Night Time

The nights are a symphony of sounds mixed with melodic negative space. I often awake suddenly in the night, to reflect upon a dream or envisage an idea or on occasion for no discernable reason and all, and I listen. It’s not as if I actively seek out the sounds of the night, but rather they are inescapable. I hear through the darkness the secret night life of the wind. Sometimes she throws small rocks and grit at my metal doors and threatens to rip my tin roof clean off of my house with such passion and power that I wonder the cause of her tantrums and can only conclude that she is acting out her rage from a lover’s row. Sometimes the wind is flirtatious, whispering through the cracks of my windows and through the space where my walls do not meet my roof. And sometimes, she sleeps, or at least appears to be sleeping because the air is silent and calm and I can tell by the voices of the chirping insects that they are happy in her absence to have been generously been granted the chance to reign the hum of the shadows. The insects show self-control and predictability and they have proven time and again that they can be counted on. The tone and urgency of their dialogues change occasionally to predict a coming storm, or to rejoice in the wake of a storm that they have made it to the other side unscathed. If the wind is cast as the moody lover, then the rain is perhaps her protagonist because there is no fury greater and no touch as tender as the rain. He vacations from December through May when he checks in only occasionally to let us know that he’s doing well with a sprinkling, to let us know that he’s thinking of us with a misty morning, and sometimes at night with a hurried rain that hits the tin roofs hard and ends as quickly as it has begun. He will reappear from afar in May, when the earth thinks that she can no longer handle the dryness and can no longer remember the taste of rain, and he will mercilessly drown her, proving again and again that there does exist too much of a good thing. Yes, it does certainly rain during the day in the wet season, because it rains constantly, but in the night, when one cannot rely on the sense of sight and therefore the sense of hearing becomes heightened, can we hear, really hear, what the rain is saying. He will attentively rock us to sleep with his fairy-tales and promises pattered softly and sweetly when we wake in the night like small children drenched in sweat from a nightmare. He will come in on the arm of Wind dancing and singing raucously, the both clearly enjoying the company of the other. He will storm in, unannounced, and demand angrily that all plans be cancelled on his behalf. And in true proof of his amorous relations with Wind, they will both come at the same time, and wage war, she tearing out trees, he ripping down bridges, until both of them have had their side of the argument voiced and neither of them have any life left to fight and they resolve to quietly leave together, to settle their battle or to mend their love in private.

And so, here in Nicaragua, where I have no electricity for weeks at a time, people often ask me if I get bored, and my reply for all of them - With drama like this, how could I?

Guest Blog by Jan (Vanessa's Mom)

My trip to Nicaragua for a couple weeks over the holidays was the vacation I’ve always wanted but never could talk anyone into going on with me before. I was able to live like a Peace Corps volunteer (except for the work part since school was out) and be mistaken for a PCV, which was fun, and hear the stories of volunteers. The village in the mountains where Vanessa lives is tidy and pleasant, and things work surprisingly well, including the buses which are sometimes loaded down so full of people, 100 pound bags of coffee, and assorted machinery that I wondered how much more could be loaded before the engine would burn up or the tires would burst.

Business was steady at the stores we went to, the stores were well stocked and we were usually able to find what we needed. Fruits and vegetables were plentiful at the outdoor markets, the water filter worked well, and the people in town were especially kind and generous.

Sleeping in the village took some getting used to since the winning soccer team might go by singing on their way home from the bar at 1 a.m., the roosters start crowing at 2 or 3 a.m., and each of at least the eight days before Christmas I was there, huge fireworks go off for an hour at 4 a.m., perhaps as an incentive to get up and go to mass, right outside the house and loud enough to hurt my ears if I didn’t plug them. There would be a “whoosh-whoosh” warning to plug ears, then BOOM BOOM, over and over again, every morning. Vanessa slept through it. Since I’ve been back home I sleep very well, for the first time in years.

The highlight of the trip was a trip to Vanessa’s friend’s grandma’s farm, a beautiful and remote subsistence farm with no electricity or running water, where they grown coffee to sell, and they grow corn, beans, bananas and citrus fruits for their own consumption. We rode a bus part way, then rode standing in the back of a pickup, holding onto a rack on top of the cab. The road was rocky, rutted and treacherous, and very fun. We were at the farm for two nights, including the winter solstice when we sat out on the porch and waited for the full moon to rise. It felt like going my own grandma’s house, and I did not feel like a grown up. I played on the mountain with the two kids while Vanessa went to pick coffee, and we chased the calves home and played volleyball and school. My grandma used to tell stories about when she lived in a dirt floor shack and she never sounded unhappy about it. I always wondered how things worked in that environment and now I understand more about the simplicity and why Grandma’s eyes would light up when she talked about it. An open air kitchen where the puppies and kittens are running in and out, the hens come in to lay eggs in a nest in the kitchen, and everybody is helping out with the chores makes for a very interesting day. The kids load a big gunny sack full of dried ears of corn, then it’s all shucked, shelled, soaked and ground by hand in a crank grinder, then made into tortillas. The cow is milked, the milk is strained and then the cheese is made. The wood cook stove needs to be tended to all day, fueled by wood and corn cobs. Water is brought in from the spring in big jugs, sweet and good, I drank a lot of it. It was peaceful and a wonderful place to be and the people were especially kind. Vanessa has been there a few times helping out and I think I was the lucky recipient of the good will she generated.

I have a better understanding of the difficulties and rewards of being a Peace Corps volunteer. I thought I might like to volunteer someday, but it’s a lot bigger job than I imagined. I’ve come away with a great admiration for the volunteers. They’re making a difference every day and the skill set they come home with will change their lives forever. I hope I can visit again to see the things we didn’t have time for, organic farms, nature preserves and national parks. It was very nice to have Vanessa in charge of the business dealings since my Spanish was not at a level to be very useful. I can’t wait to go back!