ALL ABOARD THE CULTURAL WHIPLASH

Granada, Nicaragua. Colonial city, tourist haven. Site of a two-day camping trip with my commate Tobin. Also the epitome of a Nicaraguan reality, according to Heather Moline: cultural whiplash. These two words have defined my last two weeks, and are going to define my next two years. That reality has been uncomfortably settling in my soul for a while, but I became cemented into my inevitable ride on the cultural whiplash in Granada, when a passing man with a blotchy brow shoved a spa coupon into my hand. The coupon advertised "an American breakfast featuring pancakes, followed by a dip in our pristine pools, and a European massage...all for $6!" I wasn't interested for budgeting reasons (we took an entire vacation for $15), but I let the awkward contradiction set in. $6 could buy a couple meals for the toothless woman I had just passed in the street. Or two full plates of typical Nicaraguan food. And yet there was the offer...one of the many ever-present contradictions in this country. Emaciated-horse-drawn carts slowing motorcycles and Japanese SUVs. Shoeless children taking a break from cleaning windshields for cash in the streets by hanging out in front of their cable TVs. Buying a cell phone instead of two months' worth of breakfast. My presence in the country. All contradictions. I am a passenger on a shocking ride through the dichotomies of rich and poor, industrial and agricultural, American and Nicaraguan. This isn't just the expected "culture shock" of adapting to newness. I'm adapting to the whiplash of being who I am, baggage and preferences and all, in a controversial world.I've spent most of the last two weeks with my JV community. We shared life stories on retreat at a gorgeous private lakeside cabin, only to hop on a jam-packed urbano (city bus) headed for chaotic Managua. We spent Christmas cooking, feasting, and exchanging Secret Santa gifts, only to emerge from the locked gates of the Ciudad Sandino volunteers' house into a street full of whistling chavalos (young men), firecrackers and the smell of mondongo (cow intestine soup). Disclaimer: being on the Cultural Whiplash is much cooler than not riding at all. But there's something very disconcerting about the Spanish-style architecture in Granada, where Easter egg colors, Euro cafes, a wide variety of gringos and chinos (a non-PC term for Asians) give way to poverty, trash-lined streets, and the traffic-strewn, sweaty ride to Managua.No, don't stop the coaster. Because I think I'm going to get used to it, to the point that I won't know I'm riding it at all. Perhaps someday I'll feel equally at home riding an urbano as playing Scrabble with English speakers.