Central American Summer Pt. 2 - Nicaragua: The Interior

My sister picked me up from the airport in her usual outfit: loose-fitting jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and a hat. I knew she was purposely dressing down to avoid attention but this wasn't far from her normal style. I had never given her tom-boyish dress much thought, but now, feeling enlightened from the previous summer's travels and my first full year of college, I was examining things more closely.  

Maria carried a bit of a rough-and-tough attitude toward life, using brute force and sheer determination to get what she wanted more often than the coersion of a cute smile and bat of the lashes. She was a daddy's girl but not in the sense that she'd get whatever she wanted by tugging the heart strings of our dad. It was more the case that since Mom was absent Maria sought 2x the attention from Dad. With three brothers, she was most often competing for attention through physical play like basketball and rough housing.

She was definitely tough. She loved horses, competing in local rodeos in our small town before dad remarried and we moved to the desert. Then in high school she played basketball - aggressively, often fouling out of the game. And she never hesitated to serve me up a beating if I dared cross the invisible line into her bedroom. Being the "cumiche" as they say in Nicaragua (the youngest of the family), and a full 5 years younger than her, I was an easy outlet for her frustrations.

I assume she shared the same frustrations as the rest of us, but we all expressed them in our own way. We were all perplexed and upset that our mother had gone mad.

We had a perfectly good family until mom started her downward spiral from daily drinking, to absentee mother, to criminal, and finally homeless on the streets. She was like a tropical storm growing into a typhoon, and the fallout from her tragic life was something I could never fully escape. Even after we left our train-wreck of a home life in the Inland Empire for a classier desert life with our new stepmom and stepbrothers, I was never fully out of the storm.

Even after going off to college, I would receive vague reports about our mom. They were heartbreaking, and despite my attempts to fully detach from her, they still often drove me to tears: found passed out on the street, beaten up, arrested, raped... on and on.

The worst report was the van incident. During a particularly cold stretch of winter she was found barely alive, in the back of a van she was sharing with a man. He was dead. She suffered from frostbite that led to the amputation of both her legs below the knee.

Anytime I received a call from my dad or my siblings, I'd feel a spike of anxiety and hesitate to answer, fearing it was another report about my mom. Maybe this was finally it... the last report... the saga had finally ended. There would be some weird relief to know her suffering was finally over. But it just dragged on endlessly.

I always felt a little thankful to be the youngest. I was spared from the worst of it. While my older siblings had to take on extra responsibilities to help keep the house running, I was too young to contribute much and mostly ran around unsupervised. I like to think that I didn't form as tight of a bond with my mom since she was already off the rails by the time I formed my first memories. I could only imagine how hard it was for my siblings, who had experienced a happy and loving mother, witnessed her downfall, and then lived through the aftermath. I felt like I never had a mom, so the loss wasn't as significant.

I was much closer to my sister, who, despite taking her anger out on me from time to time, was also loving and did much more to raise me than my mom. The sadness and hate that rose up in me with a report about our mom would be multiplied if it was about my sister, and I was afraid of what that would do to me. If reports about my mom had drawn uncontrollable tears, what would happen if one came in about my sister?

I took refuge in the fact that she was raised to be tough, could handle herself, and possessed a fair bit of street smarts from our upbringing. Still, there was cause for concern. My short visit the previous summer had been a mere introduction to the country; we had only seen a fraction of the real Nicaragua, even having ventured deeper than most tourists. Now, with my sister living there, I couldn't shake the fear of what the full, unfiltered experience might hold, particularly for a foreign woman navigating a rural culture where male aggression and entitlement were often the norm.

Regardless of Maria's conservative dress, men on the streets still gawked, hissed, and made remarks. The most common was a sort of local catcall made by making multiple short hissing sounds like a snake, or, more aptly, the hissing cockroach, "tssttt, tssttt, tssttt". It absolutely disgusted me.

The first few times I heard it, my blood boiled. I wanted to fight—to teach these ignorant assholes a lesson. But I knew that even if I could survive the repercussions of lashing out, I couldn't change the culture of an entire region. So I told myself that they were poor and uneducated, living a dull existence, where the highlight of their day was to hiss at a white girl they'd seen on the street. It was an immature coping mechanism but the only way I could preserve my own pride and still abide by the judge in the back of my head warning that a confrontation would likely lead to me being physically punished or... maybe even worse... ending up in a Nicaraguan jail cell.

I hadn't yet developed a level of empathy or discovered a life philosophy to help me put these types of things into context... but the wheels were in motion.

As early as middle school I had observed how the spoiled rich kids differed from the gritty poor ones. It made sense that those who had everything handed to them would expect everything to come without work. That's what made them spoiled. I understood these kids weren't born that way; it was their circumstances that shaped them. The same person raised in a poor household or with parents who intentionally set a grounded family tone would have a different attitude.

Over the years, as I pieced together the story of my own mother, I realized she had probably been shaped by forces outside her control. How had she erroded from an educated, beautiful, and loving mom to a haggard homeless person? Was it her fault? Was she a bad person? Or were there circumstances like mental illness and unaddressed past traumas that were outside of her control?

The variety of lifestyles, and choices I saw Nicaraguans make, pressure tested my theory. The hissing cockroaches notwithstanding. What had this person's life been like that led him to be sitting on this curb at 10am on a weekday? What led him to believe the best thing to do when he saw a woman walk by was to hiss at her?

I learned to redirect my energy born of hate into a deeper investigation of my world view, and I'd get plenty of practice throughout the trip.

The Village: My New Home

Once leaving the airport, we wasted no time getting into the real Nicaragua. This time there was no cracking Tonas in the rental car on the way to a beachside AirBnB.

We took a micro (the term for any public transit smaller than a bus but bigger than a taxi) to the central bus station. From there, it was a chicken bus to a regional station, and then another chicken bus to her village. The chicken buses were repurposed American school buses, most of them still yellow and some even with the school district name printed on the side - I even recognized a few districts from California during my stay.

My bus rides home from school as a kid were often fun - full of joking and pranks with peers before the school day was finally over and, stepping off the big yellow bus, I transitioned back to home life. Getting on the same size bus as an adult in Central America was a different story. The seats were made for middle-school sized children. Their vinyl stuck to my legs as I dripped in sweat, my knees jammed up into the seat in front of me. The swerving and herky-jerk slow down and speed up to avoid other vehicles, potholes, and animals on the roads constantly bounced me around, jostling me against sweaty strangers who were crowded in around me.

The window seats were best. I could stick my face out the window to get a taste of slightly cooler air and relieve my nostrils from the body odor of other passengers, some of which smelled like they hadn't washed their jeans in weeks. I just imagined the sweat soaking, drying, soaking, drying, in their armpits and pants day after day, building up that wretched musk. I was no stranger to the smell. After a full day on the buses - the amount of time it took to travel any significant distance - I smelt it on myself and felt sorry for anyone sitting near me. But this was the reality of life for most Nicaraguans and they took it in stride. I was getting a nice dose of humbling right out of the gates.

Despite the discomfort, I was amused by the scene and intrigued by the entire operation. Chickens, most often bound at the feet, sometimes in burlap sacks, flapped their wings in protest while being loaded onto the bus but were mostly resigned after being seated. The two helpers assisting the driver, loaded big bundles of random goods wherever they would fit, often hurling them up and tying them down to the roof. They collected money from passengers in between stops, where the bus would sometimes only slow down enough to on or off-board passengers - we were in a constant rush to get to the next stop even though there was no apparent schedule to meet.

As a white boy, most other passengers were as intrigued with me as I was with them. The stares were constant. It felt as though we were the only white people they had ever seen. The Peace Corps volunteers called this the "fishbowl effect".

I'd experienced the fishbowl effect on a regular basis when growing up. My oldest brother, Johnny, was born with a rare developmental disability that drew eyes in most public places. He'd been living in a group home for several years at this point and I'd forgotten how awkward it felt to have everyone's eyes on you.

To manage it, I reverted to a tactic I learned as a young child.

When I notice someone staring at me, I look at them and stare right back with a straight face, directly in the eyes if possible. Typically, though, once they see me turning my head they look away. Most people are quick enough to avoid me catching their eyes. But it's never fast enough. I know they were looking at me and as I hold my gaze on them, they know I caught them. I keep my eyes on their head for an extended period of time to let them feel that same feeling they had given me - someone's eyes are on you. At this point they are gently reminded about what it's like to have someone you don't know staring at you. Lesson learned.

However, this isn't the point of the game. Most people already know it's not polite to stare, but it's human nature to do so and I don't blame them. I'm not trying to drive home this lesson or somehow correct their manners. Instead, I want to remind both of us of our humanity.

So I continue to hold my stare until they can no longer resist the urge; They have to look back at me.

When they finally turn their head, often looking sheepishly in my direction, not sure whether to say sorry or try to play it off like it's the first time they've glanced in my direction, I give them the biggest, most genuine smile I can. I pretend like I'm the most friendly Texan they've ever seen, about to introduce myself, thinking in my head "Howdy partner, how you doin' today?".

90% of the time the onlooker smiles back. Sometimes it's just a shy smile of relief, but more often it's a genuine smile of recognition, interest, and welcoming. The tension is broken and we can be humans again.

If they are within reach, this now friendly space helps initiate a conversation.

I suppose that if strangers are anything like me - and I bet they are - then they are simply curious; I get it. I'm happy to answer their questions. When I'm the foreigner, the questions are always the same:

• Where are you from?

• Why are you here?

• What do you think about our country?

Most are satisfied to have these standard questions answered. Some will offer local insights. Every now and then I make a new friend, some of which I'm still in contact with today.

The transportation alone on the first day was enough to achieve one of my goals: being humbled. I was already extremely thankful for the life I had left back home. Now sitting in the dreaded traffic of Southern California freeways in my old Dodge Dakota felt like a privilege.

My accommodations further humbled me. I was a 15-minute walk from where my sister was living, down a dirt road with patches of farmland and wild forest on either side. My sister had found me a family she liked and trusted, who were willing to house a gringo for six weeks. They were being compensated, but I had the feeling they would have done it regardless. They loved Maria and treated her like family, and by extension, I was also family on the day I arrived. But their hospitality only barely cushioned my collision with the reality of my new living quarters.

I entered the property through a barbed-wire fence strung up between existing trees and hand-carved branches staked into the ground. The large open space in front of the house was bare dirt, hard-packed by the family's foot traffic.

Two horses drank from a makeshift trough, a tractor tire cut in half, under the shade of a single large tree. A group of hens pecked at a small pile of seed that had been thrown down for them next to a wooden ox-drawn cart.

As I walked toward the house feeling even more out of place carrying my blue suitcase, three large cows in an adjacent pin to my left raised their heads as if to to see who the stranger was. The smell of the animals and manure was ripe, but not repelling like the giant industrial operations in California, whose smell would smack me in the face as I drove by. The smell here was lighter, natural, and almost a little comforting.

An obviously pregnant pig laid up against the side of the house undisturbed by my arrival. I'd see her give birth there just a few days later.

The house was a single brick structure. Everything about it was purely economical. There was no paint or finishing to cover the bricks. The exposed support beams had clearly been hand-carved from local trees. The roof, whose tiles were seemingly secured only by their own weight, covered the house and reached over the small front porch - our only safe haven from the afternoon rains.

This was indeed "la finca" (the farm), as my sister called it.

I crossed the porch in one step, ducked my head as I entered through the doorway, and stepped into my new home. Apart from a small drop in temperature and lack of lighting, I didn't feel like I'd made much of a significant transition from the outdoors.

There was enough natural light coming through the front door and a between the small gaps between the walls and the roof to navigate inside the house.

The living room was more of a storage area than a lounge. There was no separate structure to house the working equipment, so the central room of the house played this role. A stack of blue rope rested inside a wheelbarrow. Horse reins hung from one of the support beams. An open bag of rice seed sat on the floor next to a small tarp that held a layer of recently harvested red beans spread out to dry. Michael’s bicycle leaned against two tall metal silos.

A piece of repurposed vinyl plastic nailed to the support beams partitioned off three sections inside: one for Noel and Maribel, the parents, along with their youngest, Rey; one for Gabriella and Michael, who were eight and ten; and one for me. My room was just big enough to navigate between the bed and two makeshift benches consisting of a piece of wood held up by two stacks of bricks.

On one of my benches, I placed a candle next to my suitcase—my only source of light once the sun went down. My bed was a piece of cowhide stretched taut over a wood frame. It was where I took refuge at night, laying on my side in a semi-fetal position under my mosquito net, my feet hanging over the edge whenever I tried to stretch out.

The kitchen was a small hut attached to the side of the house, a space generally reserved for the women. Maribel did all the cooking, and Gabriella helped. The men only entered to get water from the clay cistern, which kept the water a little cooler than air temperature. They were halfway through finishing an outdoor shower attached to the kitchen, which consisted of brick walls and a pvc pipe shower head. They'd started construction in preparation for my arrival, funded by a small donation from my dad. Before this new shower was built, they had bathed using a bucket and ladle out behind the house.

My host family also spoke zero English. Within the first few hours, it was clear that I'd most likely hit my second goal: Spanish fluency. My foundation was solid from high school and college, but I needed to train my ear, build my vocabulary, and increase my confidence. Young Rey, a six-year-old with the same breadth of vocabulary as me, quickly became my sidekick, following me everywhere except the bathroom. He'd even climb up on the table in his side of the room and poke his head over the curtain at night before bed to ask me one more question or to simply look at me in admiration. I was the token gringo, and he was proud to be my host and sidekick.

The F-250

On the ground, everything was different from my life back home. But when I zoomed out, it was remarkably the same. There was a predictable social stratification - a few bigger houses along the main road that ran through the village had electricity. Some even had refrigeration and TV. The majority had rudimentary homes like my host family, and some had even less, living between patchwork walls made of wood, scrap metal, and plastic.

There were the admired and the admonished; I was staying with one of the former, Noel, who was known as Miel de Jicote ("honey of the bee"). He was well respected within the community and according to my sister generally set a good example for the young men there... although even he had at least one child out of wed; This apparently was the norm.

On the other side of the spectrum there was the town drunk they called "Tripe Pollo" ("chicken guts"), who would drink local guaro (a cheap moonshine distilled from anything and everything) and sometimes pass out on the side of the road.

There was gossip and drama, and news came in on the buses that passed through the village. The human condition, I quickly realized, was the same here as it was back home. Everyone had their disappointments, their dreams of a better life, and their delusions about utopia. The only difference was the context.

The big, white, diesel F-250 parked outside one of the houses along the main road stoked the dreams of those who had much less. It sent a message - there was immense wealth and prosperity available to anyone who could get into the US. The owner's husband had left years before, crossed the border illegally, and was sending money home. He had returned once in seven years and brought the truck with him. His wife didn't know how to drive it, so it mostly just sat there as a symbol of a wealth.

My arrival was a good excuse to celebrate however, and with my sister behind the wheel we took the rig out into the hills to a remote farm. We loaded up what felt like half the community into the truck - anywhere they would fit - cramming into the cab and piling into the bed. It was a bumpy ride over dirt roads and across shallow streams, but the truck handled it well, and there were no complaints from the passengers being bounced around in the back.

Once at the farm, I helped a few of the boys corner and catch two chickens. We rung their necks and de-feathered them, then handed them over to the women to do the rest. It was the first time since I'd arrived that I had eaten anything other than rice and beans.

The group was reluctant to head back but my sister wanted to get home before dark. Peace Corps volunteers weren't supposed to be operating vehicles and if she was going to be breaking the rules she wanted to do it the same way I did - in a way that almost certainly guaranteed she wouldn't get caught. In this case it meant avoiding an accident by not driving sketchy dirt roads at night.

The dark clouds that rolled in most afternoons were starting to form already and she knew that if we delayed further, we could end up staying the night at the farm. She managed to get everyone going and we pulled away as a few rain drops started to fall. The crew in the back didn't seem to mind.

Even as the rain drops grew larger and more dense, the group in the back remained unfazed. They were content with the adventure and the rare experience of riding in a truck. My sister and I, on the other hand, grew more nervous. If the rain continued like this, some of the streams we had crossed on the way up could turn into rivers.

The story of our mom being caught in a flood flashed into my mind. I'd later learn the same thought crossed Maria's mind too. Mom's flood story was a family classic - I'd heard it recounted by my dad at least fifteen times.

Before I was born and while Maria was only a few years old, our mom, possibly under the influence of alcohol, made the unwise decision to try to cross a wash during a rain storm... in a minivan... with my siblings in it. It was a flood wash, built to divert large amounts of runoff coming down from the surrounding mountains during heavy rains. We didn't have many bridges. The dips that went through the wash were paved and plenty safe to navigate when it was dry 99.9% of the time. It rarely rained in Southern California so most people never thought twice about making the crossing.

However, these rain events are called "flash" floods for a reason - water accumulating down from the entire water shed can quickly turn these dips into raging rivers.

I've heard different accounts of the story and the details may never get clarified. What I do know, is that she tried to pass through, got stuck, and a rushing river of dark water overwhelmed the car a few minutes later. My siblings were rescued without harm, but my mom had been washed down the flood bank. She was eventually rescued herself, but had been badly battered by the rocks, branches, and debris she was swept down the wash with. This time, no investigation was held to hold her accountable for her decision, although there likely should've been.

Maria crossed the first few rivers without a problem but we could see they had grown in both size and intensity. As the rain continued to fall harder, we knew the rivers would be swelling, and we needed to get through the next few before it was too late. She hurried forward and the F-250 handled the terrain like a champion. I've never been a fan of Ford vehicles and would always think about the acronym my dad used to give them "Ford - Fix Or Repair Daily". In my mind, the Asian-built cars like Toyota were much more reliable. But today I was proud of the American-made F-250 that was transporting the giant load through wild roads.

The last river we had to cross before getting back to the main road was near the base of the mountain. It was a main vein collecting water from all its tributaries. By the time we got to it, the water was dark with mud and about four times as wide as when we had crossed it on the way up. But we couldn't tell how deep it was. My sister stopped in front of the river and looked at me in question. I didn't have the experience to know if this was doable or not. The owner of the truck looked at Maria and said, "Dale" ("okay!" or "do it") with a high level of confidence. It was only going to keep growing, so we either made it through now or sat there until it receded, likely overnight.

I told her, "If you go, keep a steady pace and don't stop."

She committed and we plunged into the river. The truck held steady as we covered the first half of the river quickly. To our relief it wasn't that deep. The water was up to the bumper, covering most of the wheels, but we trusted in the 250 to power through.

Only about a meter or two shy of the safety of the dry bank on the other side, however, our progress slowed and we sank deeper. There was a channel with softer substrate just before the far bank. With the water now up well above the tires, and the exhaust gurgling under water, our tires spun beneath us and the truck stopped completely. We were dead in the water. My sister looked at me in fright. She gave the truck a little gas, but the wheels spun in the soft sand underneath us.

"Oh shit!" we looked at each other. The rest of the crew didn't seem too alarmed. I don't think they grasped the full threat of the situation. My sister and I knew that if we didn't get the car out, the town's symbol of pride was probably going to be ruined. And worse, if we didn't get everyone out of the truck, there was a good chance they'd be swept down the ever-growing river.

I jumped into action, giving my sister orders. "Give it a little gas, but not too much. I'm going to the back to put more weight on the tires." I made my way to the back, carefully holding on to the truck bed, hand-over-hand, until I was on the back bumper. I gave her the signal and started jumping up and down on the bumper hoping the downward pressure would dig a wheel in enough to move the truck out of the rut. We caught a bit of traction, the truck moved forward slightly, but then a small surge of water hit the back of the truck and our tires lost traction. The back, having been pushed by the force of the water, was now angled slightly downstream.

We tried again, desperately. Nothing.

I told my sister we had to get everyone out of the car.

The passengers - several of which didn't know how to swim - realized the seriousness of the situation, and helped each other out and onto the dry bank. With everyone safe we stood on the bank just a meter from the car. The truck was a gonner. At the rate the water was rising, it would soon be swept away. Even if it was recovered, it would be damaged beyond repair. The river was now a thick wash of muddy water, carrying branches and debris it had picked up as it swelled beyond the width of its normal channel.

It was incredible how fast the water had risen. If we had reached the rivers edge a few minutes earlier we probably would have made it across without a problem; a few minutes later, it would have been a clear decision not to cross.

It was also incredible how quickly I'd be transformed from a celebrated guest into a bad omen. Within the first few days of arrival I'd be - at least in part - responsible for the destruction of the biggest symbol of wealth in the community.

We watched hopelessly until our gaze was disrupted by a local farmer who had a handful of rope. While we were getting everyone out of the car, one of the boys from our group had ran off to find help.

What could possibly be done? I tied the rope to a tree and waded out to the front of the truck, making sure I had one foot secure before shuffling the next one forward. The water was now starting to come up over the hood. I felt around under the front bumper, found a tow hook, and secured the rope, then used the rope as a guiding line to get back to the bank.

Feeling a little relieved that we probably weren't going to lose the truck completely, I had a crazy idea. I had to document this. If I didn't have proof, no one would believe that the first week I was in Nicaragua I'd lost the town's only truck to a flash flood. I fished my camera out of my backpack and handed it to my sister. I waded back out along the rope, climbed up on the hood, and she snapped a shot.

We knew there was nothing to do now but wait and see what happened. The rain had lightened up since we got stuck and I hoped the water would recede as fast as it had grown, but we never got the chance to find out. I heard a rumbling from behind us and turned around to see a big farming tractor, the kind with giant wheels in the back and small ones in the front—a powerful, old-school beast that looked like it belonged in Steinbeck novel.

My sister had never seen a tractor in the village, but there it was, coming right down the road to us. The driver quickly turned it around, untethered the rope from the tree, and tied it to his tractor. I followed the rope back to the car again and climbed through the window to get in the driver's seat. I sat half-submerged in muddy water that was lapping up over the seats and put the truck in neutral.

The farmer pulled the tractor forward until the rope was taught. I yelled at my sister to have everyone to stand back, fearing the rope would snap under the pressure. Then, with a bellow of dark smoke from tractor's exhaust the big back wheels inched forward. The rope held and the hood of the white truck started raising out of the water. The tractor pulled the F-250 with ease from its watery grave and up onto the bank.

Dirty brown water drained from the bed. I opened the doors and river water poured out, leaving a layer of muddy silt on the floors. The was out of the water, but surely dead, I thought. I put it in park, looked at my sister shrugging my shoulders and tilting my head, then turned the key that was still in the ignition. Without so much as a sputter, the car started and came right back to life. Steam spewed out of the tailpipe and from around the engine, but that was it. The big white truck was ready to go. The rest of the crew jumped back in as if nothing had happened. We thanked the tractor driver and hurriedly went on our way as if trying to flee the scene before someone could report the incident.

Straying from The Path

Apart from the mountain adventure with the truck, day-to-day life in rural Nicaragua was easy and uneventful. I adapted to it quicker than I had expected. Part of this was biological: we went to bed shortly after the sun went down and woke up to roosters crowing at daybreak. We ate the same meal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My body loved the predictability and ease of digestion. Stress was low; there were no urgent matters, and almost everything that could be put off until tomorrow was.

My sister had learned to live on "Nica Time". A 9 a.m. meeting time could mean 10 a.m., 11 a.m., or even noon. The bus arrived when it arrived, and the broken faucet was fixed whenever they got around to it. I recognized it but couldn't understand it. Where was the drive to make life better? My own family ethos was that life was a constant strive for improvement; If you worked hard and saved, life would get better. My dad, in addition to his office job, ran a family lawn care service on the weekends. Maria and my brother Will were the cheap labor, I mostly just tried to stay out of the way. We were told the earnings went to our college savings accounts and we never complained about having to work while all our friends were playing in the street.

I can't imagine the operation made much money. I suspect Dad did it mostly to teach us a lesson about hard word. Maria's grateful for the lessons. Will can't seem to forgive Dad for robbing him of his childhood. I'm relieved to have graduated college without any student loans.

In rural Nicaragua, a sense of hopelessness and a lack of control seemed to be the pervasive attitude: the government is corrupt, we have no opportunities, it's not even worth trying. Although most people wanted to have more, few made a concerted effort to get it. The excuse had the same tone as the one I'd heard back home - I don't have any control, there's nothing I can do to change my situation.

There was some truth to this, more in Nicaragua than in the US, but I could see that both were wrong. There were families who worked a little harder and were open to outside opportunities. The pace of change was much slower, and the accumulation of wealth a fraction of what someone could attain in the US, but the pride people carried in seeing their own progress and feeling a sense of agency was no different.

Erwin was one of the hard workers. Raised by his grandma as one of at least seven kids in the house, he didn't have a father figure like I did to provide a clear set of values and hammer home a hard work ethic. His values seem to be innately built in. He was seemingly born a hard worker and genuinely good dude. His only option for work at age 19 was to jump on the work truck that rolled through town every morning and do whatever back-breaking labor the boss needed that day. This was mostly digging holes for fence posts, trenches for water, or rudimentary construction tasks. His daily wage amounted to about $1 US Dollar per day - a mind-boggling low amount for a day of such hard labor. But he did it, saved his money, and didn't complain about it.

I was also impressed with the way Erwin carried himself. He didn't talk trash like many of the other young men in the village. He was as good as any of the others at soccer, in fact one of the better players, but he didn't brag about it. No peacocking from Erwin. While others strutted and flexed after scoring a goal, he'd give a genuine smile, hand out a few high fives, and then get back in position.

Although my sister couldn't verbalize it at the time, she saw the same thing. Erwin's innate values matched the ones our dad had deliberately instilled in us. She fell in love.

My parents knew about Maria's relationship with Erwin and didn't like it.

Midway through the trip, I found myself in the middle. Maria had become serious with Erwin and they were contemplating their next steps. Her Peace Corps placement would be ending, and she was expected to return to the U.S. My parents were lobbying hard for her to return without him. In their eyes, the relationship was one of convenience: she was in a foreign land, lonely, and needed someone to care for her. They also questioned Erwin’s motives, believing his relationship with my sister was a scheme to get a U.S. passport. This wasn't about race, but a socioeconomic matter; it wasn't realistic for her to come back to the U.S. with someone who didn't speak English and had a limited ability to care for my sister within the US economy.

It was a classic divide between head and heart. The logical move was to find someone with a good career and stability. The emotional play was to find true love and fight for it. Maria was torn, and I was caught in the middle. She consulted me multiple times, and I took it seriously, well aware that I was likely going to be the tiebreaker. She had this nagging feeling that maybe our parents were right. She wasn't confident that she knew what she wanted or what was best for her. She still very much leaned our parents to decide for her.

I could relate. It was hard to evaluate advice from older people. On one hand, they had a lot more experience. On the other, how applicable was their experience to current times? A lot had changed since the 1970's when they were my age.

Another challenge was their motives. Was their advice tailored for my vision, hopes, and dreams? Or were they trying to steer me in a direction that would make them happy? I always felt like they wanted something to brag about to their friends - a milestone or accomplishment from one of their kids that they could share, which somehow raised their social standing amongst their peers.

My dad wanted me to become a lawyer; I wanted to shape surfboards. Was I obligated to live out his dream because he'd helped raise me and pay for my education?

My brother Will was on track to become a lawyer, surely to appease our dad. Did that mean I was off the hook? Somewhat selfishly I decided it did, and the longer I spent away from home the more confident I grew. Having finished my first full year of college, my self determination was peaking.

I was well aware of this new mindset, having journaled about it extensively from the hammock, and was careful about how it affected my thinking.

Considering all of this, the advice I would give my sister weighed heavily on me. I'd spent enough time with Erwin to have a good read on him. I respected him and trusted in my sister's judgment of his character.

As far as I could tell, their connection was real. I'd never seen Maria look at or talk about someone the way she did with Erwin. She dropped her rough-and-tough stance and became cute and loving with him. She looked at him with admiration in a way I've only ever seen her do with one other person - my dad.

As for Erwin, he flat out told me he was in love with my sister and would do whatever he had to to stay with her.

But my parent's economical approach to the situation wasn't all bad. Practically, Maria's life would certainly be more difficult if she proceeded to marry an un-educated, un-skilled, and non-English speaking foreigner. I envisioned the next few years of her life as a struggle to get Erwin into the US and up to speed. It didn't look like much fun...

Ultimately, I sided with the idealist in me and recommended Maria follow her heart. Logistical and economic problems could be solved. Love was hard to find. It was better to be poor and in love than rich and alone. She was relieved to have someone validate her gut. My parents were upset with me and probably regretted having sent me down there, but I felt I had done the right thing.

My sister married Erwin without our parent's support and started the process of getting him to the US. My dad refused to sign the affidavit for his papers, and she had to find another sponsor. Having no money, and no support from our parents, they lived in a studio on a farm one of Maria's old cowgirl friends owned, caring for the horses in lieu of rent.

She'd later tell me it was the hardest thing she'd ever done. Living in the studio on the farm was actually a significant upgrade from her shack in Nicaragua, but to break from Dad was emotionally taxing. She had lost Mom a long time ago... now Dad too?

But she must have known it was time to follow her own path, to chase her own dreams, and trust her own judgement. She persevered. Maria and Erwin are now established in California with three daughters. Erwin is quite successful, running his own business as an electrician.

And to my parents' credit... they finally accepted her decision and have welcomed Erwin into the family.

With a bit of inspiration from my sister's defiance of our parents and an urge to surf foreign waves I took the following summer off to rally with the boys on an extended and wild surf trip in Costa Rica that tought me a completely different set of lessons. To read this, continue on to part 3!