Chaos & Coastlines

Moving to Bluefields, Nicaragua, with four kids in tow was always going to be an adventure. Add in remote work, businesses to manage back in the U.S., and a new venture taking root here—plus the tiny hurdle of a language barrier—and you’ve got the perfect recipe for chaos. The kind of chaos that leaves you laughing (or crying?) as your husband, a fluent Spanish speaker, suddenly starts inventing Spanglish-Creole hybrids like he’s crafting a new dialect.

The Language Divide (Or: Why My Kids Think “Hola” is a Full Conversation)

Our kids arrived in Bluefields armed with exactly three Spanish words: hola, gracias, and baño (the last one learned out of sheer survival necessity). Meanwhile, my Spanish is… functional. Thanks to high school classes, Texas living, and plenty of travel mishaps, I can navigate a conversation—as long as it involves food, directions, or mild apologies.

But my husband? Oh, he’s supposed to be our secret weapon. Fluent in English, Spanish, and Nicaraguan Creole English (a unique Afro-Caribbean language with English roots, mixed with Spanish and Indigenous influences—think of it as the linguistic love child of pirates, settlers, and locals). Except—plot twist—after years in the U.S., his Spanish has developed… quirks.

“Estamos Late-o” and Other Linguistic Crimes

The man now speaks in what I can only describe as “Creole-Spanglish with a side of chaos.” Some of his greatest hits:

• “Estamos late-o!” (Instead of “vamos tarde”—We’re late!)
• “Pásame el… el… thing-o.” (Hand me the… thing.)
• “El mayor” (If you call the mayor this, you’re just calling him old.)

Our kids, meanwhile, have started mimicking him, convinced this is real Spanish. Try explaining to a four-year-old that no, “vamos a eat-ar” is not a valid verb conjugation.

A Quick History Lesson (Because Spanish Wasn’t Always King Here)

Before we go any further, I should clarify something: Spanish isn’t actually the original language of Bluefields. My husband and his family have schooled me on this—back in the day, Creole, English, and Indigenous languages were the norm here. This city has deep Afro-Caribbean roots, and for generations, that’s how people communicated.

But over time, as more Spanish-speaking Nicaraguans from the Pacific side migrated east, Spanish became more dominant. Now, you hear it everywhere—markets, schools, government offices. It’s wild to think that just a few decades ago, my husband’s grandparents might’ve gone entire days without speaking Spanish at all.

These days, Creole is still widely spoken at home and among older generations, but Spanish is the language of business, education, and daily life. That’s why we’re pushing our kids to learn it—they’ll need it for school and navigating life here. But we also want them to understand and appreciate the other languages that make up Bluefields’ cultural DNA.

Kids vs. Spanish: The Struggle is Real

Our goal? Get the kids fluent enough to eventually attend local school (where classes are in Spanish). Right now, their strategy involves:

1. Pointing aggressively at things they want.
2. Yelling English slowly, as if volume = comprehension.
3. Deploying their dad as a translator, only for him to respond in a mix of all three languages, leaving everyone more confused.

The other day, my eight-year-old proudly announced she’d learned how to count to ten, and then proceeded to count to ten, half in Spanish, half in English, and entirely butchered all pronunciation. Close enough?

The Business of Language (Or: How I Negotiate in Broken Spanish)

Running businesses back in the U.S. while starting one here means my phone is a linguistic rollercoaster. One minute, I’m in a professional Teams call in English; the next, I’m pantomiming my way through a conversation with a local contractor.

My proudest moment so far? Successfully explaining a flooring issue using only hand gestures and the word “piso.” (Turns out, panic-induced Spanglish is almost as effective as fluency.)

The Long Game: Fluency or Bust

We’re throwing the kids into Spanish immersion as much as possible— talking to them in Spanish, cartoons in Spanish, and my personal favorite: bribing them with fresco (Nicaraguan fresh juice) if they attempt full phrases. Progress is painfully slow, but equally hilarious.

As for me? I’ve accepted that I’ll forever sound like a toddler with a thesaurus. And my husband? Well, we’re just hoping his Spanish comes back before the kids start teaching him grammar.

One thing’s for sure: in this house, communication is never boring.

P.S. If anyone has tips for teaching kids Spanish without them adopting their dad’s “late-o” habit, I’m all ears. (Preferably ears that understand proper conjugation.)

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Follow our chaos at Chaos & Coastlines as we juggle kids, businesses, and a language barrier thicker than Nicaraguan gallo pinto. 🌴😅