The Other Side (backside) of Traveling

So when I turned to Brooke and told her “I have to get off this bus!” her first thoughts were that my conversation with the 17 year old know-it-all missionary beside me was not going so well (which is wasn’t) but that a simple seat change would be a simpler solution than getting off a bus we just paid 50 Cordovas for in the middle of nowhere in the rain. It wasn’t till I asked her where the toilet paper was that she saw the panicked look in my eyes and immediately understood the direness of the situation.
“Top of my bag!”
Damn! the zippers caught in the rainfly!
Can’t you hold it? We are in the middle of nowhere.
(No answer. . .Must concentrate on the zipper.) Ahh got it! I will meet you in Matagalpa!
What about your pack? Do you have enough money? How are we going to find each other? Its raining!
(No answer)

It is really amazing how after all the problems I’ve had communicating to bus drivers over the last eight months, I didn’t even have to finish my jumbled non-English or Spanish sentence before the driver had stopped the bus and opened the door. They say it is remarkable how much you can communicate with your eyes and perhaps that is what this was. Or maybe it was the fact that I was frantically trying to gather up the flowing role of toilet paper that to the entire buses delight was following me down the isle. In the end we will never know.

So no need to go into detail about what happened next except for it was in that time that, after swearing off any street food, raw fruits and vegetables, and anything but bottled water, I finally realized that I have no idea where I am, I have none of my stuff (except for a half undone roll of toilet paper), and it is raining. But as I came out of the not so well covered woods and saw the bus still there, the look of embarrassment was only slightly overcome by the look of relief. And to my surprise, my walk back on the bus was not topped off with standing ovation from the crowd (as it would have been in the U.S.) and all of a sudden, life was good again. And of course the first thing we did when we finally got off the bus in Matagalpa and were greeted by countless stands of hanging meat and beautiful stalls of fresh fruits and vegetables, was walk up to the first parrilla (grill) we saw and ordered some more delicious street food and a nice refresca (blended fruit drink) with extra ice, please.

(I will start off by apologizing if there was not enough warning before what could be aptly named the Poo Chronicles, but a blog like this or similar stories have been a long time coming. The truth is, while this may seem a little crude to those of you back in the states, especially compared to our normal beautiful, happy waterfall blogs; but amongst backpackers and Peace Corps Volunteers in developing countries this is probably the second most popular conversation; right behind talking about the food that is going into our bodies. Poo is certainly not taboo. And while we have many witty anecdotes and stories and different headings for this type blog, this one seems like a good one to represent the little less glamorous side of it all. For the rest of the chronicles you will just have to wait.)