Monday, December 04, 2006
Coincidence
I´m not quite sure I understand the meaning of coincidence, but then again, Alanis Morrisette didn´t have the foggiest idea about irony, and she made jillions of dollars off it.
But about coincidence as I know it --
On this trip, we´ve been getting half stories. We meet someone and then meet someone else down the road who provides the back gossip that makes this person complete in our minds. Every time, I´m surprised, though I shouldn´t be. After all, Nicaragua is the size of Ireland.
I´ll provide three examples.
1. In Granada, Levi and I became friends with Edward, a wiry old Dutch man who runs Ed´s Nica Buffet, arguably the best brekky joint in town. Ed talks about how much he hates the gringos who come to meet young women and girls, how they exploit these poor women by hanging their meager social security checks over their heads. Meantime, Ed swears to us that he pays his staff better than most. Levi and I, bleeding hearted liberals that we are, vow to return.
Then we meet Seattle Steve, who lives with gay Bobby, the 50-something alchoholic in Granada. Steve informs us that one night, the young waiter at Ed´s Nica Buffet, came over the other night because Ed and the waiter had gotten into fight. Turns out that they are lovers. Steve asked how much the waiter earns, and found out that Ed pays his boyfriend a whopping $2.50 a day. Friends, say what you will about the standard of living being different down here, but I can assure you that $2.50 ain´t squat.
So if Steve is to be believed, Ed too, knows the ways of exploitation.
2. Levi and I read Silence on the Mountain, about the silence during the war years in Guatemala. After six weeks in Guatemala, we wonder if that silence has lifted, or if the army bullying has ended. Few people want to talk about what happened. They´ll talk in circles, about the guerillas mostly, but never about the army´s involvement.
Then we meet Taxa in Nicaragua, who tells us that no, none of it has ended and that she herself witnessed her village be ransacked by the army years back.
3. Last week, we met Little Lupe on the beach, who was selling seashells. She´s about 9 years old and super smart. When we ask her if she has a boyfriend, she tells us that no, she needs to study. Word has it that Little Lupe has a 16 year old sister with a small child.
Then yesterday, we met the woman for whom Little Lupe made her first seashell creations. Two years ago, this woman, an entrepreneurial free spirit from San Francisco, told Little Lupe to keep making her creations and try selling them on the beach.
4. (I realize that I promised just three, but I can´t help myself.) Yesterday, Levi and I ate fish a la plancha at this restaurant at Las Penitas, a beach near Leon. We were surrounded by French people, including a mother who kept smacking her whiny child and a man who refused to speak to the Nicaraguan husband of another French woman. It was all pretty awful, and I told Levi that I was saddened by the behavior of French people on this trip. He agreed that they all seem think they´re superior to everyone else. (Three have been quick to inform me that they are not gringos. They don´t want to be misidentified as Americans, who have wreaked havoc on the Americas, they said. To one I said, "J'ai un mot pour vous: l'Algerie.")
But my point isn´t to lambast the home country. Rather, it´s to say what happened just as we got back to our beach front hotel. There, we met two more French people, aged 67 and 79. They were wonderful. We chatted for hours, and they invited us over to their home for olives and rum and cokes. They told us the stories of these two amorous dogs we´d seen walking around on the beach together, and the story of their son, who owns the hotel at which we were staying.
As we left for Leon, Levi turned to me and said, "I take back everything I said today."
But about coincidence as I know it --
On this trip, we´ve been getting half stories. We meet someone and then meet someone else down the road who provides the back gossip that makes this person complete in our minds. Every time, I´m surprised, though I shouldn´t be. After all, Nicaragua is the size of Ireland.
I´ll provide three examples.
1. In Granada, Levi and I became friends with Edward, a wiry old Dutch man who runs Ed´s Nica Buffet, arguably the best brekky joint in town. Ed talks about how much he hates the gringos who come to meet young women and girls, how they exploit these poor women by hanging their meager social security checks over their heads. Meantime, Ed swears to us that he pays his staff better than most. Levi and I, bleeding hearted liberals that we are, vow to return.
Then we meet Seattle Steve, who lives with gay Bobby, the 50-something alchoholic in Granada. Steve informs us that one night, the young waiter at Ed´s Nica Buffet, came over the other night because Ed and the waiter had gotten into fight. Turns out that they are lovers. Steve asked how much the waiter earns, and found out that Ed pays his boyfriend a whopping $2.50 a day. Friends, say what you will about the standard of living being different down here, but I can assure you that $2.50 ain´t squat.
So if Steve is to be believed, Ed too, knows the ways of exploitation.
2. Levi and I read Silence on the Mountain, about the silence during the war years in Guatemala. After six weeks in Guatemala, we wonder if that silence has lifted, or if the army bullying has ended. Few people want to talk about what happened. They´ll talk in circles, about the guerillas mostly, but never about the army´s involvement.
Then we meet Taxa in Nicaragua, who tells us that no, none of it has ended and that she herself witnessed her village be ransacked by the army years back.
3. Last week, we met Little Lupe on the beach, who was selling seashells. She´s about 9 years old and super smart. When we ask her if she has a boyfriend, she tells us that no, she needs to study. Word has it that Little Lupe has a 16 year old sister with a small child.
Then yesterday, we met the woman for whom Little Lupe made her first seashell creations. Two years ago, this woman, an entrepreneurial free spirit from San Francisco, told Little Lupe to keep making her creations and try selling them on the beach.
4. (I realize that I promised just three, but I can´t help myself.) Yesterday, Levi and I ate fish a la plancha at this restaurant at Las Penitas, a beach near Leon. We were surrounded by French people, including a mother who kept smacking her whiny child and a man who refused to speak to the Nicaraguan husband of another French woman. It was all pretty awful, and I told Levi that I was saddened by the behavior of French people on this trip. He agreed that they all seem think they´re superior to everyone else. (Three have been quick to inform me that they are not gringos. They don´t want to be misidentified as Americans, who have wreaked havoc on the Americas, they said. To one I said, "J'ai un mot pour vous: l'Algerie.")
But my point isn´t to lambast the home country. Rather, it´s to say what happened just as we got back to our beach front hotel. There, we met two more French people, aged 67 and 79. They were wonderful. We chatted for hours, and they invited us over to their home for olives and rum and cokes. They told us the stories of these two amorous dogs we´d seen walking around on the beach together, and the story of their son, who owns the hotel at which we were staying.
As we left for Leon, Levi turned to me and said, "I take back everything I said today."
