Jungle Death March Part II

Fourteen year-old Anyelka, my closest comrade here in the mountains, arrives on schedule at precisely 10:35 AM. She pays me a visit every Sunday after mass ends to deliver my week's batch of clean laundry. She wears a canary yellow polo shirt, dirty whitewashed jeans, and broken plastic flip-flop sandals reminiscent of the jellies I remember wearing in middle school. The intensely light colors of her outfit highlight her smooth cappuccino skin tone, and her cat-like obsidian eyes sparkle with teenage secrets. She fishes in her pocket to produce a solitary earring, which is presented to me along with a handmade wire and bead bracelet. My gifts for the morning, which I’ve learned to accept with sincere gratitude rather than attempt to refuse.
Last week Anyelka asked me with unabashed curiously why I only had one small grocery bag full of clothes per week for her mother to wash. I told her that I did not need all the clothes washed that I'd worn for the week, only the completely dust-ridden ones. She looked at me wonderingly and shrugged her shoulders with a slight smirk which I take to mean "oh that -- (insert adjective here)-- gringa!" The shoulder shrug with hands held up in a despairing question mark is a common expression for the locals in San Jose de Cusmapa, who marvel at their token gringa's foreign ways. I wonder how long it will take for Anyelka to give up on my un-cleanliness, for as Walt Whitman wrote, "the scent of these armpits, aroma finer than prayer" and I find that his sage advice applies directly to my clothing habits. I also wonder why, when we're facing a fairly serious water shortage here on our mountain-top, where the nearest "river" (read: foot-wide trickle) is located at least 4 kilometers below the city, that my not wanting to have more clothes washed on a weekly basis has become such a concern for Anyelka. I’m not used to a fourteen year-old pitying my "bedraggled vagabond" style. And by pitying I mean pitying. I truly believe that she has taken upon herself the impossible task of turning me into a presentable woman. If I really knew Spanish I'd explain to her that it's truly not worth her effort. Instead I smile widely; her enthusiasm for my hopeless habits is a lovely gesture of friendship.

Anyelka inquires if I'd be interested in meeting her Padrino (godfather) in the afternoon, an invitation that I simply cannot resist. I've just sat down at my computer to get some reading done for a project I'm starting here with women’s health education (something I'd effectively put off all weekend by hiking all over the place, taking pictures, sleeping on the spectacular down pillow Steph left me, making a glorious stir-fry for my roommates, and practicing my struggling guitar skills) so I ask her to come back around three in the afternoon to fetch me. After she waltzes out the door, fulfilled with a cup of tea and a mango (both of our favorites) I make a valiant attempt to get back to my reading.

Five minutes later I hear a shuffling of steps in our living room and recognize the notorious muttering of the three-toothed cackling homeless woman of Cusmapa. Her sun-baked grinning face greets me with hardy laughter and she croons a string of Spanish of which I understand less than one word . I've found that teeth are an important factor in whether or not I'm able to understand the language... at least a 70% increase in my understanding happens when a person has more than a handful of teeth. Her gnarled fingers generously pat me on the head like I'm a small, well-behaved child. I hand her a package of saltine crackers and lead her to the door, trying to explain that she can't just come in to our house without knocking... a particularly ridiculous statement as all doors in Cusmapa are always open to this ancient wandering soul. I feel sort of a kindred spirit with this semi-crazy crone, as we're regarded by community members with the same sentiment. We're intriguing and eccentric yet harmless apparitions- not of the same reality, clumsily stumbling along the outer boundaries of the community begging for a moment's inclusion. As I shoo her out the door I'm able to decipher a mumbled yet sincere "gracias" before turning back to my work.

Moments later I hear footsteps climbing our front steps and a knock, peek around the corner and OH NO there stands a very hopeful local Romeo (and by local Romeo I mean he lives 3 hours from Cusmapa by bus). I met him last weekend and had (what I thought was) a very terse conversation (read: I'm most definitely not interested in you) before assuring him that I had a very serious race-car-driver boyfriend back in the States. Yet, he saunters into my life again, Saved by the Bell era bleached jean jacket flung over his shoulder, waiting for an invite to sit down. I'm brisk with him to the point of rudeness. At this point but I’m really not in the mood to get hit on by a creepy guy who think's he's Webster's definition of saucy sexiness. He gets the hint after a few minutes, and literally turns on his heel to make a quick exit when Domingo, one of my roommates, returns from lunch and passes him in the doorway with a friendly handshake (read: "come on in, buddy!) then immediately disappears into his bedroom. Damnit Domingo. I continue to read about women's reproductive rights (ie: I'm most definitely not interested in talking to you!) and he finally asks "am I annoying you?" (um... are you kidding me?!). In trying to adhere with the local cultural practice of saving face of both people involved by lying to somebody's face I reply “of course not, I just need to work" and explain to him how important I think it is for women here to be able to have the right to legal abortion (at least when the mother's life is at risk- a right which was taken away by law about six months ago). I think this topic will turn him off infinitely. I’m dead wrong. This statement somehow turns into a half hour discussion on religion, at the pinnacle of which he generously gives me a copy of an Evangelical DVD (after I’d told him that I think Evangelical religions are absolutely frightening and assured him that I wanted nothing to do with that type of church). I politely and enthusiastically refuse his preaching peace pipe. His weak laughter in retaliation of my refusal only augments the awkwardness; he continues with unyielding romantic advances. At this point I answer with a ruthless silence. Finally he stands, clears his throat, and attempts a cheek-kiss, which I meet with a handshake. He tells me he hopes to see me soon. I say the only thing which seems appropriate in the moment, "adios". Sometimes “goodbye” is all there’s left to say...

I've entirely wasted two hours of my "working" time entertaining and attempting to thwart various visitors. The clock reads 1:50. I sigh... one hour of work before Anyelka's return. I'll give you ONE guess what happened next. Of course my dear little friend shows up an hour early (which is nearly unheard of in Nicaragua, most of the time people arrive to events or meetings between 20 minutes and two hours late) obviously excited for our little jaunt. What choice did I have but to close up shop? I completely surrender any hope of getting work done on this interrupted Sunday afternoon. We walk in silence in the mid-afternoon heat to say a quick hello to Blanca (Anyelka's 32 year-old mother) who stands in the doorway holding a wiggly two-year-old Luis (the baby of the family). Luis greets me with great gusto and pats my hand in response to my greetings. Blanca, always quick to smile, assures me that Anyelka's padrino's house is "circa" (very close) to Cusmapa.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up una momento. My "Nicaraguan cultural knowledge" alarm goes off in high volume. I’ve heard these words before.. a "very close distance to walk" in La Concha this January turned into a 8 mile "Jungle Death March" (as Sky, my buddy from New York and I dubbed it in an exhausted attempt to find some sort of humor in the situation). The Jungle Death March ended with me falling three times and nearly crawling on hands and knees to the top of a mountain ridge in a sweaty collapsing mess. The crowning moment was when we finally stumbled upon a roadside pulperia (corner store) where a crinkled bespectacled woman in an apron sold us water which had been (in her words) "partially" frozen. I’ve never had a more joyous and devastating moment in the span of a coveted gulp of water. Sky and I had toasted, our water bottles clinking magnificently as only the promise of cold water after a dust-laden death march can feel, and tipped back our heads at the same moment, only yearning for a giant gulp of gloriousness. Instead I received a meager three drops of water. In all honesty I nearly cried in that evil moment. Instead, Sky and I immediately caught each others eyes and laughed hysterically for about five minutes, enough time for our COMPLETELY frozen water to thaw for a hearty gulp. After the Jungle Death March I decided to acknowledge that most Nicaraguans' sense of distance would be extremely different from my North American lazy-assed perspective.

In my state of alarm, I indicate to Anyelka that I thought her padrino lived IN Cusmapa, not SOMEWHERE CLOSE TO CUSMAPA (why else would i have signed up for this program?). My mind reels with the desperate knowledge that I’m already in for the long haul. Ticket booked, signed, sealed, delivered, no refunds, no change-of-date, no coupon for a free alcoholic beverage. I make an executive decision to return to my house to put on sunscreen and get a water bottle, change into more appropriate clothes for "a very close distance walk" and am struck like lightning with karma for my annoyed demeanor by a rock jumping under my foot which sends me flying across the cobblestone street in front of my house. I completely skin my knee before the journey even begins. This not a good omen; but it does lighten my spirits, giving the whole adventure a surreal air.

We set off down the river-bed of a road at about 2:45 PM and Anyelka assures me that we'll return by 5. I completely concur with her cousin Aleygda, (age 13) who's also accompanying us, when she exclaims "mentira!" (you're lying!) HA! We read right through your claim that your padrino only lives half-an-hour walk from Cusmapa! Jader (Anyelka's five-year-old brother who's had a veritable river of snot running down his face since the moment I met him) and Marvin (Aleygda's seven-year-old brother) skip ahead of us exclaiming and pointing out various bugs and trees for our viewing pleasure. My next clue that I'm embarking on another Jungle Death March comes after about 15 minutes, when the dried river bed we're hopping from side to side down suddenly veers off to the right, a foot-wide rocky path down the mountainside into the tangled forest of the unknown. This path just so happens to be the same one Domingo pointed out to me earlier in the morning as “dangerous”. Great. After a few tenuous first steps down the 60 degree incline, I get a bit self-assured with my mountain-goat like mountain scaling abilities and immediately am upended, skinning my entire forearm on a sharp rock. I let out a few choice explicatives, dust myself off, and glare at the menacing path which winds before me in a mocking display of unearthed tree roots, boulders, and pools of dust. At this point I absorb myself in conquering the path with all the sheer force my gringa-ness allows me, I concentrate fiercely with each step. You will not skin any other part of my body today, enough is enough. Anyelka fake-falls twice to make me feel better. Again, a true friend, allowing me to not look so ridiculously silly in my constant follies. In her motherly ways, she walks behind me watching my every movement, exclaiming and clucking when I make the slightest error "cuidado!" (be careful!). She also makes a point of making me look up from my careful steps every five seconds to regard a pine tree, which I think I’ve seen my fare share of growing up in Montana.

After about a half-hour of clambering down this precarious path to the forest floor, we hit solid flat ground. I make no attempt to hide my joy for the upcoming leg of our adventure- which looks remarkably tranquil compared to the last hair-raising descent. The right of our path is lined with a variety of trees- most look like what I’d imagine olive trees to be- scraggly and grey-barked, branches reaching toward the sky at unthinkable angles, sinew broken by time and the constant gale of mountain wind. To the left, a sea of mountain ranges. I’ve heard varieties of these facts but apparently the first mountain range is in Nicaragua, the second misty range is in Honduras, then the flat expanse of the Pacific Ocean can be seen in the distance. I learn today that the volcano I’d thought was in Honduras is in fact Volcan Momotombo, near the foot of which lies the capital city of Managua. I also now know that the third range of mountains (which can only be seen on a completely clear-skied day like today) are in El Salvador. I’m no geographer, but I realize that my home state, Montana, is probably bigger than all three of these countries combined. Anyelka stops to pick up a dead bug from the ground, which strikes me as a cross between a house-fly, a dragon-fly, and a grasshopper- and looks positively too large for my comfort. "chinchilla" she tells me, as she points to the trees. they must be the culprits of the constant cacophonous symphony of monotone ringing rising from the forests here, a vibrato which at points during the next hour or so of walking runs through my nerves with an electric current of shiver-inducing sound.

We pass a wild-haired woman and her little one sitting in the shadows of a naked tree waiting for something, anything, to happen. Anyelka tells me they're selling some type of fruit from a red sandbox bucket. I brought two pesos with me for the adventure, which seems to be enough for the sprightly woman to finger through the fruit to pick out the best ones for each of the five of us. I end up with a half-chewed on (by some small animal I'm assuming) piece which looks like a cross between an apple, a nectarine, a plum, and a pomegranate with a waxy yellowish-red skin and an entirely fake looking stem (right out of a Christmas decor catalog). At first bite I pucker with the bitterness, however my thirst overpowers the flavor and I soon find myself appraising it as a lovely specimen of the fruity kind. I'm thirsty at this point because the first time I'd produced my 16-ounce water bottle and taken a swig I'd been swarmed by the kids and was left with a nice mouthful of backwash for whatever thirst-inducing trails that certainly lay ahead. Note to self: next time bring a gallon of water (and a donkey, and a ankle wrap).

We're suddenly on the valley floor and stumble upon what must be a new school surrounded by barbed wire fence, plopped in literally the most rural place I've ever seen. I’m awestruck, and even more so when Anyelka informs me that if you follow the road the school's situated on you'll be in Honduras in 4 KM. What that really means, I have no idea. Just the thought of walking to Honduras in itself is marvelous. We walk across the "road" (which around these parts is one of the nicest, flattest, most navigable roads I've seen), and the kids assure me that from here it's "very close". We round a corner to find a woman relieving herself in the middle of the path about 40 yards ahead. The kids whisper and giggle to themselves and tell me she's crazy. She pulls up her turquoise skirt and picks up the burden of her water bucket, ducking under a barbed wire fence all in one stealthy and sure movement. As we pass, she eyeballs me suspiciously and returns an "adios". Aleygda tells me that a few months ago she killed both of her parents, and that's why they call her crazy. I gulp. Well, now not only am I on a Death March but I'm literally on a Death March in the middle of absolute nowhere and we have a known murderer who I’ve just sauntered past and gregariously greeted. Why am I not surprised?

Anyelka informs me that this walk seems long to me because I've never been here before. I scoff in my mind. No shit Sherlock, but we have been hiking now for nearly two hours. Thirty minutes later we finally step through a creaking wooden gate on to the infamous Padrino's property. I stop dead in my tracks to marvel at a 20 foot tall boulder, an artifact of ancient times, upon which a grove of trees have planted themselves, their leaves whispering in the soft late-afternoon sunshine. My companions, who by now have become accustomed to my substantial and un-ceasing obsession with trees, wait patiently while I snap off a few photos. The path winds round the other side of the boulder, where a house is nestled into the hillside. Anyelka calms her Padrino's dog who has probably never seen a white person before and by the sound of his grumbling growl I assume has white-woman flesh on the brain. I consider my unclothed calves, which to this malnourished pup must look like a drumstick mirage of mythic proportions and allow for a few queasy moments to pass before he's calmed down. I'm hospitably asked to enter and to sit in one of two chairs which decorate the one-room house. From the ceiling hang bunches of dried corn and green plantains. The corner houses a clay oven upon which simmers a pot of coffee. I'm graciously offered "cafecita" (a cup of coffee). I think to myself how strange a lot of social situations would be here if I didn't drink coffee, it's entirely a national pastime. Consuming your host's homebrew here is an essential part a part of being a guest.

I have a brief conversation with said-Padrino, a middle-aged man going on 80, with a thin graying moustache and a body frame of a man who's spent his life hard-laboring in the fields, who now feels the deep pressure of time and age. His left eye clouded with cataracts, and hair peppered with hints of black peering boldly through silver, he asks me if I know Mateo (one of the American volunteers who lived here about 5 years ago) and I tell him no, then ask him how far it is to Honduras. He tells me 15 kilometers. A bit different than Anyelka's 4 kilometers- but at least I’m getting a mean of 9.5 which is definitely walkable. Chickens wander in and out of the dirt-floored room, and I watch the kids hunkered down by the door sharing a cup of coffee, listless in these few moments of non-movement.

Anyelka gives up on the prospect of a deep long-winded conversation between her Padrino and I, and we descend out the back door down the hillside to a little quebrata (water pump which serves as bathing area and laundry facility) where three girls in their early-teens vigorously scrub today's laundry, absolutely soaked to the bone. The kids find it strange that I'm not compelled to rinse my feet off. I’m all too aware that we're soon to be on our return voyage, so I don't really see the necessity of washing them. Again I'm met with a notorious "hopeless gringa" shoulder shrug and we clamber back up the hillside to the house. We're given a bunch of bananas for the walk back, I’m squawked at by a frightened baby (this also happens to me often here, as to them my thick-rimmed glasses and facial piercings probably look absolutely and horrifyingly alien), and we say our goodbyes. I'm told to return soon, which I promise to do. Now that I know how close they live to Cusmapa, how could I not visit more often?!

We take a different path back. Another pattern I'm noticing about the way things work around here is that when you walk somewhere you never take the same path to return. Always walking in circles... Twenty minutes into our walk I find myself ducking under a barbed wire fence and the kids are looking at each other warily. I know this kid look, I’m not that old yet. In universal kid language it means "we're most definitely not supposed to be here right now but let's not tell the old lady cause then if we get caught we can just blame it on her". We tiptoe past what appear to be bunkhouses and are met with the yipping of yet another underfed canine admiring my white chops. We quickly duck out of sight behind a latrine and are suddenly in the front yard of Tia's (Auntie's) house. Five kids sit on a long bench out front, sharing a small elementary calculator and one notebook, arguing about the solution to a math problem. They snicker at my plaid boy-shorts as I lumber in front of their huddle. I use the word lumber as I've been making a lot of "fat gringa" jokes lately mainly because, well, my roommate informs me on a constant basis that I'm fat. He never says it like it's a bad thing, just like it's an indisputable truth. I don't know which of these meanings is worse, but they're equally detrimental to a gal like me who already towers above 99% of the women here by at least a foot (take into consideration that I'm only 5'6").

Present circumstances being that I'm wearing a scarf around my head and sporting baggy boy-shorts, sweating like a bandit, I suppose if I saw me right now I'd be doing a lot of snickering too. I'm invited in to a 8 X 8 foot room for a brief moment, till Tia's baby has one look at me and starts howling it's little head off. I make a beeline for the exit. By beeline I mean I take a step backwards and go back outside, and take a seat on the bench near the group of snickerers. An old man in a loose-fitting forest-ranger uniform joins me and we sit in deep silence. I study his time-worn wrinkles as he stares off into the distance. He seems nearly blind but moves his gaze toward a group of chiming clattering children down the road and offers a wide-mouthed non-toothed grin. We don't exchange any words, but I love this man. I suppose it's good that we didn't try to talk considering my five-toothed rule, which he certainly didn't pass. I smile warmly watching him tottle off down the road towards the children, seeking one of their hands to lead the way. I don't know where he goes, but I wish him blessings and a peaceful voyage.

Anyelka's done her best to calm Tia's baby, but to no avail, so we leave with a "mucho gusto" (nice to meet you) and take a much less strenuous, much longer road back up to Cusmapa. About half-way up the mountain she points out our first route to me, a sinister serpent weaving across the mountainside. I look down at my skinned forearm- a spectacular souvenir from the afternoon. At this point romantic dusk lighting takes over the world and I’m struck by how much this golden lighting affects my mood and perception of events. I stop every 200 yards to take pictures of the setting sun. As we finally reach the outskirts of Cusmapa I am thrilled to see smoke rising from houses, battered clothes hanging from rusted barbed wire fences, and barefooted children running willy-nilly down dirt pathways; marking a hodgepodge of images which I now distinctly recognize as "home". All major injuries averted for the day, of which I'm convinced that the dogs being at eye level with my calves were the most life threatening, I take a deep breath of the setting sun, wish my little friends a good evening, and saunter to my house for a much deserved, sure to be completely un-frozen, gulp of water.