Luggageless but home!

Well, we arrived last night in Managua about 8:30 safe and sound. However, none of our 4 pieces of luggage made it with us! Our layover in Miami was only about 40 minutes and although we were only a gate away from our next flight, it wasn't enough time to transfer our luggage. We did, however, make it with the extremely large bag of crayons the Wildwood kids collected for us to give to Nica kids (much to the amusement of the security guy who searched our carryon!) So while we cannot hang our curtains, or put away our clothes, or brush our teeth, we can color pictures to our hearts content! We hope to receive our luggage around 6:00 tonight, but until then Kristina and Beckett will have to put up with our terrible breath!

La multa (the ticket)

So, within the first 6 weeks of being in Nicaragua, I (Chase) got my first traffic ticket.  I was on a two-lane highway, stuck behind a little moto-taxi (a three-wheeled motorcycle taxi with a metal cab built around it) that was going about 15km/hr in a 60km/hr zone (that’s about 9mph in a 35mph zone).  Learning from the locals, I moved into the opposite lane of traffic to pass him.  Unfortunately, this is illegal because it involves “crossing the yellow line”.  I was waved down by a policeman and had my license taken away.

The normal process for getting a ticket goes like this: the officer takes away your license and gives you a ticket which acts as a temporary license for 30 days.  You go to any bank to pay the fine, and they give you a receipt to show at a police station to get your license back.

The problem is that not everyone agrees where your license will be taken.  Our Spanish teacher told us that it always goes to the main transit office (El Transito) and that we should wait a full week after the ticket was given to allow for processing time.

After the week was up, we went to El Transito and spent about 30-45 minutes there while they looked through stacks of licenses rubber-banded together and paper rosters of who got a ticket where.  Eventually they told me that they didn’t have it and that it might be at Police Station 3.  They added that if Police Station 3 didn’t have it, I should tell them that El Transito didn’t have it either.  Very helpful advice.

After Spanish class one day, we caught a taxi to Police Station 3, conveniently located in the middle of a neighborhood many nameless streets away from a major highway.  There, through poor communication in Spanish, we were directed to the Nicaraguan DMV to apply for a license.  We finally found our way to a little hut within the station walls where a little sign on the door said “Transito”.  It was padlocked.  We learned from a nearby officer that “Transito” did not open for 2 hours.

Fast forward through driving around aimlessly trying to find the station again, through waiting in the wrong line (not actually a line, but two men just standing in front of a doorway), through women shamelessly breastfeeding uncovered to finally receiving my license from one of those little rubber-banded stacks in a tiny little room in the corner.  We emerged sweaty but victorious (see above picture), and now I always make sure to check for policemen before crossing the yellow line.

Goodbye Civic (#2)!

Getting in for the last time!

Yesterday we sold our car. She was a beauty. A 2003 Honda Civic. We bought her 2 years ago after her predecessor, the 1993 Honda Civic conked out. Both Civics provided 2 quite different experiences for us. The first had many problems, among which were the constant overheating (especially at extremely inconvenient times, such as when we were trying to get Eric to Arkansas so he could propose to Nicole, or when we, along with Eric and Nicole, were trying to make it to Bethany and Paul's wedding in Kansas...), and also the occasional shut-off-in-the-middle-of-the-intersection stunt she liked to pull. Each of these times resulted in me, a sobbing mess, calling Chase, stuck at work in Shawnee or OKC, who would call an old roommate to come help, and once a policeman even rescued me by pushing me down the street with his car into the Hardee's parking lot. Her end came the day of the epic ice storm of 2007 in Norman, when I called the repairman we had her towed to after she started producing an extremely loud metal-on-metal knocking sound, and he quickly (and rudely) told me "Your engine's trash." To this blunt remark, I replied with a final bout of sobbing for my rebellious but much loved first little car. The repairman broke in between gasps to ask if I could have my husband call him later. He clearly lacked social and communication skills.

The 2003 Civic treated us much better than her older sister. We decided to play it safe and we bought her in January of 2008 from the Honda dealership. For two years, I lived in bliss trusting that this new beauty would take me all the way through each stoplight and I could ride in her for more than 30 minutes before having to blast the heater in an attempt to cool off the little engine that couldn't. I think that I felt thankful almost every day of that 2 years for how well she did her job of getting me from one place to the next. And I'm sure that Chase occasionally was appreciative for the lack of sobbing phone calls he received once we got her. Anyway, we sold her to the Frederick's and we know that she is in good hands. We will miss her greatly, as we missed her sister (both were loved equally, though they were different) though Amy promised we could come back and visit her if we want to.

Well, Nicaragua, that was our last big thing to do. She's sold. We'll see you "for good" in about a week!