I suppose that this is a form of culture shock: being so sick of my breakfasts in Nicaragua that I glare at the plate when it comes to the table. I glare, and the bacon and eggs and pile of gallo pinto smiles back at me. "I hate you," I mutter under my breath. This is also possibly some form of insanity brought on by the persistant heat.
Gallo pinto in Nicaragua, by the way, is not the same gallo pinto, a mixture of rice, beans, and spices, that I was keen on making a staple in my vegetarian diet when I was spooning the stuff into my awaiting mouth and belly in Costa Rica. They use different spices in Nicaragua and I am having to constantly invent new ways to avoid the stuff. It is, after all, Nicaragua's exulted national dish.
Today, like every other day I've been in this country, as soon as the server puts my plate in front of me, I scoop all the gallo pinto to the furthest regions of my plate to ensure it does not contaminate the edible stuff. I eat my bacon and eggs like a good vegetarian shouldn't. There are also some fried bananas, which a good vegetarian should eat, that I add to the pile of gallo pinto, because I can't stomach anything sweet.
As I wait for the bill to come, I look out over the central park. I'm in Leon, beside the third largest Catholic cathedral in the world and the park in front of it is buzzing with activity. There are groups of young Nicos in their white and navy school uniforms on their field trip to the cathedral. There are vendors selling cheap snacks and bottles of water and soft drinks. Young kids are walking around with pottery to sell or a rag and stool to polish shoes. A firecracker goes off. Taxis whiz by. People of all ages are scattered on the benches through out the park, either socializing or taking in a few solitary moments for themselves.
I am enjoying my own solitary people-watching moment from my curbside table when a few small children approach on the sidewalk. They ask for pesos and I pull out several cordoba coins from my pocket and divide them evenly among the children. In Nicaragua, there are no social programs aiding the poor. I was humbled, shortly after arriving in Nicaragua, when I realized that nearly everyone seemed to unload their change into the hands of a needy soul when they passed by one, even those who faced financial hardship themselves. This seems to be their form of social security: the people taking care of the people.
One of the kids notices that I don't seem interested in the rest of the food on my plate and he points and asks if he can have it. After a split-second of confusion brought on by the fact that he was asking for something that would be unthinkable in Canada, I pass him the plate, and his friends gather around. They quickly shove their hands into the food that I had written off and shovel the scraps into their mouths. In less than ten seconds the plate is clean and they are thanking me graciously as I am swallowing the lump in my throat and feeling like a spoiled ass.
A waiter runs over and scolds me, saying that it's prohibited to pass your plate out to people who aren't customers, and I ask the kids to pass the plate back to me. I hand it to the waiter and feel somewhat redeemed having broken the rules for a good cause.
Whenever my mother had tried to get me to eat all of my food by reminding me of the starving children of the world, I wondered how eating all the food would be of any help to them. Of course, what is always meant by that ploy is that we should appreciate what we have. But here's the real lesson: share.
Okay, I promise not to complain about the food anymore, even though I still consider gallo pinto my culinary nemesis.
