The Final Days

I am trying to find words. Words to explain or express or give a glimpse into my life in Central America. But I can't seem to find these words. This morning I left my Batahola home to move into the house with my eighteen other housemates to share our final week together. Mom, Leo and little Lupita held our hands as we carried our oversized luggage and heavy hearts to the bus. We hugged and kissed and said our temporary goodbyes, knowing that Thursday we would come back with pizza and Coke in hand to have our final dinner together as a familia. We'll watch our telenovelas and gasp with horror as Catalina pushes her ex-boyfriend's car down a hill. We'll play UNO for hours and attempt to get along knowing that cheating is abundant and UNO is serious. We'll eat pizza and marvel in the goodness of cheese. We'll sit on the rocking chairs. We'll say "Lupiiiiiitaaaaa!" over and over and over just to see that cute little smile emerge. We'll let Lola the bird sit on our heads. We'll listen to Dad play guitar and hum. We'll let brother read everything printed on the television screen in a loud, soothing, booming voice. We'll enjoy each other and laugh and giggle and love on each other. And then, some time in the future, maybe distant or maybe closer than I can imagine, we'll get to share it all again.

Meet the kids: Leo. Lupita. Jose Andres.

El Sontule

Sandinistas. The Contra War. President Reagan. US foreign policy. Torture. Inequality. Rape. Money.

These words infiltrate my mind as I sit in this house in the middle of Managua. They are words that were once only defined by other words with other meanings in other times. However, as I sit here, legs folded in a comfortable chair, I cannot escape these words. They carry a new weight. They hold within each syllable a story. It is a strange phenomenon when words become personal.

Last week I stayed in the very rural village of El Sontule. No running water. No electricity. No internet. No sink. No door. No luxuries. Mountains surrounded the valley that held my wood plank and cement home. As I stepped outside in the mornings, the brisk air awakened my senses and the view was indescribable. Each night as I carefully made my way toward the latrine, I stopped to stare at the stars- the most brilliant and numerous stars I've ever seen, second only to Mt. Gemi in Amedzofe when the electricity would go off in the surrounding villages. It was romantic and breathtaking.

Aside from the simplicity of a life lacking in luxuries that I tend to always fall in love with, I had the incredible opportunity to live with one of the strongest and bravest women I have ever met. Isabel, a mother of six children ranging from 26 to 8, survived the Contra attacks on her community. Kidnapped. Tortured. Raped. The Contra War hit me like a slap in the face. It is not a story told by politicians and authors and journalists. It did not end in 1987. The war continues to rage. And as I sat there on the wooden bench next to the stove heated by dried corn husks, I listened to Isabel. She spoke delicately and intently. She made the war real as she showed us the mountains where she hid and escaped. We walked on the same land. We looked at the same trees. And at night, we stared at the same stars.

In countries where history, culture and politics merge so drastically and conflict so often, it is easy to overlook the personal stories. It is easier to read about war and human rights abuses and torture than it is to stare it in the face. This week, I was forced to stare it in the face. And I am honored to have the opportunity to hear firsthand, to translate the words, to sit with a strong Sandinista woman in her own home and to glance into a community with a heavy past and a bright future.

Because it's been too long...

I'm sitting in the darkened living room of my mom's high rise apartment in Venezuela. The bright lights of Caracas illuminate a city nestled beneath breathtaking mountains on all sides. For some reason, I am forcing myself to blog. It's been too long since I made the effort to write for writing's sake, so tonight, as I sit with my legs propped up on the leather couch, I will write.


For the past three months I have been living among the people of Guatemala, El Salvador and Nicaragua. Currently, I am living with the Sandovals in a small neighborhood in the middle of Managua, Nicaragua. The barrio of Batahola consists of dusty roads lined with cement block homes behind hammock hung porches. Not too quiet, not too loud, Batahola is tight knit and quaint. My house is hidden from street view, tucked behind two larger homes and a high concrete wall. We have no porch or hammock like our neighbors and our kitchen is outside, but what we lack in material possessions is readily made up in the personalities of the family. Papi, Mama, Jose Leo, Carmen, Leito, Lupita and Andre. What a family. Chelsea, my roommate and very close friend, and I have the incredible opportunity be a part of the lives of these amazing people.

Each night I take a bucket bath of the water saved from the days allotment of usuable agua. I attempt to clean the dust and sweat that accumulates throughout the miserably hot days of March and April in Managua. The rains have not come to temper the heat yet they taunt us with each passing cloud. After my bath, I sit with my family and watch telenovelas, futbol, talk, color with the children or read homework articles about the Sandinistas and revolutionaries. It is simple and crowded but very welcoming.

This past week I have been with my Mama. Oh how wonderful and altogether lovely it was to see her face! It was unreal. I walked through the Caracas airport, excitement building as I rushed past immigration toward my beautiful Mama. Over the past 7 days we have visited the ocean, drank refillable coffee cups, sat on the roof of a building with a view of the city drinking wine with her friends, met with a Chavista priest, peaked into mass, layed out by the pool, got sunburned, got tanned and simply spent much needed and much welcomed time together.

As I leave this world of air conditioning, toilets that let me throw toilet paper into them, constant electricity, hot water, a refridgerator full of food, cool nights, washing machines, spectacular views and time with my Mom, I am mentally preparing for the transition. When I arrived in Venezuela, to say that I experienced some culture shock is an understatement. Now as I pack my little bag that holds two pairs of clothes, a toothbrush, my journal and a book, I prepare to re-enter the Third World. It is more uncomfortable and harsher than this cozy apartment or the backrubs that my mom generously gives me when I visit, but the Third World enchants me. With all the normal amenities lacking, Nicaragua has a charm that shouldn't be ignored. I'm sad to say goodbye to my mom, as I always am and always will be, but I'm ready to embrace the next month. The final month of this little adventure of mine.

I´m just not that into you.

¨I think you just had your official welcome to Managua, Molly¨laughs my curly haired friend Amy from Rhode Island. Four girls squished into the back seat of a taxi in the heat of the Nicaraguan evening on the way to spin class turned into another eventful moment in the life of Molly Bryant. The stories keep building. Yesterday I was reminded that I am, indeed, immersed in another culture. A culture altogether different than my own; one that has undoubtedly provided moments of confusion, frustration and terror (which just comes with the territory of international travel) but mostly it has provided moments of pure humor and hilarity. As soon as I forget that I´m traveling through Central America, a man in a wheelchair tries to make out with me. At a stoplight. With a plate glass window as our only barrier.

´Tis true. I do not exaggerate, my virtual friends. Last night, our taxi driver Fernando pulled up to the stoplight of a busy intersection and immediately locked the doors and asked us to roll up our windows. We obeyed without question knowing that robbery has been on the rise here in Nicaragua. As I was innocently chatting with my friends and moving to the salsa music on the radio, a man´s face appeared directly to my left. Inches away. My eyesight might be horrific but I do have excellent peripheral vision. I slowly turned my head with the face of someone who might be described as one who feels both guilty and nervous because they know they shouldn´t be looking at whatever it is but they can´t not look at the same time. I looked. Failure! Never look.

¨Ho-laaaaaa!¨says the man as he nods and literally licks his lips. Cringe. I smiled and turned away. Surely the man will get the point. I´m just not that into him. He taps on the window. Shudder. He bangs on the window and starts talking. Holy shit. The car errupts into uncontrollable giggles. I try to remain adamant that I will not even laugh because that will just provoke the situation. Do not laugh. And then...

He sticks his mouth on the window. The window that is inches from my face. I turn to give him the look of ¨Ya Basta (Enough!)!¨And then I see it in plain view. His mouth. His tongue. The window. A part of me was literally scared. I wouldn´t say that it´s the most comforting thing in the world to have a man in a wheelchair make out with the window the lies adjacent to your body. Yet, slowly... slowly... slowly... a smile emerged. Then a snort. Then a snicker. And then laughter. Uncontrollable, deep laughter. Tears begin to stream down my face. With each kiss from the man, more tears. Tears of terror, tears of humor and tears that inevitably come with a situation like this. And then the car lost all control. It was contagious. And that damned stoplight lasted for what felt like hours.

Thankfully I had 50 minutes of spinning class from an instructor that had dance moves I´ve never ever seen before and who yelled at me to go faster to take my mind off the classy man at the stoplight. Perhaps we will meet again. Perhaps not. At least we had those 5 minutes together. On the street. With the doors locked and the windows up.

Chip. Mouth. Crunch.

3:30 am. My roommate has just entered our bungalow. The door swings and makes a screeching noise against the tile floor. The light switch is turned on. Then off. Then on again. It is our last night in El Salvador and while half of the group stayed up drinking rum and Cokes and probably a healthy dose of tequila, the rest of us had less rum and Coke and tequila, played a few raucus games of UNO, danced Latin American style around the living room and descended the stairs to sleep in our comfy beds for the last time at a more decent hour, although decent is relative.

3:35am. The light is turned off yet again. She noisily walks to the bed that is a mere foot and a half from my tiny bed that is squished in the corner with sheets that don´t fit and a few springs that have slowly made their way closer and closer to the surface and my spine. She has changed clothes and is now ready for sleep. What else could she do? I assume that now all will be quiet. I can go back to sleep. I love my sleep.

3:38 am. Plastic bag crumpling. Still crumpling. Plastic bag falling to the ground. Hitting the ground. My mind races, what is happening? Then I hear it. It becomes clear. She is opening a bag of potato chips. At 3:38 in the morning. An hour and 7 minutes before I am to wake up and get on a bus for twelve hours that will take me to Nicaragua via Honduras and the open road. Bag opened. CRUNCH. Is she really doing this? How could she do this to me? She loves me! Crumpling. Chip. Mouth. CRUNCH. Chew. Chew. Chew. Each movement is like an audible bomb. Chip. Mouth. Crunch. At this point, not only can I swear on my life that she is eating each chip inches from my ear with the intent of instigating a physical brawl, but the bag must be three feet tall. It is never ending, these chips. They continue taunting me and screeching with laughter as her teeth descend on their salty bodies. Chip. Mouth. Crunch. CRUNCH.

3:52 am. The chips have been eaten. The roommate is asleep. I am awake with the echoes of fried potatoes resounding in my ears.

Highways and Byways

As we drove down the dirt rode, our fingers sticky from the fresh papaya, the sun began to set. Colors splashed across the sky and the night time coolness slowly descended on the Salvadoran countryside. The four of us squished into the old beatup Toyota pickup truck driven by our host mom, Elena, who just so happened to be a Catholic nun and one of the wisest women I've ever met. She casually asked us questions about our lives, and slipped in the seemingly insignificant question, "Do any of you know how to drive a stick shift?" Two of us said that we knew the basics of it, but we hadn't driven one in a long time. The conversation moved on, nothing too spectacular.

Suddenly, we were on the highway, darkness rapidly approaching, and we were literally averaging 35 mph. Something was clearly not right. Elena delicately pulled onto the shoulder and sweetly said, "Girls, I'm sorry to do this to you but I can't see." The four of us gave each other fearful glances wondering what we were supposed to do.

Elena: Can one of you drive?
Marie and I looked at each other with complete bewilderment
Marie: No. I really don't know how to drive a standard. It's been way too long.
Molly: I don't think I can do it. I really... I just don't think I can do it either... I mean... no. No.

After about two minutes of discussing the situation that was at hand... sitting on the side of the highway in El Salvador at night with a nun and a pickup truck full of people and no one to take the wheel...

Molly: Okay. I'll do it.
Elena: Wonderful! Let's switch seats.

I shakily opened the door, slipped into the driver's seat and adjusted the mirrors only to remember that the entire bed of the truck was full of chairs and other equipment from the day. I could not see out of the back window... at night in El Salvador. But there was no other choice, someone had to get us off the highway and back home. Someone had to drive that damned stick shift.

Literally making the sign of the cross, I put the car into first and took off. Cheers and laughter and applause errupted inside the truck. Elena could not stop encouraging me and telling me how great I was doing. Second and third gear came quickly, and the highway unfolded before me. If it hadn't been for the fact that I hadn't driven a standard in about three years and even then, it was only for a summer, or the fact that I held the lives of four other people in my hands, I might have enjoyed the drive. Instead, my knuckles were white and I thought I might have some type of emotional breakdown when, or more realistically if, we ever made it back safely.

It was completely black on the highway, no street lights to be found anywhere. We desperately searched for our turnoff, although with Elena's lack of sight it made it all harder. And then we saw it... our road that would take us back. I slowed down, put on the turn signal and waited until the massive bus that was coming the other direction passed me. Then... the car stalled. On the highway. At night. In El Salvador.

My next task was to turn the car back on, put it in first and make a left turn on the highway without stalling in the incoming lane. As I look back on this moment, I realize that it might be the most pressure filled moment of my life. If I stalled the car while turning left, we were in a massive amount of trouble. Real trouble. My mind raced with plans of survival. I envisioned screaming, "Get out of the car! Run!" I would run around to the other side, pick up little Sister Elena and carry her off the road. She couldn't run fast enough, could she? Plus, I wasn't sure how to say it all in Spanish. There would be no other way out. So Elena squeezed my hand and told me that I was going to do fine. Quietly freaking out in my head, I breathed, put it back into first gear and made a left turn onto the dusty dirt road that bumpily and yet safely led back to the church where we were staying.

We survived! Cheers, screams and huge sighs of reliefs filled that little pickup truck. Elena repeated over and over, "You're a star! You're a star! You have shown me confidence! A star!" As I got out of the truck that night, my legs and hands still shaking, I smiled a smile of survival and accomplishment. And then I ate some ice cream.

The end.

Leaves Anew

The wind is delicately provoking the floral print curtains that drape across the open window of the room that I share with two other women. A tree continuously hits the roof of our abode with the rhythmic tunes of the winds' nighttime music. A movie is being watched downstairs. Two girls are smoking cigarettes with the ease and class of 1940s movie stars. The dorky history majors of the group are gathered in their respective rooms reading the optional articles about revolutions in the 1970s. Ants are crawling across the floor in search of substance, probably the chocolate from one of my roommates' open luggage. I am drinking pineapple juice. Herein lies the next leg of my journey: El Salvador.

With El Salvador comes the much anticipated study of Liberation Theology. A new focus on economics. The fourth Harry Potter book. Rural weekend homestays. One house for 18 people. Early morning jogs. Hot weather. The continuous lack of middle class. An attempt at conquering more of the Spanish language. The Pacific beach. The Catholic Church. Numerous insects, illnesses, laughter and ice cream.

Four weeks and oh so much to learn.

Alright, so at this moment I am struggling with this whole blogging world. I say that often, but I feel it much moreso down here in Central America. I wish I could write better. I wish I could come up with a new word for adventure. Or a new word for new. I wish I could adequately, or at least accurately, describe the beauty and struggle of this small section of the world. I would like to be able to fluidly discuss the string that connects the politics, culture, language and beliefs of Central America. I would like to have funnier stories and richer descriptions. But for some reason, I feel a great sense of lacking. I do not have the words to illustrate the faces of so many who have been influential in my time here. I cannot form the sentences that would make up the paragraphs about the sights and aromas of these countries. For that, I apologize because these countries deserve some fine writing. They deserve to be known in their most raw and real states. They deserve, at the very least, for people to care. For people to become aware of their struggles and their attempts at a decent livelihood. Start reading the newspapers, the BBC and history books about revolutions. It will astound you and make your cringe, but maybe just maybe, you will see a little sliver of why we should care about these fascinating and strong people.

Thoughts from a girl who has not slept in a while and whose thirst for knowledge only continues to grow...