NOT I – NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. – Walt Whitman
Saturday, June 9, 2012 (DAYS 97 & 98)
The weekend could not arrive early enough, after another grueling and stressful week in Central America. My morning is spent lazily reading in the living room of our apartment, impatiently waiting for the cool ocean breeze of the morning to give way to the familiar heat that I have now come to expect on a daily basis. Hanging my legs over one of the armrests of a wicker chair, I pause before beginning a new chapter. Looking over the top of my book, I pause to observe the other people in the room, and, in a moment frozen in time, this is an account of what happens when a group of backpackers are without the constant supervision of an adult; John Wayne leans closer towards the television screen as several tears form in the corner of his eye but are quickly wiped away as he sits in wild anticipation of one the greatest films in cinematic history, Spice World. What a weekend treat. Questioning whether or not Lindsay has a soul in her icy veins, she easily ignores the sincere heartfelt moment of our only Honduran roommate and continues to check on her empty mailbox status of her eHarmony account. Thankful that she hasn’t stumbled across my profile yet, I look up and for a brief millisecond our eyes meet. Twitching my head quickly and looking anywhere but in her direction, I just continue to repeat to myself, don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact, especially before noon. Feeling as though I’ve dodged a bullet, across from me, Cameron has borrowed a pink fluorescent gel pen and is coloring in hearts on the cover of his dairy that confusingly has JUICY written out in diamond sequence and I’m almost certain that he is humming the infamous pop song, Party in the USA. Afraid of what I’ve already seen in a matter of seconds, and just like a car accident I cannot stop looking, I turn my head to the right with one hand covering my face allowing my fingers adequate spacing to shield me from the possible horrors with one eye, at first glance, Michelle and Julie seem to be the only other symbols of normalcy, but upon further inspection straining to hear their conversation I realize they are setting the final rules of their female fight club and the first, and only rule of female fight club is, shank your opponent. Fearful of a feeling the other end of a shattered bottle of Flor de Caña, I get up and move to the safety of the couch because these chicas are, cold blooded. Now that everyone is accounted for and I am officially freaked out, I stand up and declare that we need to find one of two things; either a Nicaraguan midget dressed up in a cowboy suit or a ridiculous bullfight that has the potential for disaster and is less than $2. Luckily, the second option was available and we have an activity for the afternoon.
The weekend could not arrive early enough, after another grueling and stressful week in Central America. My morning is spent lazily reading in the living room of our apartment, impatiently waiting for the cool ocean breeze of the morning to give way to the familiar heat that I have now come to expect on a daily basis. Hanging my legs over one of the armrests of a wicker chair, I pause before beginning a new chapter. Looking over the top of my book, I pause to observe the other people in the room, and, in a moment frozen in time, this is an account of what happens when a group of backpackers are without the constant supervision of an adult; John Wayne leans closer towards the television screen as several tears form in the corner of his eye but are quickly wiped away as he sits in wild anticipation of one the greatest films in cinematic history, Spice World. What a weekend treat. Questioning whether or not Lindsay has a soul in her icy veins, she easily ignores the sincere heartfelt moment of our only Honduran roommate and continues to check on her empty mailbox status of her eHarmony account. Thankful that she hasn’t stumbled across my profile yet, I look up and for a brief millisecond our eyes meet. Twitching my head quickly and looking anywhere but in her direction, I just continue to repeat to myself, don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact, especially before noon. Feeling as though I’ve dodged a bullet, across from me, Cameron has borrowed a pink fluorescent gel pen and is coloring in hearts on the cover of his dairy that confusingly has JUICY written out in diamond sequence and I’m almost certain that he is humming the infamous pop song, Party in the USA. Afraid of what I’ve already seen in a matter of seconds, and just like a car accident I cannot stop looking, I turn my head to the right with one hand covering my face allowing my fingers adequate spacing to shield me from the possible horrors with one eye, at first glance, Michelle and Julie seem to be the only other symbols of normalcy, but upon further inspection straining to hear their conversation I realize they are setting the final rules of their female fight club and the first, and only rule of female fight club is, shank your opponent. Fearful of a feeling the other end of a shattered bottle of Flor de Caña, I get up and move to the safety of the couch because these chicas are, cold blooded. Now that everyone is accounted for and I am officially freaked out, I stand up and declare that we need to find one of two things; either a Nicaraguan midget dressed up in a cowboy suit or a ridiculous bullfight that has the potential for disaster and is less than $2. Luckily, the second option was available and we have an activity for the afternoon.
Taking a short ten-minute taxi ride to the makeshift arena on the outskirts of town, the crowd already inside the venue is swelling with excitement and growing louder as we step out of the overcrowded car. The energy is electric. The invitation of viewing a live bullfight is yet another bucket list item that I can place a mark through as complete. Paying the C40 ($1.73) ticket price, we are shuffled through a wooden gate and the first thing I notice is the crossed-metal fencing that is the only protective barrier between the ring full of action with 1,800lb bucking bulls and the eager spectators sitting on the wooden benches. Walking along the fence to our left, we are reunited with familiar faces from Casa de Olas, where we combine our groups and now occupy an entire section of the arena. Since this is not the traditional Spanish bull fighting, but rather a mix of bull riding and amateur rodeo clowns that are trying not to be mauled in a rather ridiculous fashion, we take our seats. Just as NASCAR fans wait in anticipation of a spectacular wreck, we are also waiting for the carnage to be released and sit wide-eyed with anticipation.
Running out of control with the power of a freight train, a large white bull collides with one of the many locals clinging to the interior walls of the ring. A long heavy gasp is heard from the crowd as people jump to their feet, standing and straining to catch a view of the bucking bull, which is now looking down at the man in a dominant stance. Wondering if this man is thinking, I immediately regret my decision to leave the house this morning, as he stares into the eyes of his wild opponent, the untamed animal thrusts his large head violently before throwing down its massively dangerous front hooves on either side of the man’s head and chest. A near miss, as the bull still catches his victim’s right hand that was brought up to protect his face as he lay helpless on his back on the ground, and after a few horrifying seconds, the bull is distracted and heads off to find another victim. Seconds later, the man is up on his feet and a loud applause is given to the so-called victor, despite having a bloody nub of a hand as his trophy of survival. Each of us turning to the person on our left and our right, we can’t believe what we’ve just witnessed and everyone agrees that this is the best $2 we’ve ever spent. Euphoric from an experience that would be picketed and protested furiously by PETA and other various organizations back in the States, I feel as though I am watching a live Third World version of The Hunger Games in Nicaragua, but instead of children fighting to the death, it is modern day gladiators fueled by insanity, and I am tempted to shout, “may the odds be ever in your favor.”
The main event for the evening, just like a paid first kiss behind a darkened Best Buy before heading to your high school reunion, lacks the excitement and hype that you had such high hopes for, but, the experience is worth its weight in gold as we make our way through the constant chatter of the crowd towards the exit of the arena. Standing in the dirt field that is a makeshift parking lot and apparently doubles as a bathroom, since the fine engineers of this classy establishment have somehow forgotten to include bathrooms for its patrons, locals and tourists alike search for the nearest semi-private area to relieve themselves. Tall brush, random trees, even the back of someone’s unsuspecting legs are all adequate toilets in Nicaragua, however, this message was not passed along to Michelle as she has just provided John Wayne with the gift of a golden shower, which she argues is collateral damage of the notorious splash-back. Separating the two before a more deadly fight could ensue, we decide to take a horse carriage back to town, and everyone knows that one of the few things that can stem off a full-blown riot is a pony. So jump on it. Feeling like Cinderella as a malnourished horse pulls a rickety carriage that I am convinced is beyond capacity, somewhere in his Mary Poppins bag of tricks, Cameron is now wearing an authentic crown from the classic board game Pretty Pretty Princess. Seriously, this is getting out of hand and Lindsay and I are yelling at the top of our lungs, WE NEED AN ADULT.
Arriving home just as the sun is setting, our newest addition to our traveling family is our upstairs neighbor, Neil, a former Marine and bound for Harvard Law school, he graciously donates some fresh Maui Maui that he caught on a fishing trip from earlier in the day. From the formation of our tight knit group in El Salvador, we have celebrated almost nightly with large family style dinners that would put to shame my former daily childish meals of peanut butter sammiches and the occasional package of Ramen. Unsure of the starvation that we are sure to feel after the departure of our amazing Iron Chef cook, John Waye Bush prepares a meal that is immaculate beyond words. At one point, I had to excuse myself, because I literally had tears of joy streaming down my cheeks with each mouth-watering serving. Even, the hard-nosed and emotionally defective Metabo-Man could not fight off the floodgates as each delicious piece fell on his plate, and, sitting alone in silence in the bathroom, I savored each delicious morsel of food. I now have a secret shame.
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