Published: February 6th 2008February 6th 2008
Ok all...so here it goes. I´ve been in Managua for about 5 days, and just thinking about all of the things that I need to get down in writing makes me want to explode - and for those who know me well, yes, it´s almost like an orgasmic explosion of shock and excitement. At any rate, the trip to Managua went really well. I was able to meet all of the other 19 American students at the airport, and by now I think that we´ve gotten over all of the awkwardness at the beginning (yes, I have made my bowel movements, or lack thereof known). So far, I can tell that these are some pretty legit and awesome people - I know for a fact that these guys will ensure crazy, good times to come.
So onto Masaya and the "drop-off" experience...On the second day of being in the country, my academic director, Anne (who is proably one of the most down to earth people I've met) dropped pairs of students off throughout the city with the objective of finding the answer to one of the random cultural questions that we had chosen. In all honesty, I was scared shitless right when I hopped off the bus. Yay for experiantial learning. But right after my partner and I averted the advances from a few guys, who actuallly turned out to be more helpful than creepy, everything was all good. I learned that Las festivales de San Jeronimo is basically one huge block party to celebrate the patron saint, dress up in costumes, and get drunk off your ass. Good times, indeed.
Now, as far as my homestay family goes, in the words of a very profound poet, they are the "cheese to my macaroni." When I first saw my homestay mother, Doña Eva, she immediately reminded me of my mom. She is the tiniest thing ever, and let me tell you, she can break it down on the dance floor - she pretended she was an old guy receiving a lap dance during the introduction to the families. Yeah, I know. And during the revolution, her oldest son was drafted by the Sandinistas to fight in mountains. She was one of the thousands of other mothers who risked their lives to visit their sons and daughters on the front. My father tells me that so many mothers had died there. But in short, she is the sweest woman ever, and I am so happy to call her mom.
On another important note, my grandma is 102 years old! I think that makes up for all of the years that I haven´t had any grandparents. She is even tinier than my mom, but she is still kicking. It´s a little difficult to communicate with her, but when I asked her what she was sick from she gave me this sigh that pretty much translated into one-hundred and two years.
I have more family members, classes, and experiences that I'll get into later. But I'll end this entry by telling you all a little bit about my Spanish instructor. She is 38 years old now, but when she was 15 , she left her family to fight with the Sandinistas so she could receive a free education. At military school she was one of 3 girls out of more than 150 men. Like a lot of other people here, I'm sure she can handle an AK-47 like nobody's business. She was shot in the leg, after all. That said, I've come to the early conclusion that everyone in this country has a story to tell. And it's a damn good one at that.