After rollercoastering over hills and around curves on some Nicaraguan
back roads we arrived at the river and discovered how picnicking was meant to
be. The taxi driver set off on horseback with a local in search of Myra while
the rest of us set up camp on the bank. Someone started a fire and got the eggs
boiling, the kids bee-lined it for the water (and had we known it was an option
and worn our swimsuits the three white girls would have gone right in after
them. Well Sarah did but she was dressed in slightly more water friendly attire
than me or Vanessa). The coffee was
ready, the Cola was out, the beans and rice and fried plantains were piled high
on our plates, and the rosquillas were ready to be munched. We threw rocks into
the ripples and took pictures by the glittering water. We laughed with the family
and made fun of the kids and for a time it just felt like we had all known each
other forever.
The Taxi Driver’s Wife: Do
you want soup?
Me: Yeah, I guess. I’ll
try some.
Wife: Ok come on. We’ll
go get it.
Me: Wait what? Where? Do
I need to bring a bowl?
I held up a Tupperware and she just laughed and shook her head.
Wife: No. Come on.
She headed out across the river toward the group that was set up on the
other side. I followed wondering what exactly was going on (not a new thought
at this point). Then I looked up and saw it. Two women were hauling (not
carrying…hauling) the biggest bowl I have ever seen actually holding food. They made their way down the bank and into
the water. The bowl was covered with a small table cloth which they lifted,
when we finally met mid-stream, to reveal the most delicious-smelling soup I
have ever had the pleasure of inhaling. I can’t say it looked quite as
appetizing but whatever it lacked in visual charm it made up for ten-fold in
olfactory appeal. It traded hands and the taxi driver’s wife and I headed back
toward our bank, treasure in tow. Once we got to the other side the egg-boiling
pot was replaced on the fire by the giant beast bowl and shortly thereafter
everyone in a 100 meter radius was sharing in the unbelievable gift.
Some indefinable time later the taxi driver and the local returned. No
success…although at this point it didn’t matter anymore if we found Myra. We
had all had such an untradeable and priceless experience that failure or not,
it just didn’t matter. We were happy. We all started packing up camp. We
returned the nearly empty, fish soup bowl, packed away the dishes, sealed up
the drinks, and loaded up into the back of the milk truck for our return on the
rollercoaster back roads to La Gateada for one more night.
Myra called that night. She must have miraculously gotten one of the
messages (or knowing Central America, word got there by bird or small child or
door-to-door gossip…or all three). Anyway, Sarah got to talk to her on the
phone for a while, which was enough, she said. Maybe it’ll work out next time…
The three of us packed up our stuff, climbed up onto the mattress,
under the mosquito net, in the corner of the living room, and closed our eyes
with visions of soup and rivers and real bathrooms floating in our heads. We
had two days left in Nicaragua and as we dozed off we wondered just what kinds
of adventures those two days would bring. (Well I say we, I can’t really speak for Vanessa and Sarah here, but I did
anyway.)
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