Built for Extroverts

Sundown in Managua is greeted by loud explosions.  These outbursts do not spew shrapnel, or destroy anything, or even produce colour or light; instead, their sole purpose is to make noise.  Indeed, daily life in Managua is punctuated by all kinds of competing honks, shrills, hisses, and quakes.  As an introvert from the quiet streets of Ottawa, Managua’s daily cacophony rattles and fascinates me.  

When Matt was here, it didn’t fluster me as much.  Maybe it was because when he walked beside me, fewer cars honked at us, or maybe I was too busy laughing at something he said to notice. Sharing tales of bizarre incidents from our day softened their punch: the sad puppies for sale on the highway; the live lizards on display for lunch at the market; the cold stares we'd receive from shop owners who had no patience for our mediocre Spanish skills.  Matt provided a refuge that helped me to process the chaos of daily life in Managua.

Walking to work, I lose track of the number of times drivers honk their horns at me.  Most often it’s a taxi driver who wants to let me know his services are available.  But it could also be an aggressive driver who wants to let me know he has no plans to slow down.  Yesterday I was honked at eight times by a giant dump truck, the man in the passenger seat hanging out the window to jeer at me.  Later while eating lunch, I’m roused by the muffled sounds of a loudspeaker. Further investigation reveals a pair of teens riding a horse-drawn buggy piled high with rusty metal, loudly advertising their willingness to buy scrap.  On the bus home, lively Nicaraguan music is played at top volume, sometimes competing with individual passengers’ personal radios.  The music is only interrupted by salesmen who take advantage of the captive audience to hawk miracle vitamins.  When I finally get home, a car alarm across the street goes off for an hour, as it has done several nights this week.  Drained, I consider wearing ear plugs full time.

The cacophony reaches new heights during fiestas.  Back in December, Matt and I traveled to Leon for the annual Griteria festival.   The whole thing kicks off outside of the cathedral, where the bishop cries out “Quién causa tanta alegria?” (Who causes so much joy?)  The crowd erupts with “La Concepción de Maria!” (The conception of Mary) and thus begins several hours of fireworks and noisemaking.  The first few hours were exciting and I got caught up in the merriment.  Amidst the light and explosions, families scrambled door-to-door collecting handouts: candy and chocolate as well as household items like toilet paper, toothbrushes, and mops.  We joined in the celebration, visiting the various shrines to Mary and trying not to get elbowed in the mad rush for loot.  Stunning 10-foot tall women puppets in traditional attire paraded through the crowds, adding to the spectacle.  By about 10pm I was ready for the noise to end; it sounded as if the city were under siege.  At midnight there was a cavalcade of explosions - a final opportunity to blow up whatever combustibles you had left.  When things finally quieted down, I fell asleep in relief.  The next morning, to my horror, the explosions started up again.  Why?  WHY?! 

What fascinates me is that locals do not appear distressed by, or even aware of, the racket.  A cab driver asked me last week what I think of Managua.  Replying honestly, I told him I find it loud and chaotic.  He looked surprised and shared that he chose to return to Managua after several years abroad in Panama.  “Es mas tranquilo” (it’s calmer), he said.  Sometimes I muse that maybe Managuans require a higher level of sound stimulation to feel at ease, as extroverts do.  Maybe they would feel agitated in sleepy Ottawa.  Are all Managuans extroverts?  Or do introverts just learn to develop excellent coping strategies? Maybe they've all moved north, shunning human contact, living on the edges of volcanoes.

When Matt was still in Nicaragua, we’d come home from the heat and clamour and turn on the AC.  Sometimes we’d share a couple Tonas with a giant ice cube and a spritz of lemon.  With Matt gone, I usually retreat to the backyard when I get home.  Aware of the lizard scampering about on the roof above me, the chatter from my next-door neighbour’s Spanish soap operas, and the persistent howl of the car alarm, I curl up in a hammock and insert my ear plugs.