I never thought I’d be riding my 6th grade school bus again...

Here in Nicaragua, the public transportation is oddly reliable, especially the punctuality of the buses. Nothing is on time in Nicaragua (yeah, make the joke, I fit right in), so this phenomenon is still beyond me. Along with the time-wise reliability, the buses really hardly ever break down. And this is strange why, you ask? These buses are retired school buses from the States. On short 30 minute journeys, the ride isn’t so bad, but when you are hungover and have to be on these buses for hours with no restrooms and it’s at 45 smelly people beyond capacity, like many prescription drugs, it can result in nausea, vomiting and blurry vision. Here’s a joke I heard the other day: Q:How many people can fit on a Nicaraguan bus?
A: Two more!

So needless to say, the bus rides can be really interesting…

Washing clothes here takes so much time. Like…to do an average load-size amount, it takes a minimum of 2 hours. It’s not easy work either – my arms are always super sore after a day in front of the stone washboard. You can look at an entire family and immediately determine which woman washes the clothes by the definition of her arms (notice I said “woman,” because men don’t do any work around the house in this country). As I’ve mentioned before, the food here is really unhealthy (triple-fried EVERYTHING), and I find it comical when I see women with arms that could clearly win just about any arm-wrestling match, with big round bellies to complement.

Just when I thought I could get away from Wal-Mart, they go and buy out Pali. It is just a grocery store, but you cannot walk into this store without seeing the sign for the lowest prices...ugh.

I think I’m going to move houses. I was out of town this weekend and when I came back, someone had gone in my room, worn one of my shirts (it smelled of beer/BO, there was glitter on it, and it was hanging the wrong way on the hanger), unplugged anything I had plugged in, and, what’s worse, is someone had eaten some my food. You all know how I feel about my food, so besides living with the racist dog, I think I have plenty of ammunition to dip out. Unfortunately, it’s far too expensive on my “salary” to live alone, so I’ve been in search of another room around the city, and I think I’ve found one. It’s on a dirt street that acts like a river the second it starts raining, but the room is really cute and I think I can paint my walls. I keep telling myself that I’m not turning into my mother, but I can no longer deny it: I’m excited to paint.

Here are a couple of other pictures of Ocotal:

Miss you all!