The proverbial other shoe drops around here on a regular basis. Just yesterday a steel-toed work boot went crashing to the floor. The words “OK, OK, I really did sleep with her, but it was a long time ago,” still ringing in my ear. I have acquired a collection of odds and ends. Heels of varying height. Leather uppers. Cork soles. Each tied to a particular ugly truth or particularly ghastly tale. They fall heavy onto a growing heap of colorful shock and stylish awe. I keep hoping to end up with a pair I like.
La primera vez que estuve enferma en Nicaragua
Sunday night, 10:23pm. I woke from a “just below the surface” sleep with a funny feeling in my stomach. I sensed the uncontrollable salivation coming on. The falling-down-drunks were, unfortunately, just beyond a stone’s throw from my bedroom window shouting along to their favorite Ranchera song, making it hard to concentrate on holding my shit together. I mentally prepared myself for the long haul to the letrina. Once inside the cockroach motel, for the very first time in seven weeks, my ass made contact with the filthy, cracked wooden seat. After relieving my back end, I dashed outside the tin can to hurl my dinner from my front end, which consisted of tortilla, rice and beans. Remember back in college when you puked your liquor of choice and today can no longer stand the smell or even the idea of it entering your mouth, ever again? Ya, well, tortilla, rice and beans are all I’ve got here. Not sure what I’m going to do about that. And to add insult to injury, the neighborhood’s mangy mutts had assembled at my feet to eat up my sloppy seconds before they even had a chance to hit the ground. After a mere eternity, my host mom came running out to bring me a cup of luke-warm camomile tea, which I was assured was good for the retching. It went in and came back out, however, they still thought it helped. In what way exactly? Right. Weak, shivering and waiting it out, I asked for one of those indigenous plastic chairs and a sweater, and spent the wee hours under a full moon, cursing the inebriated and asking someone else’s higher power to kill me. The highlight of the night was passing out from exhaustion.
I never had such a craving for popsicles, ever, in my whole life.
Drugs in Nicaragua
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck, my vajayjay is itching again. Another yeast infection. I’ve been trying to figure out why I have to put my hand down my pants for a scratch every 2-3 weeks. The heat? The humidity? My tight jeans? Could it just be Nicaragua? If it is, then I guess I’ll just need to keep my nails short.
One might think that the pharmacist at my favorite one-stop shop would think I’m dealing. Why would any woman show up in his store weekly to buy yeast infection pills in bulk? But he doesn’t. Here’s the thing about pharmacies in Nicaragua. The guy behind the counter is not a pharmacist. He’s a business owner. His interest lies in the sale, not in your health. This means, you can walk into any pharmacy and buy whatever you see on the shelf, top, bottom, middle. And for pennies. My US$30 prescription yeast infection pill (includes insured trip to the doctor so she can tell me what I already know) costs 81 cents. Why would I not buy a bagful? Even if just because I can.
I’ve turned self-declared pharmacist. I’ve been sick a hundred times in my life. I know what sick is. I know what my symptoms are. With the help of the almighty Internet, I track down the Spanish counterparts to all the well-known drugs I’ve consumed in the past, walk into the local pharmacy with the unpronounceable name scrawled on a scrap of paper and say, I’ll take 10 of these, please. Cured.
La verdad
True story. Not mine. A good friend has found herself in a tricky relationship. I say ‘tricky’ because I’m American. If I were Nicaraguan I would just say ‘relationship.’ The man-child is ten years her junior with a four-pack of kids and a jaded past.
The truth, or la verdad in Spanish, is the tricky part.
Most relationships start out with a man, a woman, and an attraction. Or a man and a man. Or a woman and a woman. Whatever the combo, it typically includes an attraction. There’s the eyelash batting, the winking, and the smooth talking, all of which lead to the first date.
Things that may come up on a first date but will evade the truth include, age, marital status, number of girlfriends/boyfriends currently in rotation, and number of children – his and hers.
As an American woman on a first date, I would not lead with nor think to ask, are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you seeing anyone? As a Nicaraguan man, neither would he but for totally different reasons. These questions aren’t asked because they would be absurd, they’re not asked because nobody wants to know la verdad. The truth, as I have learned after a fair amount of ‘research’, is that any Nicaraguan over the age of puberty has either a boyfriend/girlfriend or a full on family.
A few dates in and some general fantasizing about where this relationship could go, as an American woman I may think to myself, I hope this guy’s mom likes me. But in Nicaragua I think, if this guy has a crazy girlfriend I hope she doesn’t find out where I live.
The crazy ex-girlfriend of my friend’s boyfriend thankfully did not find out where she lives but did find out her phone number. Several late night harassing calls and months later, what my friend now knows about her boyfriend is the following: he’s three years younger than he told her when they met; he has two more children than originally divulged, one of which isn’t his; and he wasn’t exactly separated when they met.
Some might wonder why on earth is she still with him? Because with all of the big lies out of the way, the truth can start to shine.
Nicaraguan men are a lot like dessert
Nicaraguan men are a lot like those little desserts served on round silver platters at fancy parties. A scrumptious variety of chocolate coatings, fillings and frostings. All promising to reciprocate your sugar crush. You know they’re bad for you but you put one to your lips. Then another. And another. After polishing off the entire tray you’re left with an overwhelming sense of betrayal, wishing you had instead chosen a healthy fruit salad with nuts.
I’m currently dating a pound cake. Sweet and dense. But I can’t eat it every day and I’m not entirely sure how long it will last in my fridge.
I’ve always had a sweet tooth, which is now beginning to decay and cause pain. Sometimes it’s best to quell the ache with a cup of strong, black coffee.
Next entry: Nicaraguan men are a lot like coffee
