Laguna de Apoyo

“Quick, Mary! Look at those boys in the tree!” James, my community-mate, poked me to show me three young boys hanging high in the upper limbs of a mango tree off the side of a busy highway connecting Managua and Masaya. Without his warning, I probably never would have noticed at all, so I took a quick glance, and as we drove farther away and they became smaller, I tried not to think about how dangerous that was, or how that was just another thing to add to the list of things you would never see in America.

We were leaving Managua that morning for the sake of leaving. I am learning there is something about the city that sucks the energy from you—the noise of the street, the honking of the bus passing, the constant whistling and kissing sound from the men that seems to follow me around the city. We began the trip in hopes of finding relaxation, quiet, fresh air, and most importantly peace.

The bus ride continued for about 45 minutes to the town of Granada. We were expecting a little adventure in the day because we were on the search for the beautiful Laguna de Apoyo, but the only directions we were given were “Walk straight on road that runs out of the northeast corner of the cemetery for about an hour and a half. Don’t make any turns and you should walk right into the lake.” So with a packed lunch of mandarin oranges and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on hot dogs buns, we started the walk not knowing where it would take us. After passing the fork in the road (how are you supposed to “stay straight” on a road that has a fork…?) and several houses patched together with scrap wood and filled with children running out into the street to greet us, we continued on the journey further away from the town and its inhabitants but closer toward the lake.

The sound of my feet crunching in the sand, the sun beating on my face, and the hope of a beautiful lake ahead of me was putting me into a trance, but all I could think about was a conversation I had the previous night over the phone with a group of teens from my church back home. The teens were participating in a food fast that consisted of them fasting for over 24 hours, and they called me as part of the weekend to ask some questions about my experience as a Jesuit Volunteer. As I replayed the conversation over in my head, I kept re-experiencing this feeling of frustration of being unable to describe my life here to them because as they asked me the basic questions about the people, the food, the weather, the neighborhood where I live, I just wanted to shout “this place is so different than home; it is really incomparable to Marietta.”

I continued the walk, wiping the sweat of my brow, replaying my responses to their questions over and over in my mind. I realized I didn’t even remember what it was I said, and I knew that honestly it didn’t matter now, but the part that could not escape from my mind was me wanting to shout “this place is just so different.” I desperately wanted all those faceless people on the other end of the phone to know and see what I face everyday. I wanted them to walk me through the barrio on the way to work past the people sweeping their dirt floored homes, past the grinning one-toothed woman making tortillas in the shack on the corner, past the men who whistle and kiss as I walk by, over the causeway and through the billowing smoke of the trash burning below, past the boy running in the street without shoes or clothes on…not even underwear, past the stray dogs who I never trust and the chickens that seem to be around ever corner, past the women carrying a large basket of bread on her head, past the house with a pig tied to a tree where I hear a woman yelling and beating her child…these were the things I wanted to share with them. Whatever I said to these teens just didn’t seem like enough; I struggled answering their questions cause the only response I wanted to give was negative or another description how I am just barely beginning to understand poverty and all the baggage that goes along with it. Do I miss my family and friends? Yes, of course, so much and more everyday, but could you just see how people live here? Is it hard living without the material items or distractions I had back home? Yes, of course, but could you just see the size or inside of my neighbor’s house where over 8 people live? Is my relationship with God changing because of the supposed “simple life” I am living? Yes, of course, it is so much deeper than before, but I am also beginning to learn things about the world that I don’t want to know or believe…let alone see.

The heat was really getting to me know, so I searched the road up ahead for the hope of a view of the lake. I was ready for a refreshing swim, but even more I was very ready to escape my thoughts. Maybe I am just being too hard on myself? Why do I feel like I can never communicate myself or my thoughts?

At last through a tree I see that beautiful water of the volcanic lake below. James and I literally pass through a herd of cows and arrive to our own private beach. Finally, a break from thinking about all that is going on back in Managua; we immediately jump in, swim, and lie in the sun. Because the deep, cool waters of the lake were causing us to tire we constructed a very functional raft of some dry logs and vine. I felt as though I was 8 years old again playing pioneers in my back yard.

After several hours of swimming and resting, the beauty of the lake that had called us all day was now tempting us not to leave. Because we didn’t have a watch with us, we had no way of telling time and wanted to make it back before dark. Just one more jump off the rock. Just one more short swim. But we both knew it was time.

Although I know cows are not aggressive animals, something about me felt a little more vulnerable on the hike back, so I armed myself with a stick as we passed through the cow herd, and I said a brief prayer every time I stood just inches away from a large bull. I was secretly dreading the walk back, and after three steps I was already sweating. I think the afternoon adventure was just what I need. My steps were feeling stronger, and my mind was definitely clearer. My mind turned back again to the conversation I had with the high schoolers the day before. I suddenly remembered I had told them about how incredible the people of this country are—how I have been invited into complete strangers homes to sit and share a fresh fruit drink, or how my co-workers have randomly given me beautiful gifts for no reason other than to share what they had. The negative things I see and experience sometimes shock me so much that I forget about all the positive moments I witness—the little girls that bring me flowers for the library, the woman who comes everyday without fail to work on her English homework although she can barely read and in Spanish, the young volunteer who always arrives to help with a smile, sitting under the shade on a street corner and reading stories with children bursting with excitement to listen. Those moments seem to make it all worth it. I take a deep breath and thank God again for this experience.

The afternoon had certainly helped clear my mind and settle my soul. The weight of my week was slowly lifting off my shoulders as I walked back and prepared myself to return to Managua. I reflected on how happy and blessed I feel to be here, so much so that being apart from family, living without the comforts I grew up with, learning to live in a new language and culture, and every other struggle I face seems to make it all worth it.

As the sun slowly begins to set, we pick up our pace back towards town. With a little luck, a man rides by in a pick up truck, offers us a ride, and we jump in the back along with his six, large squealing pigs. I hold on tight and turn my head to the side looking out to avoid the smell of the pigs. This time I didn’t see the young boys high in the tree. I was hoping they were comfortable inside eating dinner with their families, but if not, I had a hope inside me to know it would be alright.