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Getting to Ometepe island was a feat that entailed tumbling out of bed & into a car at an ungodly hour, over potholed roads shared with schoolbuses, horsecarts, bicyclists, and little vehicles that we could only describe as similar to Thai tuk-tuks. Arriving on the beaches of San Jorge, we were led to an industrial looking ferry (good thing I didn’t read until afterwards that one of those ferries had sunk not long ago), P turning green on the choppy waters and dissappearing into the loo, and then finally the smiling face of Erick at the arrival dock.
After an entire morning of driving and hiking about with our young guide, we are starving and utterly dehydrated. We’ve been sweating more steadily than I had known was humanly possible…
We sat down to eat at Charco Verde.
Sucked down that water and Pina juice, immediately asked for more. Added our Nuum electrolyte tablets (one of the triathlon supplies that come in handy during travel, Clif blox too) to water and sucked that down too while waving away the flies. Our waiter calmly brings a lit candle to our table in response to the fly-waving dance. Hunh. Ok, so now we know why people have candles on their tables in the middle of a blazing hot day.
I glance over at Erick drinking water at the counter. Behind Pruths’ shoulder I see him set down his glass and discreetly park on a bench.
Puzzled, I look at Pruth.
“Is he not going to eat lunch at all?”
P looks around, “What? Where is he?”
“Don’t they feed him?! If they don’t, we should get him something.”
Yet I feel shy about inviting him over.
It’s confusing. Surely neither he nor his bosses expect him to spend 10 hours touring us around Ometepe island without sustenance?
P hollers out, “hey Erick, come on and have something!”
He hesitates, then comes over.
“Maybe just a coke”, he says.
I made a face. Soda is not on my list of acceptable consumables. “You can’t just have soda, eat something, it’s gonna be a long day,” I say
“Maybe some beans…”, Ericka ventures.
“Sure. But just beans!?”
“OK, chicken , Ok?”
“”yeah, man, whatever you want,” P says genuinely.
And thus Erick winds up seated with us at lunch wolfing down a giant platter of grilled pollo and sharing our platter of Tostones con queso. In my mind there are few things in this life that good plantains can not mend.
In the U.S I am known as a notoriously irritating bird feeder.
Meaning, if you are dining with me al fresco, I will inevitably fling bits of food about as we speak, attracting flocks of avian friends despite the fact that they threaten to poop or alight upon us at any second.
Imagine now, at Charco verde, it was dogs.
Suddenly I glanced down at a cream colored lab mix with noticeable ribs in his skinny bod. He sighed softly and politely laid there. Not actively begging, just waiting.
I looked at that face, at pretty, light, warm eyes.
“You know what your problem is perro,” I said, “You were just born in the wrong country.”
And the food flinging began in earnest on my part.
About 5 hours after our initial meeting, Erick asks me what my work is.
“Estoy un Psicologia,” I reply.
Raised eyebrows.
“I want to know,” he says, “you know, I meet a lot of foreigners in this job. Why so many are old, older, like 40’s and they have no children?”
“Well Erick, they probably work ALL the time like we do.”
In my head I added: or they are probably selfish people who want to indulge their own intellectual pleasures and world adventures…kinda…like… me.
Erick looks at us and nods with obvious doubt in his eyes.
“To give you an idea how bad it is,” P says, “my brother lives only like a mile and a half away from us-and we see him maybe once a month.”
At this, Erick appears alarmed.
“We are 8, a big family” he says. “I have one sister working in Costa Rica, three brothers working on mainland. But my parents, and my grandparents, mostly everybody is together here on the island.”
I proceed to horrify Erick my explaining how much money it costs to pay for daycare in California. And how we both work late evenings to pay for our small home, so much that we do not even keep a parrot or cat for fear of neglecting it.
He describes how his wife was eager for a baby, that they have an 8 month old. About his father giving him some property where he is working hard and almost finished building a house.
“I am OK to take care of them, my wife and the baby. But I want make a plan. I look around me, I see guys like 40 years old they got nothing. Nothing. Drunk and all that stuff. That’s not going to be for me.”
“ The volcano hike, in high season, I go maybe 4, 5 times every week. I can feel I am getting older, not as easy like before.”
How wise, I think. A vigorous young man who is aware that he can’t count on that body forever.
Such insight will do his little familia a world of benefit.
Kinda like how when I was 17 and having a pageant queen high, a banner year in all respects, being deluged with bouquets of flowers and all sort of attention-I reminded myself that such things were guaranteed to be short lived. No way was I gonna be like those 30 or 40 something dames framing their tiaras and dreaming of their glory days.
I inform Erick about the latest studies that show how cuidad San Francisco has more dogs than children. He stares at me incredulously.
“Why?”
San Francisco“Because it’s so expensive to live in now all the families are moving away, running away. But people work all the time and keep dogs instead like children. You know, they buy toys and clothing for the dogs.”
His smirk becomes a chuckle. In his head I am sure he’s thinking “stupid Gringos.”
I inform him that my friends are paying $400 a month for their canine companion to attend doggie daycare when they work.
He shakes his head. I wonder if he is being offended at how wasteful we are.
“You know, in the big cities,” I say, “like Los Angeles and San Francisco,they even have panaderia- panaderia just for dogs only.”
At this he breaks into outright peals of laughter, trying to imagine a bakery for nothing but dogs.
Erick pointed out many sights along the way that we did not have time to stop and peruse. Among these was Playa Santo Domingo, and also a very large and polished church. Yellow, in much better condition than any other structure I’d yet seen on the Isle.
“That one is an orphanage,” He said as we zipped by.
“Really!?”, I asked, peering back at the building and hoping to glimpse….what?
“Not that building. Church in front, the children have another building in the back. Maybe…300 orphans.”
Thank goodness there was no time for me then to mull over such facts. And no time in our itinerary to stop. I’m not sure we would have ever left if anyone had let me in to play with those 300 ninos. Either we’d be at home with a Nico child right now (But we promised one another we wouldn’t adopt ‘til we are say 40 or 50 !), or we couldn’t have left ‘til I emptied my wallet and gave away every stitch we wore or carried. Innocent, orphaned, babes on a volcanic island in the middle of nowhere…sounds like movie fodder.
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