The Granada police station has been closed all week, and will remain closed until Wednesday. This is presumably due to today’s municipal elections, much anticipated, protested, and surrounded by violence (see my article below). My reaction to a police station closing is much as if they were to have closed, say, the hospital or, let’s say, the jail. Seriously. What is the point of a police station if it closes right when you would probably need it the most? (To be fair to the Nicaraguan police force, the logic must be that one less person manning the office is one more person on the street, thwarting the plans of troublemakers and hooligans.)
This little fact would normally have escaped my attention. However, the Nicaraguan inevitable happened and my wallet was stolen on Thursday evening, right out of my little zipped purse. Now, I will allow that I was in a crowded bar, of which there was much dancing and general festejar-ing. But, I walked in with wallet and walked out sans wallet, and have not the slightest clue how this transpired. It’s incredibly frustrating to be robbed as such because it’s just so sneaky and out of my control. Yes, yes, I know: that’s the point.
Nary do I bring out more than 20 dollars in cash, nor my debit card or any other valuable identification. However, on this fine evening, I was wandering around loaded with 60 dollars cash and a debit card that, at 2:30 in the morning, found itself buying 150 dollars worth of merchandise at the Esso station outside of town. Firstly, what on earth are these people buying for 4,000 cordobas at the Esso station? Secondly, my debit card has my picture on it. In case your memory is fuzzy after three months—I don’t look remotely Nicaraguan, so Mr. Cashier Man obviously knew the card was stolen.
Anyway. That’s life. Not really catastrophic, just annoying and mostly, incredibly ironic after my little “optimism vindicated” rant and rave.
Let’s see. On a happier note, I’m moving back to Gigante on Wednesday. I’m really quite excited, to see my students and my Brio friends, to eat breakfast overlooking the green and blue, to run on the beach, and to get away from Granada, which is wearing on me a bit. Additionally, I told my students I’d come back, and gosh darn it, I’m gunna. I’ve made thousands of worksheets and will bring some goodies back with me, so I feel immensely more prepared to efficiently teach than when I was fresh off the plane from los EEUU and a bit perturbed about the crab in my backpack. (I found a cockroach in the cabinet this morning, so never fear, Granada is not without its wildlife adventures, too.)
Every bit as beautiful of a city as when I first arrived, Granada is now, however, overrun by tourists. Who are obnoxious. I realize that, at the heart of it, I myself am a tourist. But, I like to flatter myself to think that firstly, I am not obnoxious, and that secondly, I sort of live here. I therefore do not appreciate all the Nicaraguans assuming that I am a tourist who doesn’t speak a lick of Spanish and would also like to buy a maraca for 18 dollars. I shall be back within two weeks, however, to design the newspaper, and then back again two weeks after that. And then, I shall be in the United States of America, which is all too soon, unbelievable, and sounding better and better every day. I interviewed a woman who moved here permanently from Ventura, Calif, and four years later, says she still occasionally needs to go back to the States to reboot. This coming from a woman who lives in a beautiful home overlooking the beach. This is to say…yeah, Nicaragua is still challenging. I’m hoping that Gigante shall be a nice respite from police stations that close (given as they don’t have one…) and all the Granada Nicas, who are not the norm and who have lost all sense of curiosity for foreigners and instead just like to yell at them in the street. I keep reminding myself not to let them get to me, that there is nothing I can do about the eighteen cat-calls I get round-trip to and from work.
I’ve quite busy with my third layout of the Nicaraguan Post, today and tomorrow, and frustrated because Darrell did not have his crap together for this issue, which is doubling my work. However, I when he’s not looking over my shoulder and chain smoking, I quite enjoy layout. It’s like a giant, 16-page puzzle. (And working with Darrell makes me feel so… competent.)
I pass my days still accompanied by this particularly stubborn mushroom fungus. It’s getting better, but not as quickly as I had anticipated. It’s still there, and I ain’t happy about it, not necessarily because it’s really noticeable, but because one of the lovely sideffects of the drug I’m taking. I googled said oral anti-fungal medicine and learned that a common side effect of the drug is hair loss, and indeed—my hair is falling out. This may be TMI (too much information) but oh well. Loss of hair does not contribute to my general mental well-being and cheerfulness when, in addition to all challenges Nicaragua (getting robbed) and with work (a frustrating boss), I have to worry about going bald, or the very least, leaving half my hair behind in Nicaragua.