under a tin roof: Back to San Jose de Bocay

I just returned from San Jose de Bocay where my first batch of stoves were built. It's rewarding to witness how much the families love their new stoves. They eagerly explained all the wood-saving that occurred (50%-70%) and how nice their smoke-free kitchens were to live in.

Leaving San Jose de Bocay

The dust swirls around as I navigate towards the bus marked for Matagalpa. I look aroung the noisy and choatic "bus terminal" of San Jose de Bocay. A handful of buses flank my left, an old woman stands proud behind her small food stall, dogs bark chasing chickens, mothers hold screaming children, and there are people selling everything from cold sodas to leather belts to bird cages. The place is packed. I move my way through the crowd empathizing with the misplaced kernnel of corn lying in the sack of beans to my right. San Jose de Bocay is more or less what you would imagine a trading post to look like from the wild west. Its a place to get all your staples: a 40lb bag of rice, dried corn, a sack of beans, and the occasionally needed flower-patterned mattress. If you know where to look, all your needs can be met in this little town nestled between wet green hilltops.

Being the first stop on a 6-hour trip through the mountainous region of Nicaragua, I luckily get a seat. The bus will fill, and eventually the scenic rooftop option will be the only spot left to occupy. When it comes to Nicaraguan buses I regularly find myself hot, sweating, and standing squashed between a large man and a mother nursing her child. Personal space has no room to breath here, let alone exist. Just when I think the bus cannot possibly cram anymore people, the vendors board and push their way through the aisle yelling and trying in vain to sell their tasty treats. "Heeellladdooo, Heeeelllladdoooo, Solomente 10 pesitos, heeeeelllladdooo!!"

The bus finally creeps forward, ushering the vendors off the bus. I look fondly out the window at the lushious green mountains rising around me. Just as I'm taking in the view, I hear someone yell, "Ricardo, Ricardo!" Its 8-year old Hanzel, the smiling grandson of Rosario. She was the happy recipient of my first stove in Nicarauga. Hanzel and I had spent a few days building stoves together and playing at the school. He loves helping out, and always wants to see more magic tricks. Hanzel had run to the bus terminal to say goodbye. Out of breath, he explains how he wants to see me off. Reaching out the window, I stretch my arm down just barely enough to complete our customary high-five. He smiles and wishes me a good trip back! As I finally pull out of SJDB, I look to see Hanzel waving farwell atop a green grassy hill beside the rocky dirt road.