Smells

Smoke from kitchen fires and trash burning in the streets.

Unfiltered exhaust from hard-driven buses and cars.

Deep frying oil at Tip Top Chicken, Nicaragua’s answer to KFC, where we stopped for a special occasion meal with the La Borgoña entourage who welcomed us at the airport with shy grins and open arms.

The petroleum odor of my host family’s chemically-treated backyard latrine.

The sweet scent of the votive candles given to members of the Lexington delegation from a proud parent of a computer school graduate.

A sewer scent wafting up from Lake Managua.

Touch

Bruising hardness of the back of the pickup truck as it bounced along bad roads.

The hardness of the wooden plank bed covered with a 1-inch foam pad that was normally my host parents’ but generously given over to me during our visit.

Discomfort of the uneven wooden railings of church pews at the Dios es Amor church, where two-hour services draw families away from increasing numbers of televisions in homes, to sing and pray together multiple times per week.

The hard dirt floor and yard of my La Borgoña home swept thoroughly clean of leaves and chicken droppings every morning by my host sister.

Cold splash of a morning shower, taken from the single garden hose that serves as the family’s only source of water.

The feel of little Maria Jose and the other children continually jumping into our arms; climbing onto our laps; and hugging our legs.

Tastes

Tender coconut meat and clear milk from my host family’s front yard palm tree.

Taste of the three bites of meat that appeared on only my dinner plate alongside the standard rice, beans, and plantains.

The Tamarind fruit drink prepared with tap water that I dared to drink, because I had learned that, with much help from Lexington, La Borgoña’s water now comes from its own, deep well.

Sweet lime picked from a tree in Marnie’s backyard.

Sounds

The morning sounds begin before 5:00 a.m., as the roosters crow and people prepare for long commutes by bus to jobs in Managua and further away.

There are the sounds of chickens scampering, pigs squealing, choco birds singing from their cage, wood being chopped for kitchen fires, stereos blasting, dogs and cats tussling, and more.

Later in the day, sounds of strangers saying “Adios” as we walked by.

A chorus of loud, clear voices singing songs in church without hymnals.

At night, back home, the sound of my host brother Roberto saying good night as he left to spend the night sleeping in the computer school in order to guard the machines.

Sights

There was the Gecko scampering up the wall at church during evening services.

Holes in the dirt alongside the street to collect garbage.

The sparkle in the children’s enormous, deep brown eyes.

Large spiders and bugs in the latrine in the night.

1-½ year-old Alec singing with the children in church wearing his I “heart” NY Tee-shirt.

The sight at the Ruiz home of the neighbor’s children poking their heads through the window hole over the dinner table with running commentary about the goings on inside.

And one of my last impressions was the sense of being overcome by tears as I said goodbye to the Hernandez family, who had hosted me all week, now my friends.