"Okay, listen up everybody, here's the deal…"
A collective groan spreads throughout the group. The first time Dr. Ross got our attention with his "here's the deal" line, it was to announce that we were going to have to trek a mile up the mountain in the dark. The next time he used it, it was to tell us that we had run out of gas five minutes after leaving the cabin at El Quetzel. Fortunately for all of us, both of these situations were quickly mended. But still, announcements beginning with "here's the deal" have not meant good things so far.
"Here's the deal," he says. "The bus has a flat tire."
Another collective groan.
It's only the third full day of the trip, and Megabus has failed us again. We are supposed to be in the village of Hammonia by noon today. We are doing our second health fair there, the second half of our doubleheader weekend in the Matalgalpa. But at the moment, no one knows if we will ever make it there alive, let alone on time.
Dr. Ross and Edgar quickly come up with a plan to get us there on time. Juan, Edgar's right-hand man, will pick us up where we are stuck, a few miles outside Jinotega. We will have to smash twenty bodies into a van that is half the size of Megabus, but it's only for a short ride. As Doc would say, it's just another day in third-world nursing.
When we arrive at the Hammonia clinic a short time later, the preparations for the fair are well under way. Unlike the El Quetzal fair, this one is being sponsored by a local hotel. It will be held in the square where there are vendors selling arts and crafts. A DJ is already set up to blast salsa music through the street. The clinic is at the far end of the square, perched at the top of a long slope overlooking the roofs of the small village. Nearby, there is a rundown set of playground equipment, and the students greet the children waiting there on the seesaws. Before we get down to business, we all deserve a little recess.
As the activity around the little clinic grows, I notice several gringos like us wandering through the crowd. One of them, a man with thinning hair and a quick smile, walks up to me.
“I’m Mike,” he says, sticking out his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Mike. I’m Lee.”
“You and your group all from the States?” he asks.
“Yes sir.” His American accent gives him away, too.
“I figured. What part of the States exactly?”
“Little town in Pennsylvania near Pittsburgh called Canonsburg.”
“Ah, Perry Como’s home town,” Mike replies quickly. I start to laugh out loud. He looks at me, puzzled. “What? Isn’t that where he was from?”
“Oh no, you’re right." I tell him. "I just laughed because I’m standing on the side of a mountain in Nicaragua and somehow, Perry Como still manages to find me.”
“Well, he was a pretty well-known guy. Way back when, anyway.” As I soon find out, Mike is a pretty well-known guy himself. When Dr. Ross walks over a moment later, he and Mike reunite like old friends. I’m no longer surprised that Doc seems to every single person in this country by name.
“Lee, you remember the Gran Pacifica resort we went to on the coast a couple trips ago?” Doc asks. I would never forget that place. It's one of the most gorgeous places I've ever seen.
"Yeah, of course. Why?"
“Well, this is the guy who owns it.” Mike shrugs off the comment.
“Ah, that old money pit,” he smiles. Mike Cobb, though unassuming in his t-shirt and jeans, is actually the CEO of a corporation called ECI Development. After spending time with a college friend in Belize more than a decade ago, this entrepreneur decided to launch a mortgage firm to help negotiate contracts between Central American banks and United States customers looking to buy condos and resort properties. He moved to Nicaragua without knowing a word of Spanish.
He and his wife and two girls now live in Managua, and they love it. They are in Hammonia for the weekend to sightsee. We bring him up to speed on our involvement with the fair. “You guys headed back to the capital tonight, Carl?” he asks.
“Yeah, we will probably head to Hippo’s for the Steelers game.” Even in Managua, Dr. Ross has found a way to keep up with our team. Mike promises to meet us there for the game. It's good to find fellow fans so far from home...
The clinic doors open and rooms quickly fill up. I've noticed something interesting during our open clinics in Nicaragua. Our patients are so…well…. patient. They show up at the clinic, give their chief complaint, have their vital signs taken, and then they wait. Never do they appear to be anything less than grateful. And they are so interesting to watch as they wait. Most of them have this distant look in their eyes, and I often wonder what they must be thinking….
I can take a guess at what these particular ladies might be thinking today. They are probably wondering why they are standing in line to preserve their health while their husbands are gathering around a wooden pole in the yard, determined to injure theirs.
There is some sort of traditional male activity about to take place around a greased pole. As part of the fair's festivities, a long tree trunk, about three stories high, has been sunk into the ground, then greased heavily, just to make it harder for these men to prove their machismo. Their goal will be to climb on each other's shoulders, one after another, until there is enough of them standing on each other to reach a ribbon that is tied to the top of the pole. To break it down into simpler man talk…..
Man take off shirt. Man climb pole. Man win ribbon.
Before they begin the first climb, the men spend a great deal of time huddled around each other, discussing the best way to potentially break their necks. Then, in a flurry of motion, the first group prepares to attempt the climb.
These hombres fail miserably. The third man of the group goes up and doesn't make it very far.
The second group does well, but as the fourth man takes his place on the shoulders of the third man, he places his foot at a pressure point, accidentally blocking off his amigo's blood supply to the head. The man's eyes roll up into his head and he loses consciousness while hugging the pole. Down comes the whole operation, to the jeers of a gawking crowd. Luckily, all of them keep their arms wrapped around the pole as they fall. If someone falls backward off this pole, our little community clinic will quickly have to morph into a trauma center. And we certainly aren't prepared for that today.
Finally, a third group learns from the mistakes of their competition and makes progress up the pole.
The ribbon is untied and tossed to the ground. I'm not sure what the prize is for these men, but I'm sure it's not worth all the danger. Boys will be boys, I suppose.
In a race against daylight, we pack up the clinic before embarking on the long journey home to Managua. But there's still one thing left to do before we leave. The music is calling.
We have to dance.
The last hour of our day in Hammonia wasn't planned. It just happened. The entire village filled the square. The rhythm of the techno music seemed to accomplish the rest. If you ever wanted to tap the pulse of Latin America, this was the moment to do so. Old ladies and young boys pulled at our shirts, drawing us into center of the crowd. After a long day of work, the urge to cut loose and join the harmony catches on like wildfire. Either we jump in or we miss out on something spectacular.
So we jump.
I would love to insert a photograph for all of you to illustrate this poetic juncture, but unfortunately, a weekend of picture-taking had exhausted my batteries. So you will just have to imagine the final scene of a movie we could make about this adventurous weekend, a movie in which the whole village celebrates over something as insignificant as a group of nursing students coming to visit them. That's certainly what it felt like. I know I've ever lived any moment quite like it. It's amazing to me that the Matalgalpa is full of these tiny villages, little enclaves of civilization that rely simply on God's Creation and the hand that brought it into being. I wish I could stay longer.
But then, in a heartbeat, it’s over. The dust settles. The greased pole stands lonely in the middle of an empty square. And as the bus of tired Americans pulls away, the village of Hammonia lies quiet once again, upwind and tucked away from the mess of a crowded world.
And I do hope it stays that way forever.
