The acrid smell of the hundred chickens in the garden, the smoke of the rubbish that is being burned everywhere, not to mention the stench of the latrine. The boredom (“no wonder everyone goes to church all the time - there's nothing else to do here anyway!”). The hair-raising, spine-chilling insects.
These were the overwhelming thoughts and impressions I had when arriving in Parcila. Two months later, I find the same thoughts inexplicable and distant; convictions of a bygone age. The insects are now casually killed with flip-flops, and I no longer sleep with socks tucked into pyjamas to avoid them crawling on me during the hours of darkness. Crouching down in the latrine used to make up for ten minutes of exercise every day, as I was too scared of the flies, crickets, and God-knows-what to settle down on the seat, whereas the same place is now one of relaxation and contemplation.
What I thought of as boredom and monotony can now be easily rephrased to tranquility. In the beginning, I would use every opportunity to go into the nearest town for Wi-Fi. In contrast, I now appreciate the technology detox, and prefer to spend the day in the hammock, with my face either nose-deep in a book, or perpendicularly, stargazing. Here, many of the things that are neglected in the day-to-day life at home – recreation, harmony, and serenity are ingrained in the culture, and everything is done at a slow, leisurely pace. Similarly, I now go to bed at 9 and wake up at 6 (usually to the sound of the cockerels, lizards, and people making tortillas), as if it is the most normal thing in the world. Most people can be found in a horizontal position during lunch time, and I, likewise, have adopted their all-important nap to my habits.
As for the fetid smells, I have either become immune to them, adjusted to them, or learned to cherish them. The latter is the case with all the manure lying around; I now associate it with the charming Nicaraguan countryside.
Written by ICS volunteer Vilde Riise Hamre
