The last three days have left me a bit crippled. I am not cut out for manual labor. Triathlons? No problem. Running, hiking, sewing like a sweatshop worker? Cake. Digging ditches, moving heavy roof tiles, shoveling countless truck loads of sand? I am worthless.
And sore. And trying hard not to lash out because I hurt just about everywhere. Plus Tall Dark and Handsome sent me an email today that, in fact, he will not be joining me in Africa. Damn it.
There goes that idea.
Needless to say, I am now drinking Chilean white wine, listening to an afternoon downpour and cheering myself up by admiring my tropical surroundings now that the day¬¥s work is complete. There have been a series of highs and lows in this adventure. We have been very productive — a plus. We¬¥ve put on a roof, helped several other future home-owners with the construction of their homes and hopefully left these rural Nicaraguans with a good taste of hard-working Americans. Today we painted roof tiles with paint that was, let¬¥s say ¬¥¬¥extended,¬¥¬¥ with a hefty dose of gasoline. We painted about 200 before I thought I was going to be sick. Several hours later and I¬¥m wishing I¬¥d gotten my first Nicaraguan high from a Cuban cigar instead of Venezulean petrol. Gasoline and tropical heat don¬¥t mix. Who knew?
I´m rambling. Consider it the after-effects of the wine and the gas and the exhaustion. The work continues. Tomorrow we are digging ditches and laying pipe for a community water project. Friday we deliver the peace t-shirts to the orphanage. Saturday we tour Granada. If you have a second, Google ´´Nicaragua, Granada.´´ One of my favorite cities in the world. I can´t wait for a great cup of coffee and a day without a shovel.
See? I told you I´m not cut out for this manual labor. I´m a whiner after just a few days. These Nicaraguans without a doubt know how to pace themselves much better than we do.
Hasta,
Kelli