Mural from the museum on the Masaya Volcano outside of Managua Nicaragua.
Forty eight hours since reentry into the good old US of A (the customs agent hardly gave me a first glance; apparently I don’t look even slightly threatening) and I’m just beginning to be able to talk about the trip beyond the “It was great” and “I’m glad I went” that are like plastic wrapping on the entire experience. It may take me the rest of the summer of tease out what was most memorable, more like fermentation than squeezing fresh juice.
Artists talk about needed to feed their creativity and, currently, my little creativity monster has gorged to the point of food coma and when I try to tell people about the trip it comes out in mundane procedural facts out-of-order, or vivid but irrelevant moments.
I slept with my feet out and got mosquito bites on the soles of my feet.
I flew home first class.
It rained and we washed the sweat off our hands and feet in it.
Language was simultaneously and barrier and irrelevant in communication.
Even children in rural Nicaragua know what an ipod is and how to use it.
There were scorpions in our house and I forgot the feel of a seat belt.
I am not cut out for missionary work.
I am very glad I went.
I am very glad to be home again.
5th graders at the Dario Christian Academy in Ciudad Dario, Nicaragua where we worked. Kids everywhere know how to show off for the camera.