Los Dos

**Found this post from back in July and seemed ever more relevant as I start to think about my next steps and readjustment back to States life.

Perspective. I’ve been the victim of a certain kind of bug bite and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.

Stepping onto US soil for the first time in 14 months and the following readjustment to Nica life threw me for a loop- it was kind of like being a gecko on the bright blue walls of my “casita”. Stepping away from my routine allowed me too look at my norm, here and there, again for the first time. And damn did things look differently this go around.

May 2011: Dogs, roosters, fireworks, buses honking, women shouting “leche”, “tortilla”, etc. I remember the overwhelming sense of stimulation. Nicaragua is one lively place.

Then the initial horror of burning trash comes to mind and being adamant that something had to be done about this situation. I remember thinking of easy answers to everything.

Over a year later, I find myself dropping off my trash to the park. Deep down, I know where it is going- it is going to the ever growing trash pile hidden behind the colorful town cemetery. I might have heard that it has been known to spill into the lake before. OR the trash can be burned, but that will happen from someone else and not from me.

Coming home, Hilton Head. I notice the immediate contrast. Nicely rounded walking paths, manicured lawns, beige colored houses that look the same. The neighbors are tucked away in the trees to secure the privacy of the family inside. In the front of the house lies a home security sign. Everything seems neat and tidy. And- this world- the country I call home seems surprisingly familiar after my time away but it is also so foreign.

Upon return to Nicaragua, the life that had become so normal after a year suddenly seemed unfamiliar. On my trek back to the island, I started to notice the houses made of zinc roofing material that the government gives away to the poor. However, many of these poor don’t even have the materials to have walls so their houses are made from black plastic bags or cardboard. I had come to think that after my time here I had begun to understand Nicaragua but I realize that although I have a greater understanding than many- I will absolutely never be able to comprehend the extreme poverty here.

You see, I have come to realize that I am a girl stuck between two worlds neither here nor there. I find myself in limbo between my “selves”. There is Noelle from the United States who I was and Nicaraguan Noelía* which is who I have become out of survival. Noelle has accumulated five different pairs of red shoes over her time in Nicaragua and brought her truffle salt back from the States while Noelía intentionally puts on her most ragged and holey shirt when going to class because she hates it when students look her up and down and she can see the dollar signs in their eyes.

Noelía has developed an invincible sense of humor to the ridiculous situations that I now call life like missing three buses a day on a weekly basis. And while knowing that I am fuming inside, I can’t help but chuckle while singing Kris Kross’s “I missed the bus” in my head. Or keeping a running tally of the strangest things a rat has eaten out of my house- this week it was an unused “life preserver” in my medical kit but has been known to include a whole box of whole wheat couscous.

I am not really ready to be in the United States, but even though life is simpler here it is far from easier. Neither Noelle nor Noelía now. Just am.

A year and a half in country after my visit home for Christmas vacation:

I’ve been known to be called a “piñolera” (a nickname for Nicaraguans based on their love for the fresh corn, cacao, and milk drink) and that I dance like a Latina and that I have more sass than a Nica- and I love this.

I remember the first couple of months in country and telling myself that I would never wipe my mouth with a tablecloth- and going home I found myself as a foreigner in my own country. I have to remember to use silverware instead of eating with my hands. And it is not culturally acceptable to point at people with puckered mouths.

Sometimes I don’t think my friends and family are able to keep up with the bipolar disorder that is Peace Corps. It is something no one will ever understand. And, I am sorry I don’t have the words to explain it better.

After I stayed in the hospital for two days in January sick with Dengue Fever, I should have boarded a plane. But, for some reason I was more in love with this place than ever. January was full of excitement.. I sent off my graduate school applications, planned Camp GLOW, did a 3 day jewelry exchange in Boaco with women teaching them recycled jewelry making, and had a training with Peace Corps.