As I was sitting in the Moravian church yesterday morning, listening to the rise and fall of the voices as songs were sung, prayers recited, and stories shared in honor of World AIDS Day, I found myself reflecting on the events that had brought me from a small town tucked into the mountains near the Honduran border to this coastal community on the other side of the country. And then I realized that it had been a very long time since I’d updated this blog, and that some of you out there might be wondering what has become of me.
A lot has happened in the last two months. I’ll try my best to catch you all up without excessive rambling.
On October 7, I experienced a security incident in my normally sleepy town of San Lucas that resulted in my rather hasty and permanent departure. That Sunday afternoon, as I was sitting in the living room watching a movie, my host granddaughter ran in to close and lock the back door. "Los vagos ya vienen (roughly translated, the bad men are coming)," she told me, and ran back out. Shortly after, I began to hear shouting coming from the road out in front, and the sound of rocks crashing into cement walls and onto the zinc roofing. Confused, I shut off the television and ambled out to the porch to investigate. Which was when the shooting started. I scurried to my room and jammed my security log against the door. Crouched low to the ground, I called a third year volunteer friend.
"During your last two years here, was there ever a shoot-out in your site?" I asked him, voice rising in a mixture of disbelief and panic.
"No. That’s messed up," he replied after a moment. "Are those gunshots I hear in the background?"
"Yeah. What should I do?"
"Call Peace Corps. Right now."
The next twenty minutes were spent on the floor of my room, communicating with several staff members of Peace Corps Nicaragua and waiting for the end of the fighting. When the noise finally died down, I packed a bag and went out to the road. All around me was evidence of the violence: scattered rocks, broken doors and shutters, chunks of cement taken out of walls, long scratches in the pavement. I spoke briefly with my host family, who told me that a gang of around 15 young men from a few of the nearby communities had come to town, armed with rocks and machetes, in order to loot and destroy property. The police, armed with guns, met up with them as they approached my family’s compound, and a fight ensued. Remarkably, few were seriously injured. According to a host cousin, these fights were relatively infrequent but not unknown. I hailed one of the town’s few taxis and started out for Somoto, leaving my host family behind to assess the damage that had been done to their homes.
Those thirty minutes, though terrifying, were game changers. While I had been integrating well, getting to know many of my site’s inhabitants and becoming comfortable with my host family, I had been having significant problems when it came to work. I felt frustrated, restricted, and extraneous. I had started to strongly question my ability to meet my goals and serve my community effectively, and my desire to remain in service. I’d been discussing my difficulties with administration, trying to find a solution outside of early termination, but wasn’t feeling extremely optimistic. And then suddenly, it all changed. I was told that I would not be returning to site (other than to collect my belongings and say my goodbyes), but rather would be staying in Managua until a new site could be developed for me.
So I settled into a hotel by the office, dragging my life with me in half a dozen backpacks, grain storage sacks, and plastic bags. I found work to do while I waited for the staff to find a new site for me. I adopted the hotel staff as my new host family of sorts. I took small trips to Rivas, Esteli, and Carazo to temporarily escape the confines of Managua. I met seasoned volunteers at the end of their service, new trainees who had yet to begin, and many that fell somewhere in between in their service. As the time dragged on, I began to feel like an office installation – another piece of the Peace Corps volunteer lounge furnishings.
I witnessed Nicaragua’s municipal elections, in which the Sandanista party secured the vast majority of mayoral seats and rioting subsequently broke out in several cities nationwide. I spent an evening in the embassy, watching the votes come in that secured Obama’s second term as president. I went to Granada for Thanksgiving and shared a traditional(ish) meal with volunteers, expats, and travelers in a beautiful hotel owned by two sisters and former volunteers.
After a month and a half of waiting, periodic discussions with the staff, and several site visits, the final decision was made. I packed my belongings into the back of a Peace Corps vehicle this past Monday morning and was driven six hours to my new site (for the record, if I had been using public transportation, it would have taken a whole lot longer).
Which brings us to the present, with me sitting in the light-filled wooden church in Pearl Lagoon. A new site. A new beginning. I know I will be faced with challenges and frustrations, but I’m cautiously optimistic. And, after these past two months, I’m at the very least more patient.
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