Reinventing Happiness

 

It’s 7 a.m. and the metal bus outside my house rumbles to life. Drenched to the bone with sweet, sticky sweat, stiff and nervous, I arrived in a little Nicaraguan village called La Ceiba. I mulled the words over in my mouth like a smooth caramel, “La…Ceiba. La Ceiba.” The sting of diesel, the unsullied smell of camaraderie; each permeated my nostrils as I descended the metal steps of the rickety bus.

The streets, barely three meters wide, were bristling with life, every door left ajar. The distant echoes of children’s songs, the gentle rustle of the palms, the intensity of the sun on my bare legs; all characterized this small community. The dogs were the only ones to sense stranger’s breath; they began to bark from within the shrouded courtyards, the darkened back-alleys.

I gaze curiously at the little alabaster school we finally pull up to. Hundreds of eyes line the barbwire fence, each child on tiptoe trying to be the first to see the strange gringos. Still more create a barrage in the entryway, one pushing another creating a kind of swaying effect on the whole sea of children. Entering through the gates of the kindergarten I feel a soft touch on my left hand, the slide of flesh on flesh. I turn to face a pair of huge round brown eyes. Su nombre? Maria.

The 10-year-old Maria led me by the hand to the back side of the school, the streets of La Ceiba—poverty at its darkest. Maneuvering down the dusty road, the stench of stale earth engulfed my lungs burning my throat and my corneas. The strength of the sun was tremendous, no trees to offer protection from its blazing might. We passed structure after structure: most fabricated of cardboard and black plastic Hefty bags. The lucky ones had tin roofs. There were no cars, no garages, no evidence of multimillion dollar housing and floor plans. Yet people still emerged from their homes. Unembarrassed. Unshaken by their current situation. Young mothers with infants, small, shoeless children in rags, shirtless teenage boys—all led us into their homes without a second thought. All greeted us from within a doorway or behind a makeshift wooden fence. All were smiling from ear to ear.

It’s time to leave and I am with Maria still. Hand in hand we make our way toward the bus, walking at a snail’s pace so as to avoid the impending sting of inevitable goodbyes. She stops me. Qué? I feel my hand drop as she lets go of my hand for the first time in hours, only for a moment, and slips from her finger a small silver ring. Grabbing my hand, she slid it onto my finger before returning her hand to its customary place. Mi amiga. Te amo. I love you.

Later that night, retreating to my bedroom, situated behind a floral sheet hung where a door should have been, I peeled off my blue jeans. Relief. I sensed happiness rising in me like warmth, from my feet to my shins, my thighs, my chest. Hungrily, I inhaled the fragrance of Nicaragua and of my new home. The aromas of friendship, passion and humanity were overwhelming, remnants of a life in America which now seemed more foreign than here.

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