Collections of thoughts

Walking Home from Work, Part I: 

1. There is little in this world so beautiful as a tree ripe with mangoes hanging pink, abundant.
2. On the other hand, there is the beauty of the dog who finally, at my millionth passing of his house, does not bark madly at the end of his chain, but eyes me silently.
3. On the third hand, the hill behind my house.
4. On the fourth hand, there's the obscene non-beauty of the three-story house being built in the midst of a town full of one-story houses populated by plastic chairs, concrete floors, and outdoor latrines.

On things I have acquired/been given:
-nickname: Sarita. will dearly miss it upon return to the states.
-cocoa bean: very odd. filled with seeds that have a sweet gelatinous film around them. seeds themselves are bright purple and taste bitter.
-the ability to roll a bike's detached tire down a dirt road by pushing it with a stick: cool. taught by two eager young boys, Fernando and Jonathan.
-rice and beans, multiple times a day: yummmm
-the ability to say certain phrases with a perfect Nica accent:!!!
-a love for karaoke: working on convincing host brother to sing Bob Marley with me
-a macroeconomics textbook from the 80's: going to try to teach myself some things I should really know by now

On the way back from Matagalpa, 5th largest-city in Nicaragua and a 20min bus ride from San Ramon:

On a full bus, everyone on their way home from the city, right at dusk when the mountains and clouds and setting sun play their game. Idling in the bus station, the smooth music of people everywhere talking comes in through open bus windows. Waiting to move, the dim orange lights turning the warm bus even warmer, momentarily coalescing this mass of strangers into a homey togetherness. The man in front of me plays guitar, the man across the aisle sings, they pass the guitar back and forth and the bus slowly rocks forward on the hexagonal cobbletones. We make our exodus.

Walking from El Plomo to El Plomo Arriba:

5 yr old girl staring at me solemn, big-eyed, a young chicken in a black plastic bag tucked backwards under one arm.

Colors on la Isla de Ometepe:

1. Biking on a bumpy dirt path, three layers of color: black wall (volcanic rocks, stacked) green leaves (plantain fields, fronds waving) white clouds )wreathing the volcano).
2. Pale yellow lemonade, bright yellow straw, magenta tablecloth.
3. A dog hanging around our dinner table (on the street, dirt road) one eye brown, other eye light green.
4. Maroon bus, old man in one of those softly old-fashioned white button down shirts.
5. Lime green lizards fleeing the path as we walk down, sending dead leaves flying as they scamper by.
6. Faded red hammock, light gray hammock-chair, light blue tiles, cement floor.
7. Whitewashed wall, brown pot, pink drops of flower; whole scene bisected by a sky blue staircase.

Waiting for the bus to Matagalpa:

7 yr old boy riding a grey horse (trotting) down the street, feet dangling inches above the stirrups, casual with the reins in one hand resting on the saddle. Passes the Coca-Cola stand, turns head wistfully.

On the way home from Matagalpa, Part II:

I walk down the streets of Nicaragua weeping. Squinting from the sun, I extract a rope of tears. Another step and I weep at the men who stare, whistle, speak, follow. A river of tears for that barefoot city boy and the dog without a paw and the woman hunched on the nighttime sidewalk without a shirt. Three tears each for the bag of onions and the old man pushing the ice cream cart uphill and the women selling fried plantain chips and vinegar in clear plastic bags. During the sweeping hour I weep pools of dusty dears. The windy hour, oceans. I cry at the streets of now and then and red murals and Dios Bendiga Esta Casa and discarded mango peels and Hay Tortillas and that pineapple and those palm trees and the clutches of people that collect in silence and more, and the outlines of hills faint green behind houses layering up up up, and the music and radio baseball games flowing from courtyards, and a river so small and shining at this moment, my tears could swallow it up.