there I was, walking through the streets with Clavo, people yelling his naming (and totally disregarding me!!) …he’s like a celebrity.<span style=""> </span>About 5 minutes into the walk I came across some local kids and they were looking at me and then at the dog, then back at me, and at the dog (this awkwardness continued for several minutes until I finally asked them “What was up?”).<span style=""> </span>Apparently, they thought Clavo had died (not sure why or how) and that he had been brought back to life…miraculously.<span style=""> </span>In other words the kids thought they were staring at a ghost-dog.<span style=""> </span>I tried to explain that Clavo had never died, but they couldn’t be convinced otherwise.<span style=""> </span>Finally, I gave up and decided to let them believe whatever they wanted to believe!<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">My trip back to the <st1:country-region st="on">USA</st1:country-region> (and more specifically, <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colorado</st1:place></st1:State>) was fun but short.<span style=""> </span>It was nice to have regularly running water and lights (although now that I am without these modern conveniences again, it’s not that bad).<span style=""> </span>While in Colorado, I found myself missing: the sound of the roosters in the morning (and come to think of it, all throughout the day because they just never stop squawking), the sounds of my neighbors yelling my name, “Brik/Bris” (well, it’s not exactly my name, but close enough, right?) and the warm tropical climate of Nicaragua.<span style=""> </span>The most exciting thing I did during my trip back home was EAT!<span style=""> </span>But it’s good to be back in my little town, in my tiny house, surrounded by all the creepy crawly things that keep me on my toes.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Acclimating back into life in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nicaragua</st1:place></st1:country-region>, after spending 16 days with my family and friends during the holiday season, was interesting.<span style=""> </span>I was yelled at (cat-calling) by two guys in the airport parking lot and then 10 minutes later I had a man ask me to be his girlfriend (yep that’s right…he didn’t even know my first name but apparently it was love at first sight and we were meant to be together).<span style=""> </span>So, of course I accepted and now I am dating someone I know nothing about, so far I think our relationship is off to a good start, I know absolutely nothing about him and he knows absolutely nothing about me, ignorance is bliss.<span style=""> </span>Now back to reality, I have not completely lost my mind…so no worries, I am not dating a random guy I just met.<span style=""> </span>But that run-in did remind me to put my guard back on…because in my delusional state I forgot that I have a boyfriend already (yep, my imaginary boyfriend).<span style=""> </span>However, I have noticed that sometimes the mention of a boyfriend just makes guys more willing to fight for my love, so I think I am going to say I’m either engaged or married.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As I got onto the big yellow school bus I was immediately snapped back into reality.<span style=""> </span>Crowded seats and vendors selling jugo(juice), dulce (candy) and anything and everything else!<span style=""> </span>About half way through my bus ride I was rudely awakened from my catnap by a bunch of tomatoes falling onto my head.<span style=""> </span>In my daze, I was confused at first, and mistook the tomatoes for apples, but once I came to I realized that they were in fact red tomatoes…that had rolled out of their bag, which was conveniently placed directly over my head in the baggage rack.<span style=""> </span>They hit the top of my head (bop, there goes tomato 1, bop, and tomato 2…bop, bop, bop add 3 more to the mix) and then I was forced to collect them and re-bag them for their owner.<span style=""> </span>Following the tomato incident, the two women sitting in front of me were hit in the face by a mystery liquid dripping out of another produce bag.<span style=""> </span>I am just lucky that the tomatoes that hit me weren’t very ripe.<span style=""> </span>However, the women in front of me were not very lucky, and not too happy either, the owner of all the produce had to gather their numerous bags and put them of their lap for the remainder of the bus ride.</span></p> <div align="center"><b> This is the virgin guadalupe</b><br /></div> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4iaTMbMESvYRuhyphenhyphenaislVHt4rEmHzWuydkh9PKuXrzUeJALX24PHKOCPlhfhqA2X72moo6ZWkOmuohkT2iedHehpyzl8zQEliO9g1QRcKVVnpxcr0ODQkauD4FjcYN_KLhopVUx40-n_o/s1600-h/Fiesta+de+Guadalupe+001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4iaTMbMESvYRuhyphenhyphenaislVHt4rEmHzWuydkh9PKuXrzUeJALX24PHKOCPlhfhqA2X72moo6ZWkOmuohkT2iedHehpyzl8zQEliO9g1QRcKVVnpxcr0ODQkauD4FjcYN_KLhopVUx40-n_o/s320/Fiesta+de+Guadalupe+001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153242282425363138" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I felt the excitement brewing as the bus slowly approached my town, and as I peered out my window I saw people carrying buckets filled with water, which could only mean one thing…the water in my town was out.<span style=""> </span>And therefore I arrived home to find my house a complete dusty disaster (from being left 16 days without cleaning) and there I was, standing in the doorway knowing that there was no water to use to clean my house.<span style=""> </span>I found several dead rats, which I swept out the front door.<span style=""> </span>And for dinner I ate tuna in a can, so I wouldn’t dirty any dishes.<span style=""> </span>Now I am sitting in the semi-dark, the room being illuminated by a single flashlight, but tomorrow is another day (thanks Scarlet) and hopefully it will bring with it water!</span></p>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5857306939769343060.post-10569794261612896762007-12-11T11:45:00.000-06:002007-12-11T12:00:32.964-06:00Volcano running...a new sporting event, not intended for the faint of heart<div align="center"><strong>View from the top of Cerro Negro.</strong></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHg_hitrjRZaKdJaGzMTFFdAX97ILgKbP70VGImrxQnXTGYWg-5vq4FTFu9wAFunx2CxbPXuqlIm0bDzUoPE0jq_GrhlIgm-85h-bBceWLDz5kC2b3E6QMZnck5qljr4G5Qg2fj3KTP2h/s1600-h/Achuapa+y+Cerro+Negro+017.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142775475209222834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHg_hitrjRZaKdJaGzMTFFdAX97ILgKbP70VGImrxQnXTGYWg-5vq4FTFu9wAFunx2CxbPXuqlIm0bDzUoPE0jq_GrhlIgm-85h-bBceWLDz5kC2b3E6QMZnck5qljr4G5Qg2fj3KTP2h/s400/Achuapa+y+Cerro+Negro+017.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong>I hiked down into the volcano Cerro Negro, it was hot and gas could be seen coming out of the earth...amazing.</strong><br /><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmsOhEctNVtIKyddqnpumNatQ87Fx6t-M0zqyNpL04pIQZi6lfN-5X3lybbgXlSJrzsRjwc5qBYK4oktbG7wq7M7FgivMnQpyiY8lmuhsVV1vm6MEGz0xKx_eODMVO2eb7K-zMgQ5nON77/s1600-h/Achuapa+y+Cerro+Negro+020.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142774989877918370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmsOhEctNVtIKyddqnpumNatQ87Fx6t-M0zqyNpL04pIQZi6lfN-5X3lybbgXlSJrzsRjwc5qBYK4oktbG7wq7M7FgivMnQpyiY8lmuhsVV1vm6MEGz0xKx_eODMVO2eb7K-zMgQ5nON77/s320/Achuapa+y+Cerro+Negro+020.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Quick updates:</span></strong><br /><br /><strong>Good ridenance, the raton is Dead!:</strong> My little mouse friend as passed-on…I did not kill him but I am pretty sure my neighbors did and he ended up dead in my house.<br /><strong><br />Bike problems…the continuing saga:</strong> My brakes are shot again…I have obviously been riding too much…on really steep terrain! And of course, my bike got two flat tires, but it only cost C$6 to fix the problem, not too shabby!<br /><br /><strong>Dog sitting (warning: don’t actually sit on dog…this is a figurative term):</strong> While dog sitting, my neighbors decided to give Clavo (the dog) a goodie. No it was not a milk bone or a chew toy but instead it was a giant pig’s ear, which Clavo decided to bring into my house. I looked down with a surprised look as I caught him gnawing happily on the ear…no biggie…but I did ask him politely to take the ear into the backyard.<br /><br /><strong>Another wild ride on the bus:</strong> Catching the big bus is always an adventure and yesterday’s ride was no exception. I boarded the bus only to find myself stuck in between: señor sexy, big madre and bollo de coco vender (candy vender)… YIKES! I couldn’t move, and there was no point of even holding on because I was wedged so tightly it would take the Jaws of Life to get me out of that predicament. Thankfully a really nice Nica couple saw the look of desperation on my face and squeezed together so that I could sit down next to them on the bus. Once again, the kindness of strangers never falters…gracias a dios!<br /><br /><strong>Weather update:</strong> The rain has stopped and will not return until next rainy season (the month of July)…from here on out it is just going to get hotter<br /><br /><strong>Quality vs. price the debate rages on:</strong> My kids think that quality is nonsense and that price is the only thing that matters; however, when I approached them the scenario concerning my ongoing bike troubles they had to stop and wonder…is price all that matters? I believe they are still pondering this thought, but at least it has them questioning the quality of products (and therefore simultaneously preparing them for the business class next year).<br /><br /><strong>Cultural difference:</strong> Customer service…does not exist aqui…case and point, when at any local restaurant…after finishing the meal…the customer has to hunt down the owner to pay for their meal…and on top of it all the owner is guaranteed not to have cambio (change)…so be prepared and always carry small bills!<br /><br /><strong>Tour de Sauce:</strong> Lance Armstrong has the Tour de France, and Nica Peace Corps volunteers have the Tour de Sauce…what in the world is the sauce? It’s a small town in Nicaragua that a bunch of us decided to bike to…35k later we reached our destination, hot, thirsty y con hambre (with hunge)! All of my Nica neighbors thought I was CRAZY for biking that far, but it was a lot of fun!<br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>Cerro Negro, the volcano located behind my house...a 4 hour bike ride to the base, a 30 minutes hike to the top and a 1 minute run down the side of the mountain! </strong><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98Xklb2YtTWUEcKq58aYbcQxTOOwICleq3SVGZ4DWnGfhn5z50-66PvIomNhv_f6VY6VZoNpn_248wrVLwdId3iwMV6rIGd_A2lVGkivwlnEJs5aSTbYTa0UXyXNt4Y9itDVPOIJyQKiX/s1600-h/Achuapa+y+Cerro+Negro+004.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142773744337402498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98Xklb2YtTWUEcKq58aYbcQxTOOwICleq3SVGZ4DWnGfhn5z50-66PvIomNhv_f6VY6VZoNpn_248wrVLwdId3iwMV6rIGd_A2lVGkivwlnEJs5aSTbYTa0UXyXNt4Y9itDVPOIJyQKiX/s320/Achuapa+y+Cerro+Negro+004.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left">Chavalos are painting my house “bancentro” yellow (for those of you that do not live in Nicaragua and therefore do not know what bancentro yellow is it can be described as: sunshine/Tang (the astronaut drink)/dull/no need for sunglasses because it’s not that bright/they call it mellow yellow…that’s right…or put simply bancentro yellow). The trim is being painted a rusty red color (no need for an overzealous description, because rusty red says it all). And as an added bonus the chavalos also painted my clothes and hanging plants (por gratis…for free). Ok, here’s the story, I hung up my laundry apparently a little too close to the hombres trabajando (men at work) area because when I came home I noticed that all my clothing had a thin coat of paint! The chavalos apologized and assured me that they used water based paint; and therefore, it would wash out of my clothes. It seems that someone lent the chavalos an automatic paint spraying gun (mistake numero uno: NEVER lend chavalos an automatic anything…things are bound to get broken and people are guaranteed to get hurt). Case and point, my clothes were covered in paint and the once green plants were now paint covered in rojo. My cement walkway is also a blend of yellow/red…whose idea was it to give the chavalos this paint sprayer?? When my host mom arrived home to see the gigantic mess the boys made, she reprimanded them and hastily took away the paint sprayer. The boys are still painting (it’s been a three week “process” but at least they don’t have the automatic painter anymore). Oh the chavalo drama continues, because not only are they painting the house they are also making stuff (not sure what exactly and I am pretty sure they have no clue either as to what they are constructing, but once again someone lent the chavalos an automatic tool… in this case, a table saw). Therefore, the boys decided to cut a bunch of wood up INSIDE their house, which happens to be connected directly to my house. Out of nowhere a huge cloud of saw dust descended on my living room and bedroom…coughing and frantically looking for my keys I blindly rummaged through my house before escaping the dust cloud. I left for the day (in a sour mood and allergies) only to return later on that afternoon to find my house blanketed in saw dust…it took me 3 days to clean everything up/out (think laundry, mopping, basically the works)! Lesson learned NEVER give chavalos power tools or anything that requires electricity!<br /><br />Bus incident (number 203…but who’s counting): I was sitting on the microbus minding my own business (WARNING THIS IS A LITTLE GROSS) and the next thing know I have throw-up running down my right arm…yep, I was thrown-up on! It was bond to happen sooner or later and I don’t doubt that it will happen again. I am quite honestly surprised that it doesn’t happen more often considering the fact that bus rides are long, traversing on bad roads and people eat things on the bus such as: coleslaw/mustard/ketchup covered hotdogs, candy, fried platanos and gaseosa en bolsas (soda pop in bags). The best part about this isolated incident is that my stop was still an hour away, but on a positive note the windows were all rolled down and therefore a cool breeze was passing through the bus! I would like to suggest that all buses carry barf-bags for passengers (they seem to bag everything else so why not just place bags throughout the bus for people who suffer from carsickness…it would save the rest of us from getting thrown-up on!!). Now if only I could find the “suggestion box” to place these words of wisdom…aka not going to happen…but I can dream, right?<br /><br />Water and electricity: The water has returned!! Good thing too because I had all my laundry sitting in buckets of water (so it wouldn’t mold) ready to be washed thoroughly whenever the water returned…I have also stocked up on my drinking water because during this last water shortage I was literally sucking the juice out of oranges, because I was so thirsty and had run out of drinking water! Just to drive home my point, my town RAN OUT OF FRESCOS because of the water shortage and this is simply unheard of in Nicaragua…there is ALWAYS a fresco available, so its gotta be bad when the local fresco lady doesn’t even have water for those sweet concocted beverages that I love sooooo much.<br /><br />Let’s see, for the past week my neighbors have been busy as beavers remodeling their house and because my house is connected directly to their house I have suffered sawdust, loud construction noises and electrical problems. However this isn’t even the worst of it because I am sin luz again. My house has been re-wired AGAIN…which means quite simply I have no electricity…meanwhile my neighbors (who have plenty of electricity because they are sucking the electricity that should be going into my house into their house in order to power multiple TVs and radios simultaneously). Meanwhile, I sit alone in the dark without even enough electricity to power a nightlight! The chavalos rewired in order to put a large, incredibly bright light in the backyard. Now when I open my back door in the middle of the night, I feel like it is high noon because the new light blinds my eyes and illuminates the surrounding sky (I can’t even see the stars anymore). The light takes the place of the sun…and no I am not exaggerating the luminescence. </div></div></div>Brie Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06585181665003967184noreply@blogger.com2