Eurel carries a backpack and a wide smile as he walks into the arrivals lobby of the Managua airport. He is the last one from his plane to get through customs.
“Hey buddy! What took you so long?”, I ask. “The airline lost my suitcase and I had to pay $150 for my visa… immigration took forever. But allgood, I’m happy to be here!”, responds Eurel.
What would have ruined the day for even the most veteran travelers does not appear to faze the man who just landed from his first flight ever on his inaugural trip outside his home country, Dominican Republic. His eyes are big with curiosity and I sense his intuitive mind processing everything in the moment.
We grab a couple sandwiches and start out on our 3-hour journey north to Jinotega.
“Why are there so few cars?”, asks Eurel. “The highway is awesome, and empty! In the D.R. there is traffic all the time.”
He is right. Other than a few trucks carrying produce into Managua and old Bluebird school buses commuting passengers between towns, the Panamerican highway is all ours.
“Over 500,000 people have left Nicaragua since 2018”, says Evenor. He is my right-hand man in Nicaragua. He is driving, Eurel is next to him with me and Garry in the back seat of his 4 door Toyota Corolla. “The middle class sold their cars and their homes to migrate north. And without tourism these days, the roads remain empty except for a few traffic police.”
I take in the uninterrupted natural landscape moving by outside my window. Flatlands of rice and sugarcane give way to rolling foothills and eventually the highlands of Jinotega and Matagalpa. The lack of billboards opens views as far as the eye can see. No need to advertise, I guess, if nobody can afford your product. Unless, of course, you are the Sandinista Party.
We arrive at Hotel Cafe in Jinotega in time to grab a quick dinner and relax in the hotel lobby before turning in. I pour rum and ginger ale over ice in two glass tumblers, and hand one to Eurel.
“What should I wear tomorrow?”, asks Eurel.
“Well, I never know what to expect but these things are usually humble and formal at the same time. There will be a gathering at the community health clinic, and I hope there will be a few homeowners there to celebrate the 30th home Comunidad Connect has built in Los Robles. All I can say is ‘come as you are’ and you will be just fine.”
Evenor, Eurel, and I stay up talking for another hour before finally retiring to our rooms to rest for what will undoubtedly be a long day.
Today, I am driving. Eurel is next to me, and Garry is in the backseat of Comunidad Connect’s old Toyota Hilux. We weave through Jinotega’s market to find the road north towards Lake Apanas and eventually the community of Los Robles. The half hour drive is among the most scenic of Nicaragua.
The lake emerges on our left, coffee plantations appear on our right, and tall trees bend to meet each other high above the road. Our truck rambles under the canopy and turns left onto the dirt roads of Los Robles. A kilometer later, we arrive at the clinic to find a mass of people waiting to greet us.
““Hre we go!”, I say to Eurel and Garry. We stepped down from the truck and walked towards the front entrance. 50 people rose from their chairs to welcome us with an ovation that just about took my breath. They beckon us into the open air waiting room that has been converted into a beautiful venue for the occasion. My heart swells such that I could do little but focus on breathing…and not crying.
People reach out to shake hands and hug us as we meander through the crowd to our seats at the front table. We stand there not knowing what to do. Eurel leans over and says, “Is it always like this…?”. All I can do is shake my head, because there are no words to describe the feeling of community when it is manifest in such authentic and meaningful ways.
A litany of speakers share their stories and how the homes Comunidad Connect helped them build have changed their lives. Children are going to school, families are less sick, and everyone sleeps better knowing their roofs are solid and their floors are dry.
One mother holds a photo of her son who is bedridden. 6 years ago, the doctors gave her son 72 hours to live. Comunidad Connect and Drs Ben and Karen Thrower have provided medicine and specialized care for her son Jesus ever since. He lives today because of Comunidad Connect and his parents’ persistent love and care. She gives me the photo and hugs me through our tears.
After a few beautiful dance performances by local high school students, we depart from the clinic and have lunch at a nearby house. Still chewing, we move on to the dedication ceremony for house #31. Over 30 people are there for the ceremony where I have the distinct honor of handing the keys to the new homeowner.
“Are these people all her neighbors?” I ask Maria. “Yes. They volunteered their time to build this house for Tomasa.” she says. “They gathered stones from the road to lay her foundation, and they raised the walls with the local mason. Some of them received homes from Comunidad Connect. The others need homes themselves.”
Again, I am speechless. I somehow come up with something to say to everyone in attendance and hand the keys to the new homeowners. The children help their mom with the door handle and we are invited into their new living room for refreshments.
Before I know it, we are off to visit the next family to receive a home through Comunidad Connect. The head of household is Dona Marco and she lives with her great grandson in a shack formed by planks of wood and salvaged materials.
We will build her house next month. Her great grandson was home from work, his bashfulness reminds us he is 16 years old.
“I’m so glad she’ll have a new home next month,” I say as we get in the truck.
“How many families are on the waitlist?” asks Garry. I look to Maria, who is now riding with us in the truck.
“Well, we have a priority waitlist of 20 families that need housing now. There are many more that need homes, but we focus on the most vulnerable situations first.”
“Where are we going now?”, asks Eurel.
“We’re going to see bathrooms.”
A few minutes down the road, Maria says to park and we all get out. We squeeze through a wooden gate and walk down a well-worn trail bordering a small coffee grove. We cross a small creek to finally arrive at Concepcion’s house. I remember my family and some friends helping to build her house a few years ago.
Comunidad Connect has been searching for an appropriate sanitation solution for several years. We finally found a system that works well in rural Nicaragua and costs $1,000 to install. It is a sealed septic system with an integrated bio-digester to minimize maintenance and maximize usage. 80% of the people in Los Robles defecate in the open air for lack of adequate household sanitation. They typically hold it all day and use the cover of night for privacy.
At first Concepcion and her family did not use the new bathroom, because they didn’t want to get it dirty. Then they realized that sitting straight up was different from squatting, so they modified the toilet seat.
“This is the first real bathroom I’ve ever had. My children and extended family now have a safe place to go any time we want to!” says Concepcion. “I can’t thank you enough”, says her mother.
“This could work in the D.R.,” says Eurel.
“This could work everywhere!” I respond with a smile.
The sun is going down but we have one more visit before we return to Jinotega. Maria keeps mentioning this one family who fashioned a toilet with tires. She wants me to see it before we leave.
When we arrive I immediately remember the place. It is a family compound in a mud bog. Six houses in close proximity joined by quarry stone pathways rising out of the soft earth. Comunidad Connect built two houses here over the years. A young woman is waiting for us on her porch with a gaggle of young children behind her, peering at us from the doorway.
“I’m so glad she’ll have a new home next month,” I say as we get in the truck.
“How many families are on the waitlist?” asks Garry. I look to Maria, who is now riding with us in the truck.
“Well, we have a priority waitlist of 20 families that need housing now. There are many more that need homes, but we focus on the most vulnerable situations first.”
“Where are we going now?”, asks Eurel.
“We’re going to see bathrooms.”
A few minutes down the road, Maria says to park and we all get out. We squeeze through a wooden gate and walk down a well-worn trail bordering a small coffee grove. We cross a small creek to finally arrive at Concepcion’s house. I remember my family and some friends helping to build her house a few years ago.
Comunidad Connect has been searching for an appropriate sanitation solution for several years. We finally found a system that works well in rural Nicaragua and costs $1,000 to install. It is a sealed septic system with an integrated bio-digester to minimize maintenance and maximize usage. 80% of the people in Los Robles defecate in the open air for lack of adequate household sanitation. They typically hold it all day and use the cover of night for privacy.
At first Concepcion and her family did not use the new bathroom, because they didn’t want to get it dirty. Then they realized that sitting straight up was different from squatting, so they modified the toilet seat.
“This is the first real bathroom I’ve ever had. My children and extended family now have a safe place to go any time we want to!” says Concepcion. “I can’t thank you enough”, says her mother.
“This could work in the D.R.,” says Eurel.
“This could work everywhere!” I respond with a smile.
The sun is going down but we have one more visit before we return to Jinotega. Maria keeps mentioning this one family who fashioned a toilet with tires. She wants me to see it before we leave.
When we arrive I immediately remember the place. It is a family compound in a mud bog. Six houses in close proximity joined by quarry stone pathways rising out of the soft earth. Comunidad Connect built two houses here over the years. A young woman is waiting for us on her porch with a gaggle of young children behind her, peering at us from the doorway.
Maria greets her first and we all say hello. I sense the mood here is different. There are looks of concern. Maria asks the homeowner to show us the tires and leads us towards the outhouse. A tattered curtain reveals a stack of three tires, the first being a car tire, the second a motorcycle tire, and a bicycle tire on top.
I’m not sure what I’m looking at. I ask the homeowner if this works well for her. She looks at Maria. I think she is confused but I quickly realize she is seeking permission. Maria nods and the young mother removes the top two rungs of tires with her bare hands.
Excrement accumulated inside the tires falls into the hole below as a cloud of mosquitoes and flies emerge from the depths below. The young mother says her three year old almost fell into the hole the week before. As she addresses us, our faces must have made an impression on her because her eyes well with tears and she stops talking.
We return to her porch in silence. Maria thanks her for receiving us at her home. I tell her that we will work on a solution for her family as soon as possible. She nods her head and covers her mouth, tears now running down her cheeks.
As we make our way back to the truck, I tell my companions, “we gotta do something now”.
Maria explains that we have to wait a few more months for the rainy season to pass before we can put in one of our septic systems. The water table there is so high that anything we do there will need to be reinforced with steel.
“Whatever it takes”, is all I can say.
I drive my team back to Jinotega, this time without the radio on. There is enough to think about, and the silence helps us process our experience in Los Robles.
