el 17 de marzo, 2010 – St. Patty’s Day!

el 17 de marzo, 2010 – St. Patty’s Day!

Hi again, dear ones.

Over the last few months I think I’ve made it clear that the task of sending real-time, comprehensive updates and reflections on my time in Latin America is one that is simply beyond me right now. I’ve decided though, that instead of beating myself up about this (and agonizing about the situation as I’m sure you all have been - not), I’ll just send what thoughts I can, when I can, whether they are relevant to what I experienced yesterday or to something last month. If that’s alright with you, I’ll gratefully call it a deal and move on.

You might remember that last time I “posted” here (thanks to Luke, who did the actual blog creation and posting) I was working – primarily in a continually shallow, killer-ant infested hole – on a farm in Northwestern Nicaragua, with Seth and Adam. I’ve since left there, and recently moved south from Central America in general, but would like to share just a few parting thoughts on that small, brave country before I move on here.

There is no doubt that Nicaragua is an impressive country – the volcanoes! the history! the cigars! the politics! the people! the beaches! – but nothing impressed me more than the daily presence of two, seemingly small things: paint and autotune.

Autotune, for those of you who don’t know, is that funky vocal effect that’s been raging through American music for the last few years, ever since Cher broke it out in that “Do you belieeeeve in life after love, after love” song a while back…at least that’s the first time I noticed it. Sure, it was catchy at first, but after its infiltration of the pop genre was complete, it got old. And annoying. I, along with Kanye and many others, turned my back on it. But not the Nicaraguenses!

Nicaraguans are definitely the “coolest” Central Americans – cool, in the middle school sense of the word. They dress sharp and sassy, sporting name brands on every square inch of clothing. White leather hats, boots and belts are staples. As long as I’m generalizing, most of them are beautiful. With their natural good looks, and attention to what’s hot right now, they usually look good. Their pop music, however, which I was subjected to for hours on end in cabs and while riding chicken busses with flat screen tv’s (to add a visual aspect to the sensory bombardment), seems to have soaked up not just autotune, but the worst of North American music in general. Think MTV’s Spring Break. Think the Thong Song, but not as a joke. Think Pitbull (who, as far as I can tell, holds the status of Nicaraguan Elvis, the Beatles, and Bob Marley all wrapped in one). With all that Nicaragua has to offer, I’ll surely allow the beautiful country this one weakness, though I’m sure the nation will be devastated my appraisal. I’ll leave you with these parting words, the chorus of the song I heard played most often, and let you be the judge: (spoken, and repeated a million times, mas o menos)

Sacame tus pantalon.
Regalame tus panties.

When I was able to wrench myself from my Pitbull-induced stupor and look out the bus window, I couldn’t help but notice that I was seeing red – black and red to be exact. Every kilometer marker, ever guard rail and light pole, most road-side trees, and even large rocks were painted black and red. The body behind these colors, perhaps the only entity in Nicaragua greater and more ubiquitous than Pitbull, is the FSL N, the F___ S___ L____ N____. Without million-dollar ad spots, without slogans, without pictures, the FSLN has managed to insert itself into every nook and cranny of Nicaragua’s awareness. It’s tool? Colors. The movement has a monopoly on red and black and has managed to transform them from mere hues to a powerful message that the nation feels deeply, whether in solidarity with or against it. This sort of campaign has been attempted plenty in the states (see: every Pittsburgh politician shamelessly sporting black and yellow campaign signs) but never carried out so effectively, in my experience. Even for an outsider (and surely more so for Nicaraguans) these colors pack a heavy sense of passion and pain, struggle and oppression, defiance and hope. The campaign may have a vulnerable spot, though, as pointed out by our insightful friend, John the Scot: “I don’t get it. If the opposition wants to squash the FSLN, all they have to do is buy up all the red or black paint. Seems simple enough to me.” You heard it here first, folks.

A less visible campaign, but one that followed us through el Salvador and Nicaragua, was that opposing the human consumption of turtle eggs. It was a quiet movement, mostly carried on by employees of turtle rescue shelters, but we saw the occasional educational flyer posted at a seaside hostel, and a few stickers for sale boasting: “Yo no como los huevos de las Tortugas!” – I don’t eat turtle eggs! …Uh, good for you, neither do we, was generally the collective response. But on the volcanic Isla de Ometepe, the roots of the movement finally became clear. As we sleepily waited at the intersection of two dirt roads for the daily bus back into town, we noticed a small plastic sign across the road, with the following message in protruding bubble letters: “Los huevos de Tortugas no son la solucion”- Turtle eggs are not the solution. The message was flanked by a picture of a cute little momma turtle trailing 3 baby turtles, and by the mark of the sign’s “sponsor”, Viagra, a company that has almost certainly never heard of this particular crusade. So, remember, no matter how many turtle eggs you eat, they won’t help you get an erection, and it won’t last for more than 4 hours. So stop it already!


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Never enter Costa Rica by land if you can help it. Of the borders we’ve crossed over the last few months (I count twelve), the entrada from Nicaragua into Costa Rica was by far the most annoying. Our experience, which I hear is pretty standard, was standing in a serpentine line for hours in direct sun, with nothing to distract us from our burning faces and aching backs but a couple of howler monkeys in a nearby tree (pretty cool) and the occasional fellow line-stander paying a bribe or pulling a string to cut the line and cross the border, just like that (not cool.)