"When we really listen,
when we really pay attention
to the sounds of joy and suffering
in the universe,
we are not separate from them,
we become them.
Because in reality
we are not separate
from those who suffer.
We are them.
They are us.
It is our suffering
and it is our joy."
By Bernie Glassman
14 February 2009
Having thrown ourselves into a number of new places, meeting an assortment of people - from tranquilo fishermen to zealous Jehovah witnesses, shade-grown coffee producers to Albanian tourists - Lloyd and I decided to re-visit two Nicaraguan spots I´ve especially enjoyed - Ometepe Island and San Juan del Sur. The first is a playground of sorts 276 kilometers square in the middle of sweet water, with cycling, hiking, kayaking and swimming galore; the second is a surf gem, non-stop dance party with triple espresso brownies from El Gato Negro - The Black Cat - my favorite café.
I was so excited to end the trip indulging nostalgic dreams - a return to Zopilote, the permaculture organic farm I volunteered at about a month ago, and then a few final beachy days to secure that golden glow before my return to pale Minnesota. Lloyd had heard me mention Ometepe and San Juan at least a hundred times in the midst of re-telling memorable moments and was also looking forward to it all. ¨It would be easy¨, we thought to ourselves - we knew where we going, how to get there, where to stay and what we wanted to do. There would be no fuss, no muss - plenty of stone-fired pizza, iced banana batidos and Eskimo ice cream. We knew how to access everything; it would be perfect - or so we thought.
We first had to deviate from the original plan upon arrival to Zopilote: ¨lo siento, estamos completamente lleno¨ ¨I´m sorry, we´re completely booked¨, said Cristiano. ¨What?! No!¨, I fumed behind a forced smile. It literally felt like I´d gone home and my parents had rented out my room. As the sun was setting I left Lloyd with the luggage, trudged downhill twenty minutes and tried Little Morgan´s, where the wide-screen television was booming and everyone stood holding a bottle of Pilsen or Imperial brew in one hand, with a chalked pool stick in the other. The scene was exactly opposite to what I´d hoped our experience on Ometepe would be, but nevertheless, I secured a casita for a pretty penny and hurried back up the hill at dusk to tell Lloyd. In haste we hussled down to Little Morgan´s together, toting bulky backpacks, handbags and the djembe drum. We had to be quick; our bellies were bellowing and there was no way we were missing Zopilote´s pizzería night.
I chose Doble Vegetales - Lloyd The Bismarck, and we waited eagerly on stone steps with elbows on our knees and chins on our hands. Pizzas were slid in and out the piping hot oven on elongated spatulas as tall as myself, and some time later we were finally served ours on wooden cutting boards. ¨Bliss¨, I thought as I took my first steamy bite - but ¨Ewe, gross!¨, was the immediate and quite opposite response. Whoever had made mine had dumped a least a bulb of minced garlic on it, masking the savory fresh basil and oregano tomato sauce my taste buds remembered. Too tired and hungry to complain I ate my pizza anyway. As soon as we finished we fastened our head lamps and started the trek back to Little Morgan´s, where the adventure would take its next twist.
¨The drum is gone¨ said Lloyd. He´d left it on our breezy porch to continue drying out the goat skin. After hours and hours of filing and sanding, tugging to tighten knots, and shaving the skin with a miniature blade the djembe was nearly ready to be played. Our joint project had directed the rhythm of our days - with multiple trips to welders to adjust metal rings, then carpenters to prepare the drum head surface, and finally, to a slew of butchers before we found exactly what we were looking for. So there we stood perplexed with growing frustration when I spotted the djembe - just 10 feet away from where we´d left it. It didn´t take long to figure out how it got there; Morgan´s two lingering Labradors gave us our clue.
Luckily, the drum was still more or less intact. There were only a few scratches on the head and chew marks around the edges. "It'll just give it character", I said to myself. I don't think Lloyd agreed at first. A rising melodic furl of strange syllables filled the air; my German language skills are next to none, but one doesn't need a translator to tell when another is totally pissed off. It was too late to deal with this latest catastrophe and somehow I convinced Lloyd we'd problem-solve the following morning. More than ready for rest and tightly tucked under the mosquito net staring up into darkness I heard Lloyd murmur, "today was a bit tough, hey?" "Yes...it certainly was", I whispered, and with that I sauntered off.
The rest of our time on Ometepe was more or less a continuation of the same story. And, we ended up staying on the island for a few days longer than we'd initially expected and really wanted to; whipping winds and white-capped waves docked ferries for three consecutive days so we didn't even have enough time to go to San Juan del Sur. While this may all sound to be more than a bit of a drag - it really wasn't, actually. It was different to how I'd imagined we'd taper off our travels, and at times definitely trying, but the change of events allowed us to let go of expectations and yield to possibilities of the present.
We met amazing people; I especially remember two. One was Carlos - a local artist, papaya farmer and political pundit. Our conversation was randomly wonderful, beginning with discussion about his landscape oil paintings of Ometepe, which somehow morphed into a woman's decision to "maquillarse" - paint their faces; Carlos said he'd thought of lipstick when he saw my papaya stained lips, and that he loved when his wife wore make-up. While we were chatting another Carlos came to visit. The discussion turned towards politics; the two said they were both strong Sandinista party supporters and that the FSLN candidate in recent mayoral elections had also been a "Carlos".
Sean - from Vancouver - is another person I'll never forget. A year and a half ago he graduated from university with a degree in Management wondering what to do next in life. It was then that he came up with a most awesome idea - to spend 12 months working a different job every week! The logistics were sorted out on a website; he explained his project, media hopped on the story, and soon he had offers pouring in from all over Canada and the United States. He spent a week in Hawaii at an astronomical monitoring station, and another as a fashion buyer in New York; he was also a yoga instructor, fire fighter and forest ranger to name a few more. Sean just sent a manuscript to an editor in December which will eventually be published for the public at large; he said a documentary is also in the works - I'd love to see it.
This is my last written entry for awhile, but I do hope to post photos soon - either here or on my flickr site: www.flickr.com/photos/emspofford. Thanks much for reading a bit of random banter from Costa Rica, Nicaragua and El Salvador...
I was so excited to end the trip indulging nostalgic dreams - a return to Zopilote, the permaculture organic farm I volunteered at about a month ago, and then a few final beachy days to secure that golden glow before my return to pale Minnesota. Lloyd had heard me mention Ometepe and San Juan at least a hundred times in the midst of re-telling memorable moments and was also looking forward to it all. ¨It would be easy¨, we thought to ourselves - we knew where we going, how to get there, where to stay and what we wanted to do. There would be no fuss, no muss - plenty of stone-fired pizza, iced banana batidos and Eskimo ice cream. We knew how to access everything; it would be perfect - or so we thought.
We first had to deviate from the original plan upon arrival to Zopilote: ¨lo siento, estamos completamente lleno¨ ¨I´m sorry, we´re completely booked¨, said Cristiano. ¨What?! No!¨, I fumed behind a forced smile. It literally felt like I´d gone home and my parents had rented out my room. As the sun was setting I left Lloyd with the luggage, trudged downhill twenty minutes and tried Little Morgan´s, where the wide-screen television was booming and everyone stood holding a bottle of Pilsen or Imperial brew in one hand, with a chalked pool stick in the other. The scene was exactly opposite to what I´d hoped our experience on Ometepe would be, but nevertheless, I secured a casita for a pretty penny and hurried back up the hill at dusk to tell Lloyd. In haste we hussled down to Little Morgan´s together, toting bulky backpacks, handbags and the djembe drum. We had to be quick; our bellies were bellowing and there was no way we were missing Zopilote´s pizzería night.
I chose Doble Vegetales - Lloyd The Bismarck, and we waited eagerly on stone steps with elbows on our knees and chins on our hands. Pizzas were slid in and out the piping hot oven on elongated spatulas as tall as myself, and some time later we were finally served ours on wooden cutting boards. ¨Bliss¨, I thought as I took my first steamy bite - but ¨Ewe, gross!¨, was the immediate and quite opposite response. Whoever had made mine had dumped a least a bulb of minced garlic on it, masking the savory fresh basil and oregano tomato sauce my taste buds remembered. Too tired and hungry to complain I ate my pizza anyway. As soon as we finished we fastened our head lamps and started the trek back to Little Morgan´s, where the adventure would take its next twist.
¨The drum is gone¨ said Lloyd. He´d left it on our breezy porch to continue drying out the goat skin. After hours and hours of filing and sanding, tugging to tighten knots, and shaving the skin with a miniature blade the djembe was nearly ready to be played. Our joint project had directed the rhythm of our days - with multiple trips to welders to adjust metal rings, then carpenters to prepare the drum head surface, and finally, to a slew of butchers before we found exactly what we were looking for. So there we stood perplexed with growing frustration when I spotted the djembe - just 10 feet away from where we´d left it. It didn´t take long to figure out how it got there; Morgan´s two lingering Labradors gave us our clue.
Luckily, the drum was still more or less intact. There were only a few scratches on the head and chew marks around the edges. "It'll just give it character", I said to myself. I don't think Lloyd agreed at first. A rising melodic furl of strange syllables filled the air; my German language skills are next to none, but one doesn't need a translator to tell when another is totally pissed off. It was too late to deal with this latest catastrophe and somehow I convinced Lloyd we'd problem-solve the following morning. More than ready for rest and tightly tucked under the mosquito net staring up into darkness I heard Lloyd murmur, "today was a bit tough, hey?" "Yes...it certainly was", I whispered, and with that I sauntered off.
The rest of our time on Ometepe was more or less a continuation of the same story. And, we ended up staying on the island for a few days longer than we'd initially expected and really wanted to; whipping winds and white-capped waves docked ferries for three consecutive days so we didn't even have enough time to go to San Juan del Sur. While this may all sound to be more than a bit of a drag - it really wasn't, actually. It was different to how I'd imagined we'd taper off our travels, and at times definitely trying, but the change of events allowed us to let go of expectations and yield to possibilities of the present.
We met amazing people; I especially remember two. One was Carlos - a local artist, papaya farmer and political pundit. Our conversation was randomly wonderful, beginning with discussion about his landscape oil paintings of Ometepe, which somehow morphed into a woman's decision to "maquillarse" - paint their faces; Carlos said he'd thought of lipstick when he saw my papaya stained lips, and that he loved when his wife wore make-up. While we were chatting another Carlos came to visit. The discussion turned towards politics; the two said they were both strong Sandinista party supporters and that the FSLN candidate in recent mayoral elections had also been a "Carlos".
Sean - from Vancouver - is another person I'll never forget. A year and a half ago he graduated from university with a degree in Management wondering what to do next in life. It was then that he came up with a most awesome idea - to spend 12 months working a different job every week! The logistics were sorted out on a website; he explained his project, media hopped on the story, and soon he had offers pouring in from all over Canada and the United States. He spent a week in Hawaii at an astronomical monitoring station, and another as a fashion buyer in New York; he was also a yoga instructor, fire fighter and forest ranger to name a few more. Sean just sent a manuscript to an editor in December which will eventually be published for the public at large; he said a documentary is also in the works - I'd love to see it.
This is my last written entry for awhile, but I do hope to post photos soon - either here or on my flickr site: www.flickr.com/photos/emspofford. Thanks much for reading a bit of random banter from Costa Rica, Nicaragua and El Salvador...
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