On the Friday night our team was to depart for Managua, I
sat on the floor of my bedroom surrounded by the contents of my packing list. I
had hoped to feel just a little more prepared at this point. I had planned to
brush up on my Spanish and eat so much garlic that the mosquitos wouldn’t want to touch me. But my life continued to move at 80 miles per hour, and here I was
with a head full of broken Spanish and skin begging to be bitten. So instead I
crossed the items off my list, feeling a small sense of comfort with every
line I drew. Sunscreen, journal, mosquito repellant…check, check, check. What
more could a girl need in Central America?
At the airport, our team 20-somethings gathered to pray and
prepare for a long night of sleepless red-eye flights. I’m sure our families
would be comforted to know that our team leader, Alex, was not even old enough
to qualify for the auto insurance discount that signifies the transition from
reckless youth to responsible adult. Two flights, one layover, and several
passport checks later, we were in Managua. Alex told us to enjoy the last air
conditioning we would feel for eight days, and we rolled our suitcases out the
double doors of the Managua airport into the thick, tropic heat.
Our translator, Mario, met us outside and we hopped aboard a
bus to make the hour drive to the villa. That first bus ride was easily a
highlight of my trip. As we flew through the streets of Managua, I became
instantly fascinated by the culture. Here, road rules were simply suggestions and
people honked their horns liberally. I watched out the window as we passed
daring Nicaraguans walking between cars, selling cashews stacked on their
heads, and making money from spontaneous, mid-traffic windshield washing.
Finally arriving at the villa, we passed through the gates
into a slice of paradise that sharply contrasted with the chaotic streets of
Managua. Plants of all species lived among the 24 girls and many workers of the
villa, and we were stunned by the sense of peace this escape exuded. Rubbing the fatigue from our faces, we
claimed bunk beds in the rooms reserved for mission teams and prepared to meet
the girls.
 |
| Villa Esperanza, 2012 |
We spread out among plastic tables to leave space for the
girls to sit next to us and endure our terrible attempts at Spanish. At this point, I’m sure they are accustomed
to awkward conversation and have mastered the art of humoring outsiders. Every
one of us had a chance to hold the microphone and share our names and ages. The
girls introduced themselves in their best English, and we tried our hands at
recalling first year Spanish class. “Buenos noches. Me llamo Karlee. Tengo
venticuatro anos.” If that doesn’t impress them, I don’t know what will.
After introductions, we thought surely it was time to pass
out, but someone hit the music and we commenced a sweaty dance party. Turns
out, these nighttime dance parties would happen every single night before bed. The
girls had choreographed dances for just about every song, and every one of
their fluid movements made me feel more like a fish out of water. However, it
was great fun not to take ourselves too seriously, and I was relieved to find
that the Funky Chicken is a Villa Esperanza favorite. Who can’t do the Funky
Chicken? When it was finally time for bed, even the girls who were too shy to
speak to us gave us hugs and headed to their quarters at the back of the
property. They wake up at 5:30 every morning to do chores before school, so
thank goodness 8:30 p.m. was when we called it a night.
First night of sleep and no mosquito bites! However, I did
wake up several times to the sound of mangoes hitting the tin roof, which sound
like explosions. We take our building materials for granted, my friends.
