The Managua Family and Philosophy on Animal Fighting

They might well have been a family as claimed. In retrospect, they had all the makings of a cult.

I'd smiled at Elizabeth a number of times during our 24-hour TicaBus transit from Panama City to Managua, Nicaragua; when we'd cross paths disembarked for yet another border crossing, or crashing down the aisle toward the busback bathroom -- solamente para orinar. It wasn't until the TicaBus station in Managua that we exchanged words, and a ten minute conversation in which I revealed I was undecided as to my next destination ushered an invitation to spend the night in Elizabeth's household of fluctauting family, minimum fifteen.

I was going to say no, and I really intended to do so, but delirious and motivationally sapped after twenty-four mostly sleepless hours, I was overwhelmed by the enthusiastic arrival of her escort party: mom, a sister and brother. Mom shuffled up and -- her head swiveling between me and Elizabeth like a speed-addled gore freak trapped between two concurrent crashes -- and implored nobody in particular, "Y es cristiano él?" Harm rarely results from lying, so I answered with an affimative nod.

They flashed judgment blinding smiles and grabbed at my hands and luggage like geriatrics grappling for a basket of free Viagra samples. We crammed into their Toyota model Hot Wheel and belched and bucked our way across town, Christian music blaring at an unbearable volume all the way.

Their house turned out to be a number of rooms attached to the family's church, where a sermon was in progress. The living quarters had one well air conditioned room into which everyone around crammed themselves, rocking in chairs, leaning against walls, splayed across the floor or atop the bed. Christian music pulsed at a decibel level that made conversation impossible and almost drove me to accept the existence of a deity merely for someone to supplicate for miraculous intervention. The hand of God twisting the volume knob. People came and went and sang for the glory of god. It was asked if I was baptized. Shortly thereafter it was declared I would accompany the family to a rural retreat the following week, Semana Santa. Everyone squeeled with glee at the prospect of baptizing me. I excused myself to the bucket shower, which might well have been holy water, and contemplated drowning myself...but I can't execute a handstand for long, so dunking my head in the bucket would've resulted in me toppling over onto the hard tile, suffering some debilitating injury that would have imprisoned me in these eager Christian hands for much, much longer. A combination of frustration and cranium-rattling from the bumping bass vibrated free a river of tears that ran so thick I could've passed on the shower if it weren't for the sticky salty skin feeling I'd have been left with.

Day turned into night and the godspeak raged on, tainting my gallo pinto and pollo frito. I'd informed the family, to the disappointment, that I'd be leaving for Estelí for a bout of womanizing the next morning. "Pero, por supuesto voy a regresar para la Semana Santa. Quiero que pase un sin fin de tiempo con Ustedes."

Once I arrived in Estelí I took the coward's route, sending a thank you email that outlined how, suddenly, circumstances had changed and that Semana Santa reunion, regrettably, would be impossible.

Now I'm back home, Hospedaje Chepito in Estelí, Nicaragua. The girls are still the sexiest I've encountered and liberal with their eyelash-batting and smile-flashing. I've reestablished my nightly fritanga routine, a sagging plate of gallo pinto, cabbage salad, tortilla and chili with a carnivore-pleasing portion of marinated pollo o cerdo. I caught a Estelí vs. Granada baseball game yesterday, and am hoping to experience another national pastime, cockfighting, within the week. Now, animal fighting seems cruel and heartless and morally vacuous until you consider what it really is: just like Gummi Bears battling in your fingers, the loser banished to your mouth, animal fighting is just two pieces of meat competing for the honor of feeding you, titillating your tastebuds, first.