They arrived with everything under the sun. The sun, that piercing sun that
boiled their enthusiasm and faded their clothing. Enthusiasm - they stepped
onto the runway tarmac with that too, as well as two checked pieces of luggage
each and a carry-on of the proper dimensions. It wasn't long before they were
sweating: the things they carried weighed a lot. 

The things they carried were going to, in turn, carry them-twenty two fresh
faced aspirantes called Nica Fifteen-through two years of the toughest job
they'd ever love. They had, among other things in those sixty-six bags, exactly
what Peace Corps had recommended: three months of shampoo and prescription
meds, comfortable shoes, and long sleeved cotton 'nun' dresses. There were
cassette players and address books, t-shirts and dozens of pairs of underwear
still virgin to be sacrificed to the gods of barbed wire, lavandero, and sol.
There were paperbacks and new journals of crisp white pages for recording all
the wonder. There were cameras and water bottles and ballcaps and ballpoints.
All in all, the things they carried were rather homogenous.

But the new aspirantes were individuals ...  ... and had come down to Nicaragua
for fiercely individualistic reasons. If at the customs gate you were to go
through all that luggage, you' d see the things that they carried were as
unique as were the aspirantes. There was a clump of fresh ginger in all that
stuff, and a kite with a roll of string, and some fresh chili peppers and a
shortwave radio the size of a TV. There was a frisbee with a scrape on the
edge, and a kayak bailer. There was a bra with a pocket carefully sewn into it;
there was a straight razor and a thick leather strop; there was a mandolin with
a pair of underwear stuffed in its mouth. There was a leather hackeysack with
its name worn off. There was a cribbage board in a tote-bag. 

And the rest of it didn't arrive until much later. Carefully bundled packages
began streaming into the office in Managua, unloading their cargos of new
prescription shades, a laptop computer, a couple of shirts from mom, more new
underwear. Even an engagement ring, but that was sent back. 

Not everything they carried showed up on the scales at the check-in counter at
Miami, though some of it weighed heavily. They carried the best wishes of
family and friends, and all that sun-drenched enthusiasm. They carried the
bittersweet memories of the last night spent with Marie, with Curt, with
Melissa, and all the heavy questions they were asking themselves about lovers
left behind. They brought with them bright inspiration and lofty aspirations;
they brought the fear of failure and the shadow of loneliness. They brought
exasperation and easy smiles, short tempers and honest laughter. Some of that
baggage they carried the whole time they were in Nicaragua, and some of it they
even carried back home again. Because back home- to Pittsburgh or Chicago or
San Fran is where they mostly all headed, even if it took them awhile to get
there.  And the things they carried home were even more important than the
things they'd left behind.

Best wishes to Nica Fifteen.

This article first appeared in Va Pué! magazine in April 1999.
Inspired by Tim O'Brien