Seated directly across my living room from the PC Nicaragua site coordinator, Beyadro, I chose my words carefully. We started our conversation in Spanish and guiltily I asked if he would mind continuing in English. This was a day that I had been waiting patiently for, preparing for and secretly dreading for weeks now and I didn’t want my future decided by a misspoken word. This was the moment of truth and my conversation with this soft-spoken man would determine my home for the next two years. My preferences for my future site were vague and I had two simple requests. “Beyardo”, I said, “Put me in the woods and put me deep.”
All of us aggies had a meeting a week later and seated together learned, one by one, who had been placed where. We were given our site, a packet with a brief description and a thumb tack to pin into the large map at the front of the room allowing us to all see where the others would be and to have a better idea of how isolated or connected we would be with the world as we know it. My site (as was the case with most of the volunteers), was my first choice; Jucuapa Occidental in the municipality of Matagalpa, Nicaragua. The material that I was given prior to picking this site was open-ended at best but what stood out were the possibilities for watershed and agro forestry projects. I had never been to Matagapla and knew very little about it but it was clear that it was remote (possibly to a fault) and the projects mentioned were exactly what I had hoped for.
I had been sick for almost three weeks when I arrived in Estelî, in and out of bed, trying to pull it together for Spanish and ag classes. If my stomach were in the 5th grade, it would get its ass kicked every day for being such a sissy. I’d only been in Nicaragua for two months and had already been on anti-biotics three times for bacterial and parasitic problems. We were all meeting up at a hotel for a couple days to meet and spend time with our Nicaraguan and INTA (Instituto Nicaragüense de Tecnologia Agropecuaria) counterparts. Mine turned out to be Elmer, one of my host brothers. He was a shy 20 year-old who was nice enough to come over on a bus and stay for 2 days to meet the new gringo that he’d be sharing his space with for an indeterminate amount of time. I was truly appreciative that he had come out which made it even more difficult when I had to leave him in the middle of our meeting for a poorly scheduled visit to the laboratory in town. I was taken in by a PC staff member, dropped off a sample and tried to return as quickly as possible, which turned out to be an hour later. I felt horrible but Elmer understood and we left together that afternoon to make our way into my new home.
Me made it in to Matagalpa City at around 3pm after a quick 2-hour bus ride from Estelî. Walking through the market, Elmer reminded me that transportation is limited up to his home. We had missed the only bus for the day by three hours so we had a couple options: Stay with his sister in the city for the night and take the next bus up at noon the following day, or hike the 11km’s of road up in to the mountains. Being the ever-indecisive person that I am, I threw it back on him. “I dunno, man. Its up to you. What would you do if you were in the city by yourself? Would you hike it or wait?” Elmer had a challenging glint in his eye when he said “Well, I’d hike it. But do you think you can do it with your backpack?” I’d gotten the answer that I had secretly hoped for and my smile answered for me. We started our journey into the woods.
The road was rocky and clearly seldom used by anything with rubber wheels. The flat front country gave way to steep winding roads and we were on our way. Thousands of perfectly manicured rows of corn filled gaping scars of clear-cut forest on nearly every hillside. We walked alone for miles eventually passing a pile of horse dung, which at this point, had been the only sure sign that anyone had ever traveled up this road. I asked Elmer if he had ever hitchhiked to lighten his load up the hill and his response was an obvious one. “No, hombre. Cars don’t ever come up there.” We kept walking, most of our trek in complete silence. The heat started to beat down on top of us and I begged for clouds. My stomach and body ached and I was so glad that I had filled up my water bottle in Estelî before leaving the hotel.
When I had started the hike, I knew what I was jumping into but arrogantly I kept reminding myself that it was only 10km’s in. I could picture Lucas Somers, my past Forest Service partner and wilderness BFF, smirking and shaking his head at me in disgust. We used to hike three times this distance every day with 80 pounds on our backs and our arms full with tools, usually ending with a foot race to challenge the other’s mountain man ego. But this was different. Sure, I’d hiked over more terrain much steeper than this but I had never done those hikes this sick or dehydrated and I had never done them in the tropics. At one point it crossed my mind “Ryan Hubbard, if your dumb ass dies of dehydration today, you better be good and dead because if not, your mom and Aubrie are going to hunt you down and finish you off.” About 3 miles in, I got a call from the PC Medical Office. I set my bag down and answered, more amazed than anything that I was receiving phone signal. They had called to let me know that they received my lab results. They showed that I had a significant bacterial infection (which explained the fever) and I was advised to “Spend some time in bed. I know its your site visit but just relax and take it easy this week.” I thanked the voice on the other end for giving me a call, promised that I would not leave my bed and hung up, I couldn’t help but laugh when I hoisted my bag back on to my back. I shot a smile and a nod to Elmer and we were on the road.
Looking back, the hike was not bad at all and I am glad that my first introduction to my new home was on foot. It felt like the right way to do it and I would repeat my decision in a heartbeat. As the elevation increased and we crossed more rivers, the valley gave birth to more and more life. Hardwood forests blanketed steep hillsides, so thick that there was no sign of earth beneath the canopy. Vines spiraled down from giant, twisting Mammoths of trees along the road. Finally, for the first time in Nicaragua, there were no radio’s or televisions blaring. There was no echo from herds of mototaxis honking their horns to make their presence known to one another on lawless city streets. Just birds. Just insects. And only our feet scuffing up the rocky hillsides. Looking down at my feet, I slipped easily into a dream state, strolling through the cattle pastures near my house in Bishop, walking deep in the wilderness with Luke. I was thousands of miles from home, but home was walking up with me. It felt good and for the moment it kept me sane and calm as I passed in to a foreign land that would mark my new identity.
After just under two hours, we could see the house. It sat cradled on the other side of a large ridge, surrounded by a beautiful rushing river and countless acres of corn and beans. I was greeted warmly by my host mother, Margarita. She had a very content, free-spirited way about her and I could picture her just as easily in the woods of Santa Cruz or in a small house in the Humboldt redwoods. The sun was setting soon after I arrived and I was offered a plate of Gallo Pinto (the defining Nicaraguan staple, a mixture of red beans and rice, eaten with EVERY meal. Sidenote: The reasoning for only eating red beans in Nica is bizarre and kind of hilarious. I'll tell you about it when I see you next), and a tortilla. I forced myself to eat as much as I could, still lacking an appetite from my stomach problems. I ate alone with the exception of the chickens and ducks at my feet and the cats perched on shelves in the kitchen watching me force down every bite and begging for a piece of tortilla to drop.
After dinner, I received a tour of the pueblito from two of the kids in my family. My best tours of Nicaragua have all been from children ages 3 to 9 and I’m certain that this is the only was to see the heart of any Nica community. We walked to Grandma’s house and crossed the river (which doesn’t have a bridge and is completely non-passable after heavy rains. Peace Corps bridge project? Check.), and I met as many of the local people as I could before it was too dark. I sat on about two dozen porches, chatting with mainly mothers and grandmothers and sipped so much coffee that my blood sang. I came down from my buzz in the kitchen of my house later that evening. I sat and shucked beans with my host mother, again, mostly in silence. She smiled and sang, scolded the cats when they overstayed their welcome in the kitchen and when we both had heaping buckets full of extracted beans, we parted ways and went to bed.
Its hard to forget how far away I am when I look down lush green valleys and bathe in the river but that home, my real home, will always be there waiting for me. This is my community now and it’s people my family. In many ways, this is what I have envisioned and craved for many years. Away in the woods, sweating through my shirt and speaking a language that was, only a couple months earlier, not my own. The next two years are going to be the most defining years of my life. My task is completely in my hands and I am free to do with it what I please. The lack of supervision and direction that we are given as Ag volunteers is rare within the PC and most other groups have what they refer to as “Aggie-envy”. Complete freedom. I’m going to keep myself very busy, realizing that excessive free time is a killer and when I have a moment to stop and think, homesickness smothers like a wet blanket. It happens when I least expect it and my heart begs my feet to take it home. But I’m here with a purpose and very lucky to have this opportunity. The voice in my head challenges me: “You wanted to make a difference, so do it.”
Yeah. I think I will.
